master olof a drama in five acts by august strindberg introduction the original prose version of master olof, which is here presented for the first time in english form, was written between june 8 and august 8, 1872, while strindberg, then only twenty-three years old, was living with two friends on one of the numerous little islands that lie between stockholm and the open sea. up to that time he had produced half-a-dozen plays, one of which had been performed at the royal theatre of stockholm and had won him the good-will and financial support of king carl xv. thus he had been able to return to the university of upsala, whence he had been driven a year earlier by poverty as well as by spiritual revolt. during his second term of study at the old university strindberg wrote some plays that he subsequently destroyed. in the same period he not only conceived the idea later developed in master olof, but he also acquired the historical data underlying the play and actually began to put it into dialogue. during that same winter of 1871-72 he read extensively, although his reading probably had slight reference to the university curriculum. the two works that seem to have taken the lion's share of his attention were goethe's youthful drama goetz von berlichingen and buckle's history of civilization in england. both impressed him deeply, and both became in his mind logically connected with an external event which, perhaps, had touched his supersensitive soul more keenly than anything else: an event concerning which he says in the third volume of the bondwoman's son, that "he had just discovered that the men of the paris commune merely put into action what buckle preached." such were the main influences at work on his mind when, early in 1872, his royal protector died, and strindberg found himself once more dependent on his own resources. to continue at the university was out of the question, and he seems to have taken his final departure from it without the least feeling of regret. unwise as he may have been in other respects, he was wise enough to realize that, whatever his goal, the road to it must be of his own making. returning to stockholm, he groped around for a while as he had done a year earlier, what he even tried to eke out a living as the editor of a trade journal. yet the seeds sown within him during the previous winter were sprouting. an irresistible impulse urged him to continue the work of buckle. history and philosophy were the ultimate ends tempting his mind, but first of all he was impelled to express himself in terms of concrete life, and the way had been shown him by goethe. moved by goethe's example, he felt himself obliged to break through the stifling forms of classical drama. "no verse, no eloquence, no unity of place," was the resolution he formulated straightway. [note: see again the bondwoman's son, vol. iii: in the red room.] having armed himself with a liberal supply of writing-paper, he joined his two friends in the little island of kymmendö. of money he had so little that, but for the generosity of one of his friends, he would have had to leave the island in the autumn without settling the small debt he owed for board and lodging. yet those months were happy indeed--above all because he felt himself moved by an inspiration more authentic than he had ever before experienced. thus page was added to page, and act to act, until at last, in the surprisingly brief time of two months, the whole play was ready--mighty in bulk and spirit, as became the true firstling of a young titan. strindberg had first meant to name his play "what is truth?" for a while he did call it "the renegade," but in the end he thought both titles smacked too much of tendency and decided instead, with reasoned conventionalism, to use the title of master olof after its central figure, the luther of sweden. from a dramatic point of view it would have been hard to pick a more promising period than the one he had chosen as a setting for his play. the early reign of gustaf vasa, the founder of modern sweden, was marked by three parallel conflicts of equal intensity and interest: between swedish and danish nationalism; between catholicism and protestantism; and, finally, between feudalism and a monarchism based more or less on the consent of the governed. its background was the long struggle for independent national existence in which the country had become involved by its voluntary federation with denmark and norway about the end of the fourteenth century. that struggle--made necessary by the insistence of one sovereign after another on regarding sweden as a danish province rather than as an autonomous part of a united scandinavia--had reached a sort of climax, a final moment of utter blackness just before the dawn, when, at stockholm in 1520, the danish king, known ever afterward as christian the tyrant, commanded the arbitrary execution of about eighty of sweden's most representative men. until within a few months of that event, named by the horror-stricken people "the blood-bath of stockholm," the young gustaf eriksson vasa had been a prisoner in denmark, sent there as a hostage of swedish loyalty. having obtained his freedom by flight, he made his way to the inland province of dalecarlia, where most of the previous movements on behalf of national liberty had originated, and having cleared the country of foreign invaders, chiefly by the help of an aroused peasantry that had never known the yoke of serfdom, he was elected king at a riksdag held in the little city of strängnäs, not far from stockholm, in 1523. strängnäs was a cathedral city and had for several years previous been notorious for the lutheran leanings of its clergy. after the death of its bishop as one of the victims of king; christian, its temporary head had been the archdeacon, the ambitious and learned lars andersson--or laurentius andreae, as, in accordance with the latinizing tendency of the time, he was more frequently named. one of its canons was olof pedersson--also known as olaus petri, and more commonly as master olof (master being the vernacular for magister, which was the equivalent of our modern doctor)--who, during two years spent in studies at the university of wittenberg, had been in personal contact with luther, and who had become fired with an aspiration to carry the reformation into his native country. by recent historians master olof has been described as of a "naively humble nature," rather melancholy in temperament, but endowed with a gift for irony, and capable of fiery outbursts when deeply stirred. at strängnäs he had been preaching the new faith more openly and more effectively than any one else, and he had found a pupil as well as a protector in the temporary head of the diocese. immediately after his election, the new king called lars andersson from strängnäs to become his first chancellor. later on, he pressed olof, too, into his service, making him secretary to the city corporation of stockholm--which meant that olof practically became the chief civil administrator of the capital, having to act as both clerk and magistrate, while at the same time he was continuing his reformatory propaganda as one of the preachers in the city's principal edifice, officially named after st. nicolaus, but commonly spoken of as greatchurch. as if this were not sufficient for one man, he plunged also into a feverish literary activity, doing most of the work on the swedish translations of the new and old testaments, and paving the way for the new faith by a series of vigorous polemical writings, the style of which proclaims him the founder of modern swedish prose. centuries passed before the effective simplicity and homely picturesqueness of his style were surpassed. he became, furthermore, sweden's first dramatist. the comedy of tobit, from which strindberg uses a few passages in slightly modernized form at the beginning of his play, is now generally recognized as an authentic product of olof's pen, although it was not written until a much later period. strindberg's drama starts at strängnäs, at the very moment when olof has been goaded into open revolt against the abuses of the church, and when he is saved from the consequences of that revolt only by the unexpected arrival of king gustaf and his own appointment as city secretary. from the slightly strained, but not improbable, coincidence of that start to the striking climax of the last act, the play follows, on the whole, pretty closely the actual course of events recorded in history. to understand this course, with its gradually intensified conflict between the king and olof, it is above all necessary to bear in mind that the former regarded the reformation principally as a means toward that political reorganization and material upbuilding of the country which formed his main task; while to olof the religious reconstruction assumed supreme importance. this fundamental divergence of purpose is clearly indicated and effectively used by strindberg, and we have reason to believe that he has pictured not only gustaf vasa and master olof, but also the other historical characters, in close accordance with what history has to tell us about them. among the chief figures there is only one--gert the printer--who is not known to history, and one--the wife of olof--who is so little known that the playwright has been at liberty to create it almost wholly out of his own imagination. at the juncture represented by the initial scenes of the play, olof was in reality thirty-one years old, but he is made to appear still younger. the king should be, and is, about twenty-seven, while lars andersson is about fifty-four, and bishop brask about seventy. gert must be thought a man of about sixty, while christine must be about twenty. the action of the play lasts from 1524 to 1540, but strindberg has contracted the general perspective, so to speak, giving us the impression that the entire action takes place within a couple of years. i have tried to work out a complete chronology, and think it fairly safe to date the several parts of the play as follows: the first act takes place on whitsun eve, 1524, which means that the exact date must fall between may 10 and june 13 of that year, and probably about june 1. the first scene of the second act occurs in the early evening of a saturday in the summer--probably in june--of 1524. the second scene is fixed at midnight of the same day, and the third scene on the following morning, which, in view of the fact that olof is to preach, we may assume to be a sunday. the first scene of the third act seems to take place four days later, but olof was not married until february, 1525,--to "christine, a maiden of good family,"--and it was only during the winter of 1526-27 that the church reformers were given free rein by the king, and olof himself was despatched to the university of upsala for the purpose of challenging peder galle, the noted catholic theologian, to a joint discussion. this was also the time when the first swedish version of the new testament was completed by olof and lars andersson--an event referred to in the scene in question. the exact date of the second scene of the third act is st. john's eve, or june 24, 1527, at which time occurred the important riksdag at vesterås, where the king broke the final resistance of the nobility and the catholic clergy by threatening to abdicate. the debate between olof and peder galle took place at the riksdag, galle having evaded it as long as he could. the date of the fourth act is very uncertain, but it seems safe to place it in the summer of 1539, when stockholm was ravaged by an epidemic of a virulent disease known as "the english sweat." the first scene of the fifth act is laid on new year's eve, 1539, when olof and lars andersson were arrested and charged with high treason for not having informed the proper authorities of a plot against the king's life. this plot was an old story, having been exposed and punished in 1536. their defence was that they had learned of it through secret confession, which they as ministers had no right to reveal. the trial took only two days, and on january 2, 1540, both were sentenced to death. the second scene of the final act must be laid in the spring of 1540, as the ceremony of confirmation has generally taken place about easter ever since the swedish church became lutheran. while, in the main, strindberg made the events of his play accord with what was accepted as historical fact when he wrote, there are anachronisms and inaccuracies to be noted, although to none of them can be attached much importance. when, in the first and second acts, he represents the anabaptist leaders, rink and knipperdollink, as then in stockholm and actually introduces one of them on the stage, he has merely availed himself of a legend which had been accepted as truth for centuries, and which has been exploded only by recent historical research. we know now that rink and knipperdollink could never have been in sweden, but we know also that a german lay preacher named melchior hofman appeared at stockholm about the time indicated in the play, and that, in 1529, another such preacher, named tilemann, made olof himself the object of his fierce invectives. these instances serve, in fact, to prove how skilfully strindberg handled his historical material. he is never rigid as to fact, but as a rule he is accurate in spirit. another instance of this kind is found in the references in the first act to the use of swedish for purposes of worship. it is recorded--and by himself, i think--that olof once asked his mother whether she really understood the latin prayers, since she was so very fond of them. she answered: "no, i don't understand them, but when i hear them i pray devoutly to god that they may please him, which i don't doubt they do." on the other hand, what maybe regarded as rather an awkward slip is found in the first scene of the fifth act, where gert cries exultantly to olof: "you don't know that thomas münster has established a new spiritual kingdom at mühlhausen." the name of the great anabaptist "prophet" was thomas münzer, and the place where he established his brief reign was münster. strindberg's habit was to fill his head with the facts to be used, and then to rely on his memory. marvellous as his memory was, it sometimes deceived him, and checking off names or dates seems to have been utterly beyond him. thus it is quite probable that the passage in question represents an unconscious error. at the same time it is barely possible that the mistake may have been purposely laid in the mouth of a fanatic, from whom exactness of statement could hardly be expected. thus, in the first act, gert remarks that "luther is dead." we understand, of course, that this expression is metaphorical, signifying that luther has done all that can be expected of him, but it is nevertheless characteristically ambiguous. the second scene of the third act is apparently laid in olof's house at stockholm, although the location of the building is not definitely indicated. we find him waiting for a messenger who is to announce the results of the riksdag then in session. but the riksdag was held at vesterås, and we know that olof was one of two delegates sent by the burghers and the peasants to the king, whom they implored "on their knees and with tears" to withdraw his abdication. the courtier's reference to olof's debate with galle renders it still more uncertain whether we are in stockholm or in vesterås. the courtier also informs olof of his appointment as pastor of greatchurch, the facts being that olof was not ordained until 1539 and received his appointment a year after the events described in the last act of the play. in the metrical version, strindberg makes his most radical departure from the historical course of events by letting luther's marriage precede and influence that of olof, although in reality olof's anticipated that of luther by several months. the complaints of the man from småland in the first scene of the second act could scarcely have been warranted in 1524, when that act takes place. the hold of the young king was far too precarious at that early date to permit any regulations of the kind referred to. the establishment of a maximum price on oxen does not seem to have occurred until 1532, and a prohibition against the shooting of deer by the peasants was actually issued in 1538, both measures helping to provoke the widespread uprising that broke out in småland in 1541. it was named the "dacke feud" after its principal leader, the peasant-chieftain nils dacke, to whom the sexton refers in the second scene of the last act--also a little prematurely. whether these be conscious or unconscious anachronisms, they matter very little when the general accuracy of the play is considered. from the moment the danes had been driven out of the country, one of the most serious problems confronting the king was the financial chaos into which the country had fallen, and his efforts, first of all to raise enough means for ordinary administrative purposes, and secondly to reorganize trade and agriculture, brought him almost immediately into conflict with the peasants, who, during the long struggle for national independence, had become accustomed to do pretty much as they pleased. the utterances of the man from småland are typical of the sentiments that prevailed among the peasants throughout the country, not least when he speaks of the king's intention to "take away their priests and friars," for the majority of the swedish people were at that time still intensely catholic, and remained so to a large extent long after the reformation officially had placed sweden among protestant countries. much more serious than any liberties taken with dates or facts, i deem certain linguistic anachronisms, of which strindberg not rarely becomes guilty. thus, for instance, he makes the king ask bishop brask: "what kind of phenomenon is this?" the phrase is palpably out of place, and yet it has been used so deliberately that nothing was left for me to do but to translate it literally. the truth is that strindberg was not striving to reproduce the actual language of the period--a language of which we get a glimpse in the quotations from the comedy of tobit. here and there he used archaic expressions (which i have sometimes reproduced and sometimes disregarded, as the exigencies of the new medium happened to require). at other times he did not hesitate to employ modern colloquialisms (most of which have been "toned down"). he did not regard local color or historical atmosphere as a supreme desideratum. he wanted to express certain ideas, and he wanted to bring home the essential humanity of historical figures which, through the operations of legendary history, had assumed a strange, unhuman aspect. the methods he employed for these purposes have since been made familiar to the english-speaking public by the historical plays of bernard shaw and the short stories and novels of anatole france. in his eagerness, however, to express what was burning for utterance in his own breast, the second purpose was sometimes lost sight of; and at such times strindberg hesitated as little to pass the bounds imposed by an historical period as to break through the much more important limitations of class and personal antecedents. thus, for example, the remarks of olof's mother are at one moment characterized by the simplicity to be expected from the aged widow of a small city tradesman in the early part of the sixteenth century, while in the next--under the pressure of the author's passion for personal expression--they grow improbably sophisticated. yet each figure, when seen in proper perspective, appears correctly drawn and strikingly consistent with the part assigned to it in the play. in his very indifference to minor accuracies, strindberg sometimes approaches more closely to the larger truth than men more scrupulous in regard to details. how true he can be in his delineation of a given type is perhaps best shown by the figure of gert. the world's literature holds few portrayals of the anarchistic temperament that can vie with it in psychological exactness, and it is as true to-day as it was in 1524 or in 1872. this verisimilitude on a universal rather than a specific plane assumes still greater significance if we consider it in the light of what strindberg has told us about his purpose with the main characters of his first great play. as i have already said, those characters were meant to be both mouthpieces of the author and revived historical figures, but they were also meant--and primarily, i suspect--to be something else: embodiments of the contradictory phases of a single individual, namely the author himself. "the author meant to hide his own self behind the historical characters," strindberg tells us, apropos of this very play. [note: in one of his biographical novels, the bondwoman's son, vol. iii: in the red room.] "as an idealist he was to be represented by olof; as a realist by gustaf; and as a communist by gert." farther on in the same work, he continues his revelation as follows: "the king and his shadow, the shrewd constable, represented himself [the author] as he wished to be; gert, as he was in moments of aroused passion; and olof, as, after years of self-scrutiny, he had come to know himself: ambitious and weak-willed; unscrupulous when something was at stake, and yielding at other times; possessed of great self-confidence, mixed with a deep melancholy; balanced and irrational; hard and gentle." finally, he gives us this illuminating exposition of his own views on the moral validity of the main characters, thus disposing once for all of the one-sided interpretations made by persons anxious to use this or that aspect of the play in support of their own political or social idiosyncrasies: "all the chief characters are, relatively speaking, in the right. the constable, from the standpoint of his own day, is right in asking olof to keep calm and go on preaching; olof is right in admitting that he had gone too far; the scholar, vilhelm, is right when, in the name of youth, he demands the evolution of a new truth; and gert is right in calling olof a renegade. the individual must always become a renegade--forced by the necessity of natural laws; by fatigue; by inability to develop indefinitely, as the brain ceases to grow about the age of forty-five; and by the claims of actual life, which demand that even a reformer must live as man, mate, head of a family, and citizen. but those who crave that the individual continue his progress indefinitely are the shortsighted--particularly those who think that the cause must perish because the individual deserts it.... it is an open question, for that matter, whether olof did not have a better chance to advance his cause from the pulpit of the reformed greatchurch than he would have had in low-class taverns." these passages were written by strindberg fourteen years after the completion of the play to which they refer. we have other evidence, however, that, while he might have seen things more clearly in retrospect, he had not been lured by the lapse of time into placing his characters in a light different from that in which they were conceived. on the list of characters forming part of the original handwritten manuscript of the first version of master olof, now preserved in the public library of gothenburg, sweden, the author has jotted down certain very significant notes opposite the more important names. thus he has written opposite the name of the king: "to accomplish something in this world, one has to risk morality and conscience;" opposite the name of olof: "he who strives to realize an idea develops greatness of personality--he accomplishes good by his personal example, but he is doomed to perish;" opposite that of bishop brask: "there is movement in whatever exists--whatever stands still must be crushed;" and opposite that of gert: "he who wills more than his reason can grasp must go mad." such was the play with which the young strindberg returned to the swedish capital in the fall of 1872; and let us remember in this connection, that up to the time in question no dramatic work of similar importance had ever been produced in sweden. its completion was more epoch-making for sweden than that of brand was for norway in 1865--since the coming of ibsen's first really great play was heralded by earlier works leading up to it, while master olof appeared where nobody had any reason to expect it. this very fact militated against its success, of course; it was too unexpected, and also too startlingly original, both in spirit and in form. at the time there was only one stage in sweden where such a work could be produced--the royal theatre at stockholm. to the officials of this state--supported institution strindberg submitted his work--hopefully, as we know from his own statement. it was scornfully and ignominiously rejected, the main criticism being that a serious historical drama in prose was unthinkable. i shall make no comment whatever on that judgment, having in mind how several years later edmund gosse bewailed the failure of ibsen to give a metrical form to his emperor and galilean. strindberg's next effort concerned publication. in this respect he was equally unsuccessful, although as a rule it has never been very difficult in sweden to find a publisher for any work of reasonable merit. but the play was not only too original, it was too dangerously radical for a country where a truly modern form of representative government had not been achieved until seven years earlier. strindberg was at first stunned by this failure. he seriously contemplated giving up writing altogether. when he had recovered somewhat, he seems reluctantly to have faced the possibility that the fault might be found in the play and not in the public. so he set about to re-write it--and he did so not only once but repeatedly, producing in all six versions that differ more or less from one another. at first he clung to the prose form. gradually he began to introduce verse, until finally, in 1877 or 1878, he completed an almost new play, where the metrical form predominated without being used exclusively. this version was actually published in 1878. originally, an epilogue was appended to it, but this was dropped from all but a small part of the first edition. it is supposed to take place a number of years later than the fifth act, and shows olof with his two sons outside the city walls of stockholm, where they witness a miracle-play introducing god as the principle of darkness and lucifer as the overthrown but never conquered principle of light. the bitter generalizations of this afterthought explain sufficiently why it was excluded. to the later strindberg--the man who wrote advent, for instance--it must have seemed one of his most unforgivable offences. although strindberg's main object in working over his play undoubtedly was to obtain its production, the metrical version was not put on the stage until 1890, when, however, it was performed at the royal theatre, toward which its author had looked so longingly and so vainly eighteen years earlier. the prose version, on the other hand, was produced as early as 1881, at the new theatre in stockholm, but was not published until the same year, when it appeared in book form grouped with a number of other writings from strindberg's earliest period. of the five unprinted versions connecting the original prose drama of 1872 with the final metrical form of 1878, more or less complete manuscripts have been preserved, and these are now being examined in detail by the swedish literary historian, professor karl warburg. a summary analysis by dr. john landquist is appended to the second volume of the definitive edition of strindberg's complete works (albert bonnier, stockholm), where the epilogue to the metrical version is also reprinted after so many years of oblivion. "of all the manuscripts preceding the final metrical version," says dr. landquist, "the original one, written when strindberg was twenty-three, is the masterpiece. there everything is consistent; there the dialogue has a power and an incisiveness to which it does not attain in any of the unprinted manuscripts. on the contrary, these seem more youthful than the original, producing at times an impression of immaturity and uncertainty on the part of the author. even when some isolated phrase strikes one as fortunate, it does not tend to strengthen the drama as a whole. the later versions lack that sense of inner unity and that audacious touch which lend fascination and power to the original manuscript. "not until we reach the first metrical version (of 1876) does the full power of the playwright begin to reassert itself in such fashion that out of his untiring labors at last springs a new work, the mood of which differs essentially from that of the first prose version. these two versions--the first and the final--are the results of diametrically opposed methods of work. the first was written with a certainty and swiftness of inspiration that raised the young poet far above the productive powers generally characteristic of his years. the subsequent modifications prove merely how futile are the efforts of reason to improve what intuition has inspired. but gradually it seems to have dawned on the poet that he was about to evolve a wholly new work--that what he had come to aim at was quite distinct from what he had been aiming at in the beginning, and from that moment his artistic reasoning carried him onward until at last a new inspiration brought the work to its completion." concerning the final metrical version, i can give only a few outstanding and rather superficial facts, hoping that i may some time have the opportunity of presenting it entire to the american public. like the prose version, it has five acts, but these are not subdivided into scenes. it is briefer, more concentrated both in spirit and in form, and may be said to display a greater unity of purpose. it is more human, too, and less titanic. the change shows itself strikingly in a figure like that of mårten, who in the metrical version has become softened into an unconscionable but rather lovable rapscallion. the last remark but one made by mårten when driven from dame christine's deathbed by olof is: "talk to your mother, son--the two of you have so much to forgive each other." in strength and passion and daring, on the other hand, the final version falls far short of the original one, and the very fact that it is more logical, more carefully reasoned, tends at times to render it less psychologically true. each version has its own merits and its own faults, and in their appeal they are so radically different that a choice between them must always remain meaningless except on temperamental grounds. at one point, however--and an important one at that--the metrical version seems to me the happier by far. that cry of "renegade," which, echoing from the dim recesses of the church, makes the prose version end on a note of perplexing irony, may be theatrically effective, but it can hardly be called logical. gert has been disposed of. his sudden return out of the clutches of the soldiers is inexplicable and unwarranted. worse still, he has only a short while previous been urging olof to live on for his work. if olof be a renegade, he is so upon the advice of gert himself, and to call the concession made by olof for the saving of his own life far-reaching enough to explain gert's sudden change of attitude approaches dangerously near to quibbling. in the metrical version, on the other hand, the same cry of "renegade" is quite logically and suitably wrung from the lips of vilhelm, the scholar who is still dreaming of uncompromised ideals. but it is not the final word. this comes from olof, and takes the form of a brief apostrophe to the fleeing vilhelm, which i think ranks with the finest passages produced by strindberg. apologetically, i offer this english version of it as a fitting close to my introduction: olof. oh, what a word! but though it shook the air, these columns did not stir, nor fell the dome, and i stand calm upon this lonely shore, where i was dropped by the receding waves- for, after all, i am ashore. and now a last "good luck upon the road" i send to speed the daring sailor who will give no ear to one that just has come to grief. with sails hauled close, steer for the open sea and for the far-off goal your soul desires! ere long you must fall off like all the rest, although a star your guiding landmark be for in due time the stars themselves must fall! edwin bjorkman may 15, 1915 master olof dramatis personae olof pedersson (olaus petri), generally known as master olof. gert the printer. gustaf eriksson vasa, king of sweden. hans brask, bishop of linköping. måns sommar, bishop of strängnäs. lars siggeson, lord high constable. lars andersson (laurentius andreae), lord high chancellor. lars pedersson (laurentius petri), brother of master olof. hans windrank, a master mariner. a man from småland. a german. a dane. mårten and nils, black friars. a tavern-keeper. a burier. first scholar. second scholar. the sexton at st. nicolaus (or greatchurch). a servant of the palace. an overseer. a townsman. a courtier. dame christine, olof's mother. christine, daughter of gert the printer. a harlot. a woman. the sexton's wife. the abbess of st. clara. headsman, townsfolk, laborers, etc. act i: at strängnäs. acts ii, iii, iv, and v: at stockholm. act i (a cloister opening upon a convent close planted with groups of trees. the convent church forms the right side of the quadrangle. a brick wall runs along the rear. fruit trees in blossom appear above the wall. olof is seated on a stone bench. before him stand two scholars, who are reading their respective parts out of "the comedy of tobit.") first scholar. now have our enemies trapped us full well. woe unto us, poor children of israel! second scholar. yea, brother, good cause you have to make such plaint! now certes we have come upon days of great lament- our land is taken away, and so's our increase, and ne'er we may look for any help or surcease. it must be, as long i have both dreamt and said, that the promise to abram has been long mislaid. [enter lars andersson.] lars andersson. what are you doing? olof. i am playing. lars. playing--you? olof. i am playing a little comedy about the children of israel and the babylonian captivity. lars. have you nothing better to do? bigger work is waiting for you. olof. i am too young. lars. do not say you are too young. olof. no, for there are plenty of others who say it. lars (takes out a roll of paper, which he opens; for a while he stands looking at olof; then he begins to read) "then the word of the lord came unto jeremiah: 'before i formed thee in the belly i knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of the womb i sanctified thee, and i ordained thee a prophet unto the nations.' "then said jeremiah: 'ah, lord god! behold, i cannot speak, for i am a child.' "but the lord said: 'say not, i am a child; for thou shalt go to all that i shall send thee, and whatsoever i command thee thou shalt speak. for, behold, i have made thee this day a defenced city, and an iron pillar, and brazen walls against the whole land, against the kings of judah, against the princes thereof, against the priests thereof, and against the people of the land. and they shall fight against thee; but they shall not prevail against thee; for i am with thee,' saith the lord, 'to deliver thee.'" olof (leaping to his feet). did the lord say that? lars. "thou therefore gird up thy loins and arise, and speak unto them all that i command thee." olof. why do not you go? lars. i am too old. olof. you are afraid! lars. i am, for i have not the strength; but you have--and now may the lord give you the faith also. olof. oh, once i did have the flame of faith, and it burned wondrously, but the monkish gang smothered it with their holy water when they were trying to read the devil out of my body. lars. that was a fire of straw which had to flicker out; but now the lord will light you a fire of logs by which the offspring of the philistines shall be consumed. do you know your own will, olof? olof. no, but i feel myself choking when i think of these poor people who yearn for salvation. they are crying for water--for living water--but there is no one who can give it to them. lars. tear down the crumbling old house first, you can do that. then the lord himself will build them a new one. olof. then they will be without a roof over their heads for a time. lars. they will at least get fresh air. olof. but to rob a whole nation of its faith--they will despair. lars. yes, they will despair. olof. but they will decry me, and revile me, and drag me before the elders. lars. are you afraid? olof. no--but the offence-lars. you were born to give offence, olof; you were born to smite. the lord will heal. olof. i can feel the pull of the current; i am still clinging to the sluice-gate, but if i let go, i shall be swept away. lars. let go! there are more than enough who hold back. olof. reach out your hand to me, lars, if i get too far into the whirlpool. lars. that is not in my power, and into the whirlpool you must go, even if it be to perish. olof. what storms you have raised in my soul! a moment ago i sat here and played in the shadow of the trees, and it was whitsun eve, and it was spring, and all was peace. and now--how can the trees be still, and why is there no darkness in the sky? put your hand on my forehead, feel the blood surging! do not abandon me, lars! i see an angel coming towards me with a cup--she is walking across the evening sky--her path is blood-red, and in her hand she is carrying a cross--no, it is more than i avail! i will return to my peaceful valley. let others fight; i will look on--no, i will follow in their wake and heal the wounded and whisper words of peace into the ears of the dying--peace!--no, i want to fight with the rest, but in the last ranks--why should i lead? lars. because you are the boldest. olof. not the strongest? lars. the strong will come after you: and the strongest of all is by your side; it is he who summons you to battle. olof. help me, o lord! i go. lars. amen! olof. and will you come with me? lars. you must go alone--with god! olof. why do you turn back? lars. i was not born to be a warrior: your armorer is all that i can be. your weapon is the pure word of god, and with that you must arm the people. for the doors to the popish armory have been broken open at last, and hereafter every one calling himself a man must fight for the freedom of his own spirit. olof. but where is the enemy? i am burning for battle, yet see no one to fight against. lars. no need to summon them; they will come! farewell! you may begin whenever you are ready, and may god be with you! olof. don't go. i have much more to talk with you about. lars. here comes the vanguard now--to arms! [exit lars.] (a crowd of townsmen with their women and children pass across the stage to the church door at the right. they stop in front of it, bare their heads, and make the sign of the cross.) gert the printer (disguised as a townsman). it's whitsun eve, and nobody has rung the vesper bell--that's very strange. a townsman. the church door is closed. maybe the priest is sick. gert. or not yet out of bed. townsman. what do you mean? gert. only that he might be sick abed. townsman. but there are a lot of acolytes, and one of them might be saying a mass for us in his place. gert. they are probably too busy. townsman. with what? gert. that's hard to tell. townsman. take care, my good man! you seem to have a leaning towards lutherism. bishop hans of linköping is here, and so's the king. gert. is brask in town? townsman. indeed he is. but i suppose we had better try the church door to see if it be really closed. gert (runs up the steps and beats the church door with his fist).the house of god is closed this whitsun eve. the reverend clergy will grant no audience with the lord to-day, and so the worshipful commonalty will have to go home and go to bed without any mass. look here, good folk! here you have a door--mere wood, of course, but that matters little, as it is lined with copper. just take a look at this door! if i say that the lord is living within--this being his house; and if i say that the bishop's diaconus, or secretarius, or canonicus, or some other fellow ending in 'us'--for it's only these clerical gentlemen that end in 'us'; and if i say that some fellow of that kind has the key hanging on a nail in his bedroom: then i don't mean to say that he has locked up the lord and put the key on a nail in his bedroom: but all i mean to say is that we can't get in, and that there will be no divine service for its to-night--for us who have toiled six days making shoes and coats--who have spent the whole week brewing and baking and butchering for the reverend clergy in order that the said clergy might have strength enough on the seventh day to celebrate divine service for its. of course, i am not at all saying this in reproach of the right reverend members of this chapter; for they, too, are nothing but human beings, you know, and it was only the lord who could stand working six days and be satisfied with resting on the seventh. townsman. you're blaspheming god, master townsman! gert. well, he can't hear it when the door is closed. a woman. jesu maria! he's an antichrist! gert (beating at the door). do you hear how hollow it sounds?--it is writ in the bible that once upon a time the veil before the holiest of holies was rent in twain, and it must be true--but nothing is said in the bible about the clerical gentlemen having sewed the veil together again, which, of course, is no reason why it shouldn't have been done. (the crowd makes a rush at gert; the children begin to cry.) townsman. out on you, luther! for that's what you are. we have sinned, and for that reason the lord has closed his house. can't you hear that the very children cry out at the sight of you, unclean spirit that you are? gert. naturally, when you step on their toes, my dear friends-woman. don't go near him! he has a devil! townsman. down with him! down with him! gert. don't touch me, for here i am under the protection of the lord. townsman. the lord will not protect the angel that was cast out. gert. if the lord won't, the holy church will, and i am now within her consecrated walls. townsman. get him away from the church wall! gert. if you don't fear god, you must at least fear the ban of the holy father. woman. drag him away from that door! it is his unclean spirit that has cast a spell on the church. townsman. that's it! the lord won't open his church to the devil. (the crowd is rushing at gert again, when the bishop's secretary enters, preceded by a verger, who calls upon the people to attend.) secretary (reading). "whereas our cathedral city has failed in the payment of its tithes to this see, and whereas it continues refractory in regard to such payments, the chapter has deemed it necessary, in accordance with its vested rights and the sanction granted by the holy curia, to close the doors of the church and to discontinue all masses and sacrifices until the aforesaid dereliction shall have been duly remedied; failure to observe which shall be at the risk of our displeasure. datum vigilia assumptionis mariae. chapter of strängnäs." [exit.] gert. what do you say to that, good folk? townsman. no mass on whitsun eve? that's a shame! gert. take care! say nothing evil of the priests; maybe they're not to blame. townsman. who is to blame, then? gert. the church! that invisible and omnipotent something! it is the church, you see, that has closed the church. (the crowd gives evidence of disapproval.) olof (who in the meantime has come forward, seizes a rope hanging from the bell tower, and begins to ring vespers). if your worship be seriously meant, i'll say mass for you. townsman. many thanks, master olof, but are you aware of what that may lead to? olof. let us fear the lord more than men! (the crowd kneels.) dear friends! brothers and sisters in christ jesus! as we are now come together here-townsman. master olof-olof. what is it? townsman. we want a real mass, and not any new inventions of men. gert. it has to be in latin, my dear master olof, or we can't understand what you say. townsman. it has to be in the sacred tongue--or anybody might say mass. olof. and so you shall! everyone for himself, with god! crowd. a luther! a luther! antichrist! townsman. well, well, master olof, have you, too, so young and zealous, become tainted by the german devil? i am an old man, who has seen much of the world, and i mean well by you--turn back while you are still young!--do as we ask you and give us the old mass. olof. no, there must be an end to that mummery. ye shall pray in spirit and in truth, and not in words ye do not understand. townsman. don't you think, my young friend, that the lord understands latin? gert. but swedish he doesn't understand at all! townsman. master olof, are you going to let the people depart from you without a word to edify them? can't you see how they are yearning for their god? make a sacrifice of your own sinful will, and don't let the people go from you like sheep that have no shepherd. olof. you call my will sinful? townsman. you are a hard man! olof. say not so! do you know what the ringing of this bell will cost me? townsman. your vanity. gert. and your peace! for it was the alarum bell that rang in the battle. hey-ho, this is the start! soon the bells of stockholm will respond, and then the blood of hus, and of ziska, and of all the thousands of peasants will be on the heads of the princes and the papists. woman. woe unto us! what is he raving about? townsman. do you know this man, master olof? olof. no. gert. yes, olof, you know me. deny me not! are you afraid of these miserable creatures who do not want their own welfare--and who have never heard the word "freedom"? olof. what is your name? gert. if i told, you would all tremble. yet you must tremble in order that you may wake out of your sleep. i am named the angel that was cast out and that is to come again ten thousand times; i am named the liberator that came too early; i am named satan because i love you more than my own life; i have been named luther; i have been named hus. now i am named anabaptist! crowd (shrink back and begin to cross themselves). anabaptist! gert (removing his disguise and revealing himself as much older than he had seemed). do you know me now, olof? olof. father gert! townsman. he calls him father! crowd (drawing back from olof and gert). anabaptist! anabaptist! woman. don't you see, it's he who was put under the ban-townsman. gert the printer--the bishop's printer-another townsman. the man who printed luther! woman. woe unto us and to our city! woe to our priests when they bear company with antichrist! townsman. he denies the holy baptism! woman. he denies god. (the crowd disperses.) olof. that was dangerous talk, father gert. gert. you really think it was dangerous, olof? bless you for those words! olof. dangerous for you, i mean. gert. not for any one else? olof. let us hope not. gert. you have known luther? olof. indeed, i have! and now i want to carry out his work in my own country. gert. is that all? olof. what do you mean? gert. it is not enough! luther is dead. he made a beginning, we have to go on. olof. whither do you want to lead me? gert. far, olof, very far! olof. i am afraid of you, father gert. gert. yes, and will be more so; for i shall take you up on a high mountain, and from there you shall overlook the whole world. you see, olof, it is now whitsuntide; it was at this time the holy ghost came down and filled the apostles--nay, all humanity. the spirit of the lord has descended upon me. i feel it, and for that reason they shut me up like one demented. but now i am free again, and now i shall speak the word; for now, olof, we are standing on the mountain. behold the people crawling on their knees before those two men seated on their thrones. the taller holds two keys in one hand and a thunderbolt in the other. that is the pope. now he hurls his thunderbolt, and a thousand souls pass into perdition, while the rest kiss his foot and sing gloria deo--but he who is seated on the throne turns about and smiles. now behold his companion. he has a sword and at sceptre. bow down before the sceptre, lest the sword smite you. when he knits his brows all the people tremble. (he turns toward the man on the other throne, and both smile.) they are two pillars of baal. then is heard a sound out of heaven as of a host muttering. "who is grumbling?" exclaims the pope, shaking his thunderbolt. "who is muttering?"--and the emperor shakes his sword. nobody answers, but still there is grumbling in the air, and roaring, and a cry of "think!" the pope cowers, and the emperor, turning pale, demands: "who was it that cried 'think'? bring him here, and i will take his life!" the pope shouts: "bring him here, and i will take his soul!" the cry came out of heaven, and was uttered by no one. but still the sound of it rises; a storm wind springs up; it sweeps over the alps and goes roaring across fichtelgebirge; it stirs up the baltic and echoes from the shores, and the cry is repeated a thousand times all over the world: "freedom, freedom!" the pope throws his keys into the sea, and the emperor sheathes his sword, for against that cry they avail nothing.--oh, olof, you wish to smite the pope, but you forget the emperor--the emperor, who is killing his people without counting them because they dare to sigh when he tramples on their chests. you want to smite the pope at rome, but, like luther, you want to give them a new pope in holy writ. listen! listen! bind not the spirits with any fetters whatsoever! forget not the great whitsunday! forget not your great goal: spiritual life and spiritual freedom! listen not to the cry of death: "and behold, it is all good!" for then the millennium, the kingdom of liberty, will never arrive--and it is that which is now beginning. (olof remains silent.) does it make you dizzy? olof. you go too far, gert. gert. the day shall come when they will call me papist. aim at the sky, and you will hit the forest line ahead of you. olof. turn back, gert! you'll bring disaster on yourself and on the realm. can't you see how the country is still shivering with the wound-fever caused by the last war? and you wish to sow the seeds of civil war. it is a godless deed! gert. no, the knife is in the flesh now. cut away, and the body may be saved. olof. i'll denounce you as a traitor to your country. gert. you had better not, seeing that to-day you have offended the church beyond repair. besides-olof. speak out, gert. just now you look like satan himself! gert. you shall have my secret: deal with it to suit yourself. the king leaves for malmö to-day, and the day after to-morrow, perchance, stockholm may be in open revolt. olof. what are you talking about? gert. do you know rink and knipperdollink? olof (alarmed). the anabaptists! gert. yes. what's so startling in that? they are nothing but a couple of lubberly tradesmen. a furrier and a grocer, who deny the use of baptizing unconscious children, and who are simple-minded enough to oppose the forcing of irrational creatures into deliberate perjury. olof. that is not all. gert. what is it, then? olof. they are possessed. gert. of the spirit, yes. it is the storm wind that is crying through them. beware, if you get into its path! olof. this must be stopped. i am going to the king. gert. we should be friends, olof. your mother is living in stockholm, isn't she? olof. you know it, then? gert. do you know that my daughter christine is with your mother? olof. christine? gert. yes, for the present. if we win, your mother will be protected for my daughter's sake; and if the catholics win, my daughter will be protected for your mother's sake. you are a little concerned about christine, are you not? olof. gert, gert, what made you so wise? gert. the madhouse. olof. go away from me! you'll lead me into disaster. gert. yes, if you call it a disaster to be robbed of all earthly happiness, to be dragged into prison, to suffer poverty, to be scorned and reviled fur the sake of truth. if so, you are not worthy of such a splendid disaster. i thought you would understand me, i counted on your help, for in you the fire is still burning, but i see that the world is tempting you. well, follow the stream and be happy! olof. how could a man make over the age in which he is living? gert. that's what luther has done. olof. how can one man check a stream? gert. guide it, you fool--for we are the stream. the old are stagnant mudpools, you don't need to check them, but don't let them rot away or dry up; give them an outlet, and they'll flow with the stream, too. olof. yes, i understand you! you have bred a thought in my soul, but that thought must be strangled in its birth, or it will kill me. gert. believe me, you will be a daniel, and you will speak the truth unto princes, and they will conspire to take your life; but the lord will protect you.--now i can safely leave, for i see lightnings flash from your eyes and tongues of fire flickering over your head. (as he is leaving.) there comes the lord of flies: don't let him defile your pure soul also. olof. jesus help me! [enter bishop brask and bishop sommar. sommar approaches olof, while brask remains behind, studying the surroundings.] sommar. who rang vespers, canonicus? olof (calmly but firmly). i did. sommar. didn't you know the order? olof. i was aware of the prohibition. sommar. and you dared to defy it? olof. yes, when the people were let go like sheep without a shepherd, i wanted to keep them together. sommar. you seem to be finding fault with our actions. that's impudence indeed. olof. truth is always impudent. sommar. i believe, young man, that you want to play the part of an apostle of truth. it will bring you no thanks. olof. all i ask is ingratitude. sommar. save your truths. they don't retain their value in the market very long. olof (impetuously). that's advice worthy of the father of lies!--(mildly.) i ask your pardon! sommar. do you know to whom you are talking? olof (heatedly). to servus servi servorum måns sommar! brask (stepping forward). who is this man? sommar. one of the attendants in the church. brask. what's his name? sommar. olof pedersson, alias olaus petri. brask (staring hard at olof). so you are master olof? (olof bows and looks fixedly at brask.) i like you. would you care to become my secretary? olof. many thanks, your grace, but i have no recommendations. brask. what have you to say, bishop måns? sommar. he is said to have found much favor with dr. luther. brask. so i've heard. nothing but youthful spirits. we'll train him. olof. i fear it is too late! brask. a sapling can be bent. sommar. it is not wise to raise vipers, your grace. our canonicus here has strong leanings toward heresy, and to-day he has dared to defy our orders. brask. is that so? sommar. on fully legal grounds we have proclaimed an interdict, and this man has ventured to say mass--worse than that, he has said a lutheran mass, and thus stirred up the people. brask. take care, young man! don't you know that the ban will fall on anybody who proclaims luther? olof. i know it, but i fear no other god than god. brask. consider your words. i mean well by you, and you repel me. olof. you want to purchase my ability for the doctoring of your sick cause, and i am shameless enough not to sell myself. brask. by saint george, i think you are out of your senses! olof. if so, don't give me the same treatment as gert the printer. you put him in a madhouse, and it made him too wise, i fear. brask (to bishop sommar). do you know gert? sommar. no, your grace. brask. he's a lunatic who used my press to print lutheran writings in place of the anti-lutheran stuff i put into his hands. moreover, he was dreaming of the apocalypse and the millennium. (to olof.) have you seen him? olof. he was here awhile ago, and you can expect but little good of him. brask. is he at large? olof. he'll be in stockholm soon, and from there you'll hear of him, i think. take care, my lord bishop! brask. ho, there is nothing to fear yet. olof. the anabaptists are in stockholm. brask. what do you say? olof. the anabaptists are in stockholm! brask. the anabaptists? [enter gustaf vasa suddenly.] gustaf. what's up? the city is in a tumult, the people are marching through the streets crying for the mass. what's the meaning of all this? brask. mischief, your highness. gustaf. bishop måns! sommar. the city has failed to pay its tithes. gustaf. and for that reason you refuse to hold divine service? 'sdeath! brask. your highness ought to remember-gustaf. answer me, bishop malls! sommar. your highness ought to remember that matters like these, which fall within the jurisdiction of the church-gustaf. i command you to attend to your duties! brask. the bishops of sweden take no orders except from their superiors, the pope and the canon law. gustaf (checked). i know, but if the pope cannot always keep an eye on them? brask. that's our concern. gustaf (flares up, but controls himself at once). your grace is right. it will remain your concern. brask. to change the subject--stockholm is about to rise in rebellion. gustaf. who says so? sommar. our canonicus here. gustaf. your schoolmaster? where is he? oh, is it you? what's your name? olof. olof pedersson. gustaf. master olof! they tell the you are a heretic, and that you are scheming against holy church! that's a perilous venture! brask. this very day he has dropped his mask by daring to show open defiance of the chapter's prohibition against services, and for that reason we demand that your highness consent to have him duly punished. gustaf. that's a matter for the chapter and does not concern me. (to olof.) but what was that you had to say about a rebellion at stockholm? olof. the anabaptists! gustaf. is that all? brask. does not your highness know how those madmen have been carrying on in germany? we suggest that your highness return to the city in person with your armed force. gustaf. that's a matter in which i suit myself! brask. but civil war-gustaf. that's _my_ concern! (to olof.) olof, i appoint you to the clerkship of our court-house at stockholm. get over there at once. speak to the people. i put my trust in you! brask. for the country's sake i ask your highness to consider the futility of wasting speech on madmen. gustaf. souls are not controlled by swords. bear that in mind, your lordships. brask. the church has never-gustaf. nor by keys! (to olof.) go to my chancellor, and he will give you your appointment. brask. you had better wait a moment, canonicus. gustaf. our secretary will not put your orders ahead of mine. brask. the rights of the church must be assured first of all. olof pedersson-gustaf (correcting him). secretary-brask. secretary olof pedersson cannot leave this city until the chapter has pronounced its verdict. gustaf. the chapter must try the case before it can pronounce a verdict. brask. that's our concern. gustaf. it is not your concern, bishop brask. the bishop of linköping cannot sit in judgment on a canonicus at strängnäs. speak for yourself, bishop sommar. sommar. after what has just occurred--h'm! brask. all further arguments would seem superfluous. gustaf. you had better be silent, bishop brask, or leave us, as i am talking privately to bishop sommar--privately!--well, speak up, bishop måns! sommar. i cannot see but--that--as his grace, the bishop of linköping-gustaf. we are talking of master olof now. your lordships will have to postpone the trial. be kind enough to leave us. [exeunt bishops.] gustaf (to olof). will you be my man? olof. your highness' secretary? gustaf. no, my right hand--on the condition that for the present the left hand shall not know what the right is doing. go to stockholm. olof. the chapter will demand my surrender and ban me. gustaf. before they get to that point you may fall back on me, but until then--stand on your own feet as far as you can. olof. what is your highness' will? gustaf. talk to those fanatics in stockholm. olof. and then? gustaf. oh, that's a long way off. i don't dare to think so far yet.--let them preach. it can't hurt those sottish spirits to hear a new word, even if it be not all true. but there must be no violence; for then the sword will join in the game. farewell, olof! [exit.] olof (alone). so the emperor won't be friends with the pope! (the two scholars, who have been waiting among the trees in the background, come forward.) first scholar. shall we go on with the play, master olof? olof. no, children, there will be no more playing. first scholar. are you going to leave us, master olof? olof. yes, and probably forever. first scholar. can't you stay over whitsuntide, so that we can perform our comedy? second scholar. and so that i can play the angel gabriel? first scholar. please do as we ask you, master olof! you are the only one who has been nice to us and spared us those terrible fasts. second scholar. oh, don't go away from us, master olof! olof. you don't know what you are asking, children. the day will come when you shall thank the lord that i did go away from you.--oh, no, i hope such a day will never come!--but let us make our leave-taking brief. good-bye, nils! good-bye, vilhelm! (he embraces them, and they kiss his hand. in the meantime lars andersson has entered and is watching the group closely.) first scholar. won't you ever come back, master olof? lars (coming forward). are you ready to start now? olof (to the scholars). no, i shall never come back. scholars (as they go out). good-bye, master olof, and don't forget us! (olof stands looking after them.) lars. i have seen the king. olof (absent-mindedly). have you? lars. do you know what he said? olof. no. lars. "i have got a harrier to raise the game; now it remains to be seen whether he will come back when i whistle for him!" olof. look at them--playing there among the graves, and picking flowers, and singing the songs of whitsuntide. lars (taking hold of olof's arm). child! olof (with a start). what did you say? lars. i thought you had laid your hand so firmly on the plough handle to-day that there could be no question of looking back. (olof waves his hand to the scholars.) are you still dreaming? olof. it was the last bright morning dream that passed away from me. pardon me--i am awake now! [exeunt toward the right. then they are nearly out, olof turns for a last look at the scholars. these have disappeared in the meantime, and in their place appear the two black friars, mårten and nils. on seeing them, olof utters a startled cry and puts one hand to his forehead. lars drags him out.] act ii scene 1 (a room in the foundation wall of the church of st. nicolaus at stockholm (generally known as greatchurch), used as a beer-shop. a bar full of pots and mugs occupies the background. to the right of the bar stands a table, back of which appears an iron door. two disguised friars (mårten and nils) are seated at this table drinking beer. the other tables are surrounded by german mercenaries, peasants, and sailors. the door to the street is at the right. a fiddler is seated on top of a barrel. the soldiers are throwing dice. all are drunk and noisy. hans windrank, a man from småland, a german tradesman, and a dane are seated together at one of the tables.) german (to the dane). so you defend a bloodthirsty brute like christian? dane. oh, mercy, he's human, isn't he? german. not, he's a monster! a bloodthirsty brute! a treacherous, cowardly dane! dane. zounds! but you'd better not talk of blood. do you remember the massacre on käppling island, when the germans-windrank. listen to me, good sirs! let's be friends now, and have some fun, and i'll tell you about americky. german. are you going to blame us of lübeck for what the germans did? dane. oh, mercy, i was talking of the germans only-windrank. listen, good sirs, what's the use of quarrelling? (to the tavern-keeper.) four noggins of gin! now let's be calm and agreeable, and i'll tell you of americky. (they are served.) german (sipping). a noble drink! think of it, good sirs, how everything is advancing. to-day the grain is growing in the field-windrank. and to-morrow it's made into wine. i wonder who first found out how it's done? german. beg your pardon, but that's a german invention. i call it invention, because you discover americky. windrank. and the germans never make any discoveries? german. 'sdeath! windrank. now, now! you're no german, you said. dane (to the german). can you tell the who invented the story that the swedes got their present king from the germans? (general laughter.) german. it was we of lübeck what gave sweden a liberator when she was on the verge of ruin. windrank. here's to the king! dane. here's to lübeck! german (flattered). really i don't know how to-windrank. why, you aren't the king! german. beg your pardon, but it was my danish brother's-dane. how can you be of lübeck when you are a citizen of stockholm? windrank (to the man from småland). why won't our silent brother drink at all? man from småland. i'll drink your corn-juice, but when it comes to the king's health, i do like this! (he crushes the tin cup and throws it on the floor.) windrank (groping with one hand for his sheath knife.) you won't drink the king's health? man from småland. i've been drinking the cup he offered me so long that i don't care to drink his health any longer. windrank. 'sblood! german (eagerly). hush, hush! let's hear what he's got to say. dane (in the same way). mercy, yes! a man from småland. the lord help me when i get home again! windrank (sentimentally). what is it, my dear man? why do you look so sad? do you need money? look here, now! (he pulls out his purse.) i've half my wages left. what's the matter with you? man from småland. don't let us talk about it. more gin! gin here! i've money, too. do you see? gold! (the liquor is served). it isn't mine, but i'll spend it on drink to the last farthing, and you'll please help me. windrank. and yet it isn't your money--how can you do that? german. who's wronged you, my dear fellow? i can see that you have fared badly. a man from småland i am ruined! you see, i got two hundred oxen on trust, and when i came to stockholm the king's agent took charge of the whole business, and he said i couldn't sell them for more than he allowed. it's the king that fixes the price on oxen--it's the king that has ruined me. german. you don't say! man from småland. oh, i know a lot more. he means to take the priests and the monks away from us in order to give everything to the gentlefolk. dane. to the gentlefolk? man from småland. exactly! i wish king christian--god bless him!--had cut off a few more heads. windrank. well, is the king like that? i thought he had those noble fellows by the ear. man from småland. he? no, he lets them be born with the right to cut oak on my ground, if i had any. for i did have a patch of land once, you see, but then came a lord who said that my great-grandmother had taken it all in loan from his great-grandfather, and so there was an end to that story. german. why, is the king like that? i would never have believed it. man from småland. indeed he is! those high-born brats run around with their guns in our woods and pick off the deer out of sheer mischief, but if one of us peasants were dying from hunger and took a shot at one of the beasts--well, then he wouldn't have to starve to death, for they'd hang him--but not to an oak--lord, no! that would be a shame for such a royal tree. no, just to an ordinary pine. the pine, you see, has no crown, and that's why it isn't royal--and that's why the old song says: the peasants we hanged in lines from the tops of the tallest pities. it has nothing to say about crowns, mind you. german. but the pine carries its head high just the same, and its back is straight. man from småland. drink, good sirs! you're right welcome to 't. it's a blessed drink. if only i didn't have wife and children at home! oh, my, my, my! but that's all one! oh, i know a lot more, but i know how to keep it to myself, too. windrank. what do you know? german. maybe it's something diverting? man from småland. you see--if you counted all the pines of småland, i think you'd find a whole lot more of them than of oaks. german. you think so? windrank. i don't like you to talk badly of the king. i don't know what he is doing or saying, and it isn't my business either, but i know he takes good care of the shipping trade. yes, it's he who has put ships on the spanish trade, and who has made me a skipper, and so i've got no fault to find with him. german. he has done it out of sheer deviltry, just to hurt the trade of lübeck--of lübeck, to which he owes such a great debt! man from småland. well, he'll get what he deserves! a steer doesn't lose his horns when you make an ox of him. many thanks for your company. now i've got to go. german. oh, no! just one more noggin--and then we can talk a little more. man from småland. no, thanks, though i'm sure it's good of you, but that's all i dare take, for otherwise i fear this will end badly. i've wife and children at home, you see, and now i'm going home--to tell them we're ruined--no--i don't dare to--i'm much obliged, mr. german--let's drink some more. german. that's right! (they drink.) man from småland (emptying his cup and jumping up). oh, damn the bitter stuff! [exit, staggering.] german (to the dane). o lord--when that fellow wakes up! (the dane nods assent. the noise has been steadily increasing. the fiddler is playing. then the organ begins to play in the church.) windrank. it's strange, i think, that the king lets them have a drinkshop in the church wall. german. does it hurt your conscience, skipper? the king doesn't know it, you see. windrank. but they don't go together, the organ music and the singing in here. i've always been a god-fearing man, ever since i was at home. german (ironically). happy the man brought up in that way! you had a mother-windrank (moved). yes--yes! german. who tucked you up nights and taught you to say: "now i lay me down to sleep." windrank. that's it! german. and a fine woman she was! windrank (on whom the drink is beginning to show its effect.) oh, if you only knew! german. the lord has heard her prayers. you're weeping. so you must be a good man. dane. dear me! german. if your mother could only see you now--with those tears in your eyes! windrank. oh, i know i'm a poor miserable sinner--i know it! but i tell you--i've got a heart, damn it! just let a poor wretch come and tell me he is hungry, and i'll take off my own shirt and give it to him. german. how about another drink? windrank. no, i don't think so. (several blows are struck on the iron door from the outside, causing general excitement.) windrank. god-a-mercy! german. don't get scared. that's not the gate of heaven. windrank. i'll never drink another drop--i vow and swear! german (to the dane). what a blessed drink gin must be, seeing it can move a rogue like that to sentimentality--nay, even to thoughts of sobriety. dane. you're right. there is nothing like it. german. it opens the heart wide and closes the head. which means that it makes good people of us, for those are called good, you know, who have much heart and little head. dane. i'd go still farther. gin makes us religious. for it kills reason, and reason is the rock that keeps religion from entering our hearts. german. most holy is gin! strange that-dane. you need say no more! (more blows are struck on the iron door.) windrank (who has fallen asleep, is awakened by the blows). help! i die! german. what a pity to lose such a sweet soul! (the door is pushed open so that the table at which mårten and nils are seated is upset together with the mugs and cups on it. a woman wearing a red and black skirt, with a nun's veil thrown over her head, comes running into the room. for a moment gert can be seen in the doorway behind her, but the door is immediately closed again.) harlot (with a startled glance at her surroundings). save me! the people want to kill me! a german mercenary. a harlot under a nun's veil! ha-ha-ha! (general laughter.) mårten (making the sign of the cross). a harlot! who dares to bring her into this respectable company? master taverner, take her out of here, or she'll hurt the good name of the place and the sanctity of the church. harlot. will nobody here save me? (in the meantime the tavern-keeper has seized her by the arm to lead her into the street.) don't give me into the hands of that furious mob! i wanted to steal into the lord's house that i might share in his grace--i wanted to start a new life--but the monks drove me out and set the people on me--until father gert came and saved me. mårten. you can hear for yourselves. she has polluted the lord's temple. she wants to hide the garment of shame beneath the veil of sanctity. german. and there isn't enough of the veil. mårten (approaching the woman to tear the veil from her face). off with the mask, and let your abomination be seen by all! (he draws back when he catches sight of her face.) harlot. so it's you, mårten--you murderer! german. old chums! mårten. that's a shameless lie! i never have seen her before. i am brother mårten, of the dominicans, and brother nils here can be my witness. nils (intoxicated). i can testify--that brother mårten has never seen this woman. harlot. and yet it was you, nils, who showed me mårten's letter of absolution when i was driven out of the convent and he was permitted to stay. nils. yes--come to think of it! mårten (in a rage, pulling nils by the sleeve). you're lying--you, too! can't you see he is drunk? german. my dear folks, i can testify that the reverend brother is drunk, and that's why he is lying! crowd (with signs of disgust). a drunken priest! german. well, booze is absolution for lying. isn't that so, father mårten? tavern-keeper. really, i can't let my house be the meeting-place for any kind of disturbance. if this goes on, i'll lose my customers and get hauled before the chapter. won't you please take away that miserable creature who's causing all this noise? mårten. take her out, or i'll have you all banned! don't you know that we are now within the consecrated walls of the church, although the chapter allows this outhouse to be used for the material refreshment of travellers? german. surely this room is holy, good folk, and surely the lord doth dwell here. (the crowd begins to drag the harlot toward the street door.) harlot. jesus christ, help me! [enter olof. he appears in the door, and pushes through the crowd until he reaches the harlot, whose hand he takes so that he can pull her away from the drunken men about her.] olof. answer me--who is this woman? mårten. she's no woman. olof. what do you mean? mårten. she is no man either, although she's disguised. olof. "she," you say--and yet not a woman? mårten. she's a harlot. olof (shocked, drops the woman's hand). a harlot! german. don't let go of her, master olof, or she'll run away. olof. why are you laying hands on her? what is her crime? german. going to church. olof. i see! (he looks around.) mårten. what are you looking for? olof (catching sight of mårten). a priest! mårten. i am a black friar. olof. yes, i guessed that much. so it's you who have incited the people against her? mårten. i am protecting the church from foulness and trying to keep it free of vice. she is a banned woman, who has been trafficking with her own body, which should be a temple of the lord. (the woman kneels before olof.) olof (taking her by the hand). but i, dominican, dare to take her hand and match her against you. she has sold her body, you say--how many souls have you bought?--i am also a priest--nay, i am a man, for i am not presumptuous enough to put a lock on god's own house, and as a sinful human creature i hold out my hand to my fellow-creature, who cannot be pure either. let him who is without sin step forward and cast the first stone.--step forward, brother mårten, you angel of light, who have donned the black garments of innocence and shaved your hair so that no one may see how you have grown gray in sin! or have you no stone ready, perhaps? alas for you, then! what have you done with those you were to hand the people when they were crying for bread? have you already given them all away?--step forward, you highly respectable citizen. (to windrank, who is asleep on the floor.) you, who are sleeping the sleep of a brute, why don't you wake up and fling your knife at her?--do you see how he is blushing? can it be from shame at the bad company you have brought him into, or from carnal desire? (the crowd mutters disapprovingly.) you are muttering! is that because you are ashamed of my words or of yourselves? why don't you cast the stones? oh, you haven't any. well, open that door. summon the people outside and hand this woman over to them. if you don't think fifty men have power enough to tear her to pieces, you maybe sure that five hundred women will avail. well? you are silent?--rise up, woman! you have been acquitted. go and sin no more. but don't show yourself to the priests, for they will deliver you up to the women! mårten (who has tried to interrupt olof several times, but has been held back by the german, now displays a document). this man, to whom you have been listening, is a heretic, as you may have heard from his talk, and he has also been t excommunicated. here you can see! read for yourselves! (he takes one of the candles from the nearest table and throws it on the floor.) "as this candle, that we here cast out, is extinguished, so shall be extinguished all his happiness and weal and whatsoever good may come to him from god!" crowd (draws back, making the sign of the cross, so that olof is left alone with the harlot in the middle of the room). anathema! mårten (to the harlot). there you can hear how much master olof's absolution avails you. olof (who has been taken aback for a moment). do you still dare to trust my word, woman? are you not afraid of me? can you not hear the lightnings of the ban hissing around our heads? why don't you join these twenty righteous ones who still remain within the refuge of holy church?--answer me! do you think the lord has cast me out as these have done? harlot. no! olof (seizing the letter of excommunication). well, then! the great bishop of the small city of linköping has sold my soul to satan for the term of my life--for farther than that his power does not reach--and he has done so because i bade the people seek their lord when they had been prohibited from doing so! here is the contract! as the church, by that contract, has bound me to hell, so i set myself free from it (he tears the letter to pieces)--and from the ban of the church, too! so help me god! amen! crowd (howling). anathema! mårten. down with him! at him! he is banned! olof (placing himself in front of the harlot). do you hear the devils yelling for their victim?--dare not to touch me! mårten. at him! down with him! [just as one of the mercenaries raises his weapon to strike, the iron door in the rear is flung open, and the anabaptists, headed by knipperdollink, come rushing in, uttering wild cries. they carry broken crucifixes and images of saints as well as torn vestments. all those in the room before are forced toward the street door.] knipperdollink (as he pushes back the iron door and enters ahead of the rest). come here, folk--here's another sanctum!--what's this? a drinkshop in the temple!--look ye! look ye--the abomination has gone so far that the tabernacle itself is being polluted. but i will cleanse it with fire. set fire to the church and prepare a stake for the saints! olof (stepping forward). consider what you propose to do! knipperdollink. are you afraid that the beer kegs will burst from the heat, you belial? are you the popish tapster who thought it not robbery to build vice a chapel in the very wall of the church? olof. i am the secretary of the court-house, and i command you in the name of the king to keep order! knipperdollink. so you are the man whom the king has sent here to make war on our sacred cause? onward, onward, ye men of god, and seize him first of all! afterwards we'll cleanse the temple of the lord from idolatry. mårten. go at him, good folk, for he's a heretic and under the ban! knipperdollink. a heretic? you are not one of the papists, then? olof. since they have banned me, i can no longer be of the church. knipperdollink. then you are on our side? (olof remains silent.) answer: are you with us or against us? mårten. he's olof pedersson, the man that was sent here by the king. knipperdollink. are you olof pedersson? olof. i am. knipperdollink. but a heretic? olof. i pride myself on being one. knipperdollink. and yet take service with the king? olof. yes! (the anabaptists raise an outcry and surround olof.) [enter gert quickly through the door in the rear.] gert. hold! what are you doing? knipperdollink. gert!--who is this man? gert. one of our own. let him go, friends! over there you see the emissaries of the devil! (he points to mårten and nils, who flee through the street door, closely pursued by the anabaptists. at the door gert stops and turns toward olof. the harlot is crouching in a corner of the room. windrank is still sleeping under one of the tables. olof is standing in the middle of the floor, sunk in deep thought.) gert (exhausted, throws himself on a bench). it's heavy work, olof. olof. what have you been doing? gert. oh, a little house-cleaning, to begin with. olof. for which you will pay dearly. gert. so far we have the upper hand. the whole city has been roused. rink is at work in st. george's chapel. tell me, has the king sent you to oppose us? olof. he has. gert. that was a most sensible thing to do! olof. to-morrow i am to preach from the new pulpit. gert. do you call this fulfilling your royal mission? here you are, still standing with your arms folded. olof. come to church to-morrow with your brethren. gert. is it going to be an archipapal sermon? olof. i have been put under the ban to-day. gert (jumps up and puts his arms around olof). god bless you, olof! that is indeed the baptism of new birth! olof. i don't understand you yet. why do you carry on like wild beasts? you seem to be outraging all that is held sacred. gert (picking up the broken image of a saint). do you call this fellow holy? a st. nicolaus, i think. can it be possible, then, that jesus christ has come down and lived among us to no purpose, as we are still worshipping logs of wood? can this be a god, which i can break to pieces? see! olof. but he is sacred to the people. gert. so was the golden calf, and so was zeus; so were thor and odin, too. and yet they were struck down. (catches sight of the harlot.) who's that woman? oh, the one i tried to save by sending her in here. tell me one thing, olof. have you been bought by the king? olof. leave me, gert! i hate you! gert. who's that pig asleep over there? olof. when i face you, i seem to shrink. leave me! i want to do my own work, and not yours. gert. listen! olof. you are trying to confuse my fate with your own. gert. listen! olof. you have surrounded me with an invisible net. you have proclaimed me an anabaptist. how am i going to face the king? gert. which king? olof. king gustaf! gert. oh, that one!--well, good-bye, then, olof.--so you're going to preach to-morrow?--why doesn't that woman go her way?--good-bye! [exit.] olof. is that man running errands for god or for satan? harlot (approaches olof and kneels before him). let me thank you! olof. give thanks for god alone for having saved your soul, and don't think that all your sins have been expiated to-day. try to find strength to live a life that will always be cursed. god has forgiven you--your fellow-men will never do so! (he takes her by the hand and leads her to the street door.) [enter mårten through the doorway in the rear, followed by olof's mother and christine, the daughter of gert.] mårten. we're in the wrong place, i fear. mother (outraged at seeing olof and the harlot together). olof, olof! christine. who is that woman? she looks so unhappy. mårten. let us get away from this den of iniquity! olof (turning and running toward the iron door, which is closed in his face by mårten). mother! mother! [he runs out through the other door.] (the stage is darkened.) scene 2 (the same room. the door to the church is opened cautiously, and the sexton, who is also the organ-blower, enters warily. he carries a lantern and is followed by his wife.) sexton. catherine dear, will you hold the lantern a moment while i put on the padlock? wife. first we must have a look at all this wretchedness, bengt dear. never could i have believed that the public-house was so near to us. it's perfectly dreadful! look--whole barrels full of beer! sexton. and gin, too. don't you smell it? it will give me a headache if i stay much longer. wife. lord have mercy, what a sinful life they must have lived in here! sexton. catherine dear! wife. yes, dear. sexton. do you know i am not feeling quite well. this place is so damp and cold. wife. perhaps we had better go home? sexton. oh, i think i must sit down and rest on the bench here. wife. you shouldn't sit down in all this dampness and cold. let us get back into the church. sexton. no, i think it was still colder out there. wife. you haven't a fever, have you? sexton. i almost think i have--i'm so hot. wife. maybe you want something to drink? sexton. that wouldn't be a bad thing, perhaps. wife. i'll see if there is any water around. sexton. don't think you'll find any in this kind of a hole. wife. but you can't drink beer if you have a fever. sexton. do you know, i think the fever has passed away. now i'm feeling cold. wife. i'll see if i can't find some small beer. sexton. it has to be pretty strong, i think, if it's to do any good. there's a keg of rostock no. 4 over there--marked a. w., don't you see? wife (searching). i can't find it. here's an amsterdam no. 3. sexton. can't you see--up there on the fourth shelf at the right? (his wife continues to look.) the tap is lying to the left of it, right by the funnel. wife. i don't think it's there. sexton. just as if i didn't know! wife. yes, here it is. (the sexton gets up to help his wile and accidentally steps on windrank.) windrank (waking up). mercy! jesu christ! st. peter and st. paul! ferdinand and isabella, and st. george and the dragon, and all the rest! and ires dire glories in excellence, and deuces tecum vademecum christ jesu, and birds of a feather, and now i lay me down to sleep, and a child is born for you to keep--amen! amen!--who's stepping on my windbag? sexton (frightened). will you please tell me whether you are a man or a ghost? windrank. man most of the time, but just now i'm a beast. sexton. what kind of a man, if i may ask? windrank. a shipman--which is nor reason why you should blow all the wind out of me. sexton. but that's my business, you know--i blow the bellows of the big organ. windrank. so it was the organ-blower who honored me-sexton. the sexton, to put it right; but i also keep an old-clothes shop in the church wall. windrank. so you're organ-blower, sexton, and shopkeeper-sexton. in one person--without confusion or transformation-windrank. that's a most respectable trinity. sexton. such things should not be made fun of! windrank. oh, my, my! i'm drowning! help! sexton. lord, what is it? windrank. there's a whole river coming--ugh! sexton. catherine dear! where are you, my angel? (he runs to look for her.) jesu, but you must have scared my wife out of her wits. she has run away from the keg--and taken the tap along! get up--up with you, and let us leave this godless hole! windrank. no, my dear fellow, i'm in my element now, so i think i'll stay. sexton. goodness, the clock is striking twelve, and the ghosts will be coming! windrank (jumping to his feet). that's a different story! (the sexton guides windrank toward the door.) listen, sexton--i'm beginning to have strong doubts about the trinity. sexton. well, i declare! windrank. it's your trinity i'm thinking of. sexton. what do you mean, master skipper? windrank. i think there must be four of you, after all. sexton. four--of whom? windrank. how about the tapster? shouldn't he be counted, too? sexton. hush, man! that's only nights. (both stumble over the broken image of st. nicolaus and fall down.) windrank. mercy! ghosts! jesu maria, help! sexton (rising and picking up the image). well, if that isn't enough to make your hair stand on end! here's st. nicolaus broken all to pieces and swimming in the beer. it has come to a fine pass when divine things are defiled like that--i don't think the world will last much longer--when such things can be done in the dry tree-windrank (having recovered). in the wet one, you mean. sexton. keep still, blasphemer! st. nicolaus is my patron saint. i was born on his day. windrank. that's probably why both of you like beer. sexton. yes, it's in the fashion now to be heretical! windrank. it's in the air, i think, for otherwise i'm a most god-fearing man. but never mind, i'll have st. nicolaus glued together for you. sexton (calling into the church). catherine! windrank. hush, hush, man! you'll make the ghosts appear! sexton. a plague on your tongue! [exeunt.] scene 3 (the sacristy of the church of st. nicolaus. there is a door leading to the church, and another, smaller one, leading to the pulpit. the walls are hung with chasubles and surplices. priedieus and a few small chests are standing about. the sunlight is pouring in through a window. the church bells are heard ringing. through the wall at the left can be heard a constant murmuring. the sexton and his wife enter, stop near the door, and pray silently.) sexton. that's enough! now, catherine dear, you'd better hurry up and do some dusting. wife. oh, there's no special occasion. it's nobody but that master olof who's going to preach to-day. really, i can't see why the chapter allows it. sexton. because he's got permission from the king, you see. wife. well, well! sexton. and then he has had a sort of basket built out from the wall--nothing but new-fangled tricks! it's all on account of that man luther. wife. i suppose we'll have the same kind of trouble that we had yesterday. i thought they were going to pull the whole church down. sexton (carrying a glass of water up to the pulpit). i'm sure the poor fellow will need something to wet his whistle to-day. wife. well, i shouldn't bother, if i were you. sexton (speaking from the pulpit). catherine--here he comes! wife. goodness gracious, and the sermon bell hasn't rung yet! well, i suppose they won't ring it for a fellow like him. [enter olof, looking serious and solemn. he crosses to one of the prie-dieus and kneels on it. the sexton comes down from the pulpit and takes from the wall a surplice which he holds out to olof.] olof (rising). the peace of the lord be with you! [the wife curtseys and leaves the room. the sexton holds out the vestment again.] olof. leave it hanging! sexton. don't you want any robe? olof. no. sexton. but it's always used. and the handkerchief? olof. never mind. sexton. well, i declare! olof. will you please leave me alone, my friend? sexton. you want me to get out? but as a rule, i-olof. do me the favor, please! sexton. oh, well! of course! but first i want to tell you that you'll find the missal to the right of you as you get up, and i have put in a stick so you'll know where to open it, and there is a glass of water beside the book. and you mustn't forget to turn the hour-glass, or it may chance you'll keep it up a little too long-olof. don't worry! there will be plenty of people to tell me when to quit. sexton. mercy, yes--beg your pardon! but you see, we've got our own customs here. olof. tell me, what is that depressing murmur we hear? sexton. it's some pious brother saying prayers for a poor soul. [exit.] olof. "thou therefore gird up thy loins and arise, and speak unto them all that i command thee."--god help me! (he drops on his knees at a prie-dieu; there he finds a note, which he reads.) "don't preach to-day; your life is in danger."--the tempter himself wrote that! (he tears the note to pieces.) [enter olof's mother.] mother. you are straying from the right path, my son. olof. who knows? mother. i know! but as your mother i reach out my hand to you. turn back! olof. where would you lead me? mother. to godliness and virtue. olof. if godliness and virtue are vested in papal decrees, then i fear it is too late. mother. it isn't only a question of what you teach, but of how you live. olof. i know you are thinking of my company last night, but i am too proud to answer you. nor do i think it would do any good. mother. oh, that i should be thus rewarded for the sacrifice i made when i let you go out into the world and study! olof. by heaven, your sacrifice shall not be wasted! it is you, mother, i have to thank for this day when at last i can stand forth with a free countenance and speak the words of truth. mother. how can _you_ talk of truth, you who have made yourself a prophet of lies? olof. those are hard words, mother! mother. or perhaps i and my forbears have lived and worshipped and died in a lie? olof. it wasn't a lie, but it has become one. when you were young, mother, you were right, and when i grow old--well, perhaps i may find myself in the wrong. one cannot keep apace with the times. mother. i don't understand! olof. this is my one sorrow--the greatest one of my life: that all i do and say with the purest purpose must appear to you a crime and sacrilege. mother. i know what you mean to do, olof--i know what error you have fallen into--and i cannot hope to persuade you out of it, for you know so much more than i do, and i am sure that the lord will put you on the right path again--but i ask you to take care of your own life, so that you won't plunge headlong into perdition! don't risk your life! olof. what do you mean? they won't kill me in the pulpit, will they? mother. haven't you heard that bishop brask wants the pope to introduce the law that sends all heretics to the stake? olof. the inquisition? mother. yes, that's what they call it. olof. leave me, mother! to-day i must stand up and preach. mother. you shall not do it. olof. nothing can prevent me. mother. i have prayed to god that he would touch your heart--i'll tell you, but you mustn't speak of it to anybody. i am weak with age, and i couldn't trust my own knees, so i went to see a servant of the lord and asked him, who is nearer to god, to say some prayers for your soul. he refused because you are under the ban. oh, it's dreadful! may the lord forgive me my sin! i bribed the pure conscience of that man with gold--with the devil's own gold--just to save you! olof. mother, what do i hear? it can't be possible! mother (takes olof by the hand and leads him over to the left, close to the wall). listen! do you hear? he is praying for you now in the chapel next to this room. olof. so that was the murmur i heard! who is he? mother. you know him--brother mårten, of the dominicans-olof. you get satan to say prayers for me!--forgive me, mother--i thank you for your good intention, but-mother (on her knees, weeping). olof! olof! olof. don't ask me! a mother's plea might tempt the angels of heaven to recant!--now the hymn is ended: i must go! the people are waiting. mother. you'll send me into my grave, olof! olof (passionately). the lord will resurrect you! (kissing her hand.) don't talk to me any more--i don't know what i am saying! mother. listen! listen! the people are muttering! olof. i'm coming! i'm coming! he who protected daniel in the lions' den will also protect me! (olof ascends the stairs leading to the pulpit. throughout the ensuing scenes a man's voice can be heard speaking with great power, but no words can be distinguished. after a while mutterings are heard, which change into loud cries.) [enter christine.] christine. mother, did you see him? mother. are you here, child? i asked you to stay at home! christine. why shouldn't i visit the house of the lord? there is something you hide from me! mother. go home, christine! christine. may i not hear olof preach? it's the word of god, isn't it, mother? (the mother remains silent.) you don't answer? what does it mean? hasn't olof permission to preach? why do the people out there look so mysterious? they were muttering when i came. mother. don't ask me! go home and thank god for your ignorance! christine. am i a child, then, since nobody dares to tell me-mother. your soul is still pure, and nobody must defile it. what place is there for you in the battle? christine. battle? i thought so! mother. yes, here the battle rages, and so you must get out of the way. you know our lot when the men go to war. christine. but let me first know what it is all about. not to know anything at all makes me so unhappy. i see nothing but a dreadful darkness, and shadows that are moving about--give me light, so that i may see clearly! perhaps i know these ghostly shallows? mother. you will shudder when you see who they are. christine. it is better to shudder than to be tormented by this horrible calm. mother. don't pray for the cloud to flash forth lightning: it may destroy you! christine. you frighten me! but tell me the truth--i must know--or i shall ask some one else. mother. are you firm in your decision to withdraw within the sacred walls of the convent? christine. my father wishes it. mother. you hesitate? (christine does not answer.) there is some tie that holds you back. christine. you know? mother. i know, and tell you to break it! christine. it will soon be impossible. mother. i will save you, child, for you can still be saved. i will offer the lord the greatest sacrifice of all if a single soul can be saved from perdition--my son! christine. olof? mother. he's lost, i tell you, and i, his mother, have to tell you so! christine. lost? mother. he is a prophet of lies. the devil has taken possession of his soul. christine (passionately). it isn't true! mother. god grant that you are right! christine. why--why haven't you told me this before?--but, of course, it's a lie! (she goes to the door leading into the church and pushes it ajar.) look at him, mother--there he is! can that be an evil spirit speaking out of his mouth? can that be a hellish flame burning in his eyes? can lies be told with trembling lips? does darkness shed light--can't you see the halo about his head? you are wrong! i feel it within me! i don't know what he preaches--i don't know what he denies--but he is right! he is right, and the lord is with him! mother. you don't know the world, my child. you don't know the tricks of the devil. beware! (she pulls christine away from the door.) you mustn't listen to him. there is no strength in your soul, and he's the apostle of antichrist! christine. who is antichrist? mother. he is a luther! christine. you have never told me who luther is, but if olof is his apostle, then luther must be a great man. mother. luther is possessed of the devil! christine. why didn't you tell me before? now i can't believe you! mother. i am telling you now--alas, i wanted to save you from the world's wickedness, and so i kept you in ignorance-christine. i don't believe you! let me go! i must see him--i must listen to him--for he doesn't talk like the rest. mother. jesus, my saviour! are you, too, possessed by the unclean spirit? christine (at the door). "bind not the souls," he said--did you hear? "you are free, for the lord has set you free." see how the people shudder at his words--now they rise up--they mutter. "you want no freedom--woe unto you! for that is the sin against the holy ghost!" [enter sexton.] sexton. i don't think it's well for you to stay here any longer, my good ladies. the people are getting restless. this will never end well for master olof. mother. jesu maria! what are you saying? christine. fear not! the spirit of the lord is with him! sexton. well, i don't know about that, but he's a wonder at preaching. old sinner that i am, i couldn't keep from crying where i was sitting in the organ-loft. i don't understand how it can be possible for a heretic and an antichrist to talk like that. that man luther, i must say, i--(cries are heard from the church.) there, there! now something dreadful is going to happen again! and to think that the king should be gone just now! mother. let us get away from here. if the lord is with him, they can do him no harm. if it be the devil--then thy will be done, o lord--but forgive him! (cries are heard outside. exeunt the mother, christine, and the sexton. for a few moments the stage stands empty and olof's voice is heard more clearly than before. it is interrupted by cries and the rattling of stones thrown at the pulpit. christine returns alone, locks the door on the inside, and falls on her knees at a prie-dieu. a number of violent blows are directed against the door from without, while the tumult in the church continues to increase. then silence is restored, as olof descends from the pulpit. his forehead is bleeding and he wears a haggard look.) olof (dropping into a chair without perceiving christine). in vain! they will not! i take the fetters from the prisoner, and he hits me. i tell him he is free, and he doesn't believe me. is that word "free" so big, then, that it can't be contained in a human brain? oh, that i had one at least who believed--but to be alone--a fool whom no one understands-christine (coming forward). i believe in you, olof! olof. christine! christine. _you_ are right! olof. how do you know? christine. i can't tell, but i believe it. i have been listening to you. olof. and you do not curse me? christine. you are preaching the word of god, are you not? olof. i am! christine. why have we not been told these things before? or why have they been told us in a language that we do not understand? olof. who has put those words into your mouth, girl? christine. who? i haven't thought of asking. olof. your father? christine. he wants me to enter a convent. olof. has it come to that? and what is your own wish? christine (catching sight of olof's bleeding forehead). they have hurt you, olof! for heaven's sake, let me help you! olof (sitting down again). have i unsettled your faith, christine? christine (takes the handkerchief, tears it into strips, and begins to dress olof's wounds while speaking). my faith? i don't understand you.--tell me, who is luther? olof. i mustn't tell you. christine. always the same answer! from my father, from your mother, and from yourself. are you timid about telling me the truth, or is the truth really dangerous? olof. truth is dangerous. can't you see? (he points to his forehead.) christine. so you want me to be shut up in a convent cell to live a lifeless life in ignorance? (olof does not reply.) you want me to weep away my life and my youth, and to keep on saying those endlessly long prayers until my soul is put to sleep? no--i won't do it, for now i am awake. all around me they are fighting, and suffering, and despairing. i have seen it, but i was to have no share in it. i was not even to look on, or to know the purpose of the fighting. you wanted me to be sunk in bestial slumber. but don't you believe me possessed of a soul, then--a soul that cannot be satisfied by bread or by dry prayers put into my mouth by others? "bind not the spirits," you said. oh, if you could only know how that word pierced me! daylight came, and those wild cries out there sounded like the singing of birds in the morning-olof. you are a woman, christine, and not born to fight! christine. but in the name of god, let me suffer, then! only not be asleep! don't you see that the lord has awakened me in spite of all? you have never dared to tell me who antichrist was. you have never dared to tell me who luther was, and when your mother called you a luther, i blessed luther. if he be a heretic or a believer, i don't know, and i don't care; for no one--whether it be luther, or the pope, or antichrist-can satisfy my immortal soul when i have no faith in the eternal god. olof. will you follow me into the battle, christine? for you can sustain me, and you only! christine. now i am able to answer you with a frank "yes," for i know my own will--and i can do so without asking father first, for i am free. oh, i am free! olof. and do you know what is in store for you? christine. i know! you will not have to shatter my mocking dreams--they are already gone. but you may be sure that i, too, have been dreaming of a knight who was to lay a kingdom at my feet and talk to me of flowers and love--olof, i want to be your wife! here is my hand! but this much i must tell you: that you never have been the knight of my dreams, and that i thank god he never came. for then he had also gone--as a dream. olof. christine, you want to be mine--and i will make you happy. for when i suffered sorrow and temptation, you were always in my mind--and now you shall be at my side! you were the maiden of my dreams, kept captive in a tower by the stern castellan--and now you are mine! christine. beware of dreams, olof! (blows are heard on the door from outside.) olof. who is that? voice (outside). gert. olof. what will he say? my promise-christine. are you afraid? shall i open? (olof opens the door.) [enter gert.] gert (starting at the sight of his daughter and olof). christine?--you have broken your promise, olof! olof. i have not. gert. you lie! you have stolen my child, my one solace. christine. olof is not lying. gert. you have been to church, christine? christine. i have heard what you didn't want me to hear. gert. o lord, this only joy thou hast begrudged me! olof. the stream that you wanted to set free takes its victims where it can. gert. you have robbed me of her, of my child! olof. give her to me, father gert! gert. never! olof. is she not free? gert. she is my child. olof. are you not preaching freedom? she is mine! the lord has given her to me, and you cannot take her away. gert. you are--thank god--a priest. olof and christine. a priest! gert. and as such you cannot marry. olof. and if i do? gert. you would dare? olof. i would. gert. do you want a man who is under the ban, christine? christine. i don't know what that means. olof. there you see, gert, there you see! gert. thy punishment is harsh, o lord! olof. the truth is for all. gert. your love is greater than mine, which was nothing but selfishness. god bless you! now i stand alone! (he embraces them.) there, now! go home, christine, and set their minds at rest. i want to speak to olof. (exit christine.) now you belong to me. olof. what do you mean? gert. kinsman!--you got my letter? olof. it was you who advised me not to preach? gert. quite the contrary, although i expressed myself somewhat strangely. olof. i don't understand. gert. no--no! you are still too young, and so you need a providence. to a man like you one says "let be" when one wants him to do something. olof. why were you and your followers not in church? gert. none but the sick need doctors. we were busy elsewhere. you have done a good piece of work to-day, and i see that you have got your reward for it. i have set you free to-day, olof. olof. _you_ have? gert. the king commanded you to quiet the rebellious, and what have you been doing? olof. now i begin to understand you, father gert. gert. i am delighted! yes, you have aroused even the calmest. olof. so i have. gert. what do you think the king will say to that? olof. i shall have to face it. gert. good! olof. the king will approve my actions, for he wants a reformation, although he does not yet dare to start one himself. gert. you idiot! olof. i see that you want to set me against my lawful sovereign. gert. tell me, how many masters do you think you can serve? (olof makes no reply.) the king is here. olof. what do you say? gert. the king has just returned. olof. and the anabaptists? gert. locked up, of course. olof. and you stand here so calmly? gert. i am old now. once i used to rage like you, but it only tired me out. rink and knipperdollink have served as my outposts. they had to fall, that's plain; now my work begins. (drum-beats are heard from the street.) olof. what is that? gert. the royal drums that keep the captives company to prison. come here and see! olof (mounting one of the benches and looking out of the window). what do i see? women and children are dragged along by the soldiers! gert. well, they have been throwing stones at the king's guard. do you think such things can be allowed? olof. but are madmen and sick people to be put into prison? gert. there are two kinds of madmen. one kind is sent to the hospital and treated with pills and cold baths. those of the other kind have their heads cut off. it is a radical treatment, but then, for a fact, they are rather dangerous. olof. i'll go to the king. he cannot wish such dreadful things to happen. gert. take care of your head, olof! olof. take care of your own, father gert! gert. no danger in my case, for i have a warrant for the asylum. olof. i cannot bear to see these things. i am going to the king, even if it cost my life. (he goes toward the door.) gert. this is a matter not to be settled by the king. you should appeal to the law. olof. the king is the law! gert. unfortunately!--if the horse knew his own strength, he would never be mad enough, as he is now, to bear the yoke. but when once in a while he gets his reason back and runs away from his oppressors, then they call him mad--let us pray the lord to give these poor creatures their reason back! act iii scene 1 (a hall in the royal palace at stockholm. in the background is a gallery which can be partitioned off by curtains. in elderly servant of the palace is pacing back and forth in the gallery.) enter olof. olof. is the king receiving to-day? servant. yes. olof. can you tell me why i have been kept waiting here in vain four days at a stretch? servant. no, heavens, i know nothing at all. olof. it seems strange that i have not been admitted. servant. what is it about? olof. that's none of your concern! servant. of course not! i understand that, but i thought i might be able to give some information, perhaps. olof. have you charge of the king's audiences? servant. oh, heavens, no! but you see, when a man hears as much as i do, he knows a little of everything. (pause.) olof. do you think i shall have to wait long? (the servant pretends not to hear.) do you know if the king is coming soon? servant (with his back turned to olof). what? olof. do you know to whom you are talking? servant. no, i don't. olof. i am the king's secretary. servant. oh, mercy, are you master olof? i knew your father, peter the smith, for i am also from örebro. olof. well, can't you be civil in spite of that? servant. well, well! that's what happens when one gets on a little in this world--then one's humble parents are forgotten. olof. it is possible that my father actually honored you with his acquaintance, but i doubt that he put you in a parent's place to me when he died. servant. well, well! i declare! it must be hard on dame christine! [exit to the left.] [olof is left alone for a while. then lars siggesson, the lord high constable, enters from the right.] constable (throwing his cloak to olof without looking at him). will the king be here soon? olof (catching the cloak and throwing it on the floor). i do not know! constable. bring me a chair. olof. that's not my office. constable. i am not familiar with the instructions of the doorkeeper. olof. i am no doorkeeper! constable. i don't care what you are, and i don't carry with me a list of the menials, but you will have to be civil! (olof remains silent.) well, what about it? i think the devil has got into you! olof. pardon me, but it is no part of my duty as secretary to wait on anybody. constable. what? oh, master olof! why, first you sit at the door playing lackey, and then you drop the mask and step forth as the lord himself! and i took you to be a proud man. (he picks up his cloak and places it on a bench.) olof. my lord constable! constable. but, no, you are only a vain upstart! please step forward and be seated, mr. secretary. [he points olof to a seat and goes out into one of the side-rooms.] [olof sits down. a young courtier enters through the gallery and salutes olof.] courtier. good morning, secretary! is nobody here yet? well, how is everything in stockholm? i have just arrived from malmö. olof. oh, everything is going wrong here. courtier. so i have heard. the mob has been muttering as usual whenever the king's back is turned. and then there are those fool priests!--i beg your pardon, secretary, but, of course, you are a freethinker? olof. i don't quite understand. courtier. don't mind me, please. you see, i have been educated in paris. francis the first--o saint-sauveur!--that's a man who has extreme views. do you know what he told me at a bal masqué during the last carnival? (olof remains silent.) "monsieur," he said, "la religion est morte, est morte," he said. which didn't keep him from attending mass. olof. is that so? courtier. do you know what he replied when i asked him why he did so?--"poetry! poetry!" he said. oh, he is divine! olof. what did you answer? courtier. "your majesty," i said--in french, of course--"fortunate the land that has a king who can look so far beyond the narrow horizon of his own time that he perceives what the spirit of the age demands, without trying to urge the masses to embrace that higher view of life for which they will not be ready for many centuries to come!" wasn't that pretty clever? olof. oh, yes, but i think it must have lost a great deal in being translated. things of that kind should be spoken in french. courtier (preoccupied). you are quite right.--tell me--your _fortune_ ought to be assured--you are so far in advance of your time? olof. i fear i shall not get very far. my education was neglected, unfortunately--i studied in germany, as you may know--and the germans are not beyond religion yet. courtier. indeed, indeed! can you tell me why they are making such a hubbub about that reformation down there in germany? luther is a man of enlightenment--i know it--i believe it--but why shouldn't he keep it to himself, or at least not waste any sparks of light on the brutish herd to which they can be nothing but so many pearls thrown to the swine. if you let your eye survey the time we are living in--if you make some effort to follow the great currents of thought--then you will easily perceive the cause of that disturbed equilibrium which is now making itself felt in all the great civilized countries; i am not talking of sweden, of course, which is not a civilized country. can you name the centre of gravity--that centre which cannot be disturbed without everything going to pieces--the instability of which tends to upset everything? the name of it is--the nobility. the nobility is the thinking principle. the feudal system is falling--and that means the world. erudition is in decay. civilization is dying. yes, indeed--you don't believe that? but if you have any historical outlook at all, you can see that it is so. the nobility started the crusades. the nobility has done this and that and everything. why is germany being torn to pieces? because the peasantry has risen against the nobility, thus cutting off its own head. why is france safe--la france? because france is one with the nobility, and the nobility is one with france--because those two ideas are identical, inseparable. and why, i ask again, is sweden at present shaken to its nethermost foundations? because the nobility has been crushed. christian the second was a man of genius. he knew how to conquer a country. he didn't cut off a leg or an arm--nay, he cut off the head. well, then! sweden must be saved, and the king knows how. the nobility is to be restored, and the church is to be crushed. what do you say to that? olof (rising). nothing! (pause.) you are a freethinker? courtier. of course! olof. you don't believe, then, that balaam's ass could talk? courtier. gracious, no! olof. but i do. courtier. really? [enter lars andersson.] lars andersson. the peace of the lord be with you, olof. olof (embracing him). well met, lars! courtier. populace! [exit.] lars. well, how do you like living here? olof. it's so close! lars. somewhat! olof. and no room overhead. lars. that's why they find it so hard to keep their backs straight. olof. in ten minutes i have become so much of a courtier that i know how to be silent when an ass is talking. lars. there is no harm in that. olof. what does the king think? lars. he doesn't tell. (a number of people have begun to gather in the hall.) olof. how does he look? lars. like an interrogation point followed by several exclamation marks. [enter bishop brask. all give way before him. the lord high constable, who has returned in the meantime, goes to meet him and exchanges greetings with him. olof salutes the bishop, who looks surprised.] brask (to the constable). is this a place for the clerks? constable. it ought not to be, but our king is so very gracious. brask. condescending, you mean? constable. exactly. brask. the audience is well attended to-day. constable. mostly formal calls occasioned by the happy return of his highness. brask. it is a pleasure, my lord constable, to offer his highness our sincere felicitations on the happy solution of this question. constable. it is indeed courteous in your grace to incur the trouble of such a long journey--especially at your grace's advanced age. brask. unfortunately, my health is not always to be depended upon. constable. is your grace not enjoying good health? it is hard to feel one's strength failing, particularly for one who occupies such an exalted and responsible position. brask. you look very well, my lord constable. constable. yes, thank god! (pause.) brask (seating himself). don't you think there is a draught here, my lord? constable. it seems so. perhaps we might order the doors to be closed? brask. no, thank you, that will not be necessary. (pause.) constable. the king is long in coming. brask. yes. constable. perhaps you won't find it worth your while to wait for him. brask. perhaps not! constable. with your permission, i will send word to your grace's servants. brask. as i have waited so long, i think i shall wait a little longer. (pause.) servant. his highness! [enter gustaf.] gustaf. i bid you welcome, gentlemen. (he takes a seat at a table.) if you will please step out into the antechamber, i will receive you one at a time. (all retire except bishop brask.) our lord constable will stay. brask. your highness! gustaf (raising his voice). sir lars! (brask goes out, the constable remaining; pause.) speak! what am i to do? constable. your highness, the state has lost its prop, and therefore it is toppling over; the state has an enemy that has grown too strong for it. restore the prop, which is the nobility, and crush the enemy, which is the church! gustaf. i dare not! constable. you must, your highness! gustaf. what's that? constable. first of all: brask is in correspondence with the pope to have the inquisition established here. lübeck is insisting on her shameless demands and threatens war. the treasury is empty. there is rebellion in every nook and corner of the country-gustaf. that's enough! but i have the people with me. constable. i beg your pardon--you have not. there are the dalecarlians, for instance--a spoiled lot, always disputing with those of lübeck about the honor of having bestowed a king on sweden. they are ready to rebel on the slightest occasion, and they are coming forward with demands like these: "there shall be no outlandish customs used, with slittered and motley colored clothes, such as have of late been brought into the king's court." gustaf. 'sdeath! constable. "whosoever eats meat on fridays or saturdays shall be burned at the stake or otherwise made away with." and furthermore, "there shall be no new faith or lutheran teachings foisted upon us." what a treacherous, impudent people! gustaf. and yet there was a time when they showed themselves to be men. constable. well, what wonder if they carried water when their house was afire? how many times have they broken troth and faith? but they have so often heard themselves lauded that they have come to give the name of "old swedish honesty" to their own brute arrogance. gustaf. you belong to the nobility! constable. yes, and it is my conviction that the peasant has played out his part--the part of a crude force needed to drive away the enemy by sheer strength of arm. crush the church, your highness, for it is keeping the people in fetters. seize the gold of the church and pay the country's debt--and give back to the reduced nobility what the church has obtained from it by dupery. gustaf. call in brask. constable. your highness! gustaf. call bishop brask! [exit the constable.] [enter bishop brask.] gustaf. speak, your grace! brask. i wish to offer our congratulations on-gustaf. i thank your grace! and what more? brask. there have been complaints from several districts, i am sorry to say, about unpaid loans of silver exacted from the churches by your highness. gustaf. which you now are trying to recover. are all the chalices actually needed for communion? brask. they are. gustaf let them use pewter mugs, then. brask. your highness! gustaf. anything more? brask. what is worse than anything else--all this heresy! gustaf. no concern of mine! i am not the pope. brask. i have to warn your highness that the church must look out for her own rights, even if doing so should bring her into conflict-gustaf. with whom? brask. with the state. gustaf. your church can go to the devil! there, i have said it! brask. i knew it. gustaf. and you were only waiting for me to say so? brask. exactly. gustaf. take care! you travel with a following of two hundred men, and you eat from silver, when the people are living on bark. brask. your highness takes too narrow a view of the matter. gustaf. have you heard of luther? you are a well-informed man. what kind of a phenomenon is he? what have you to say of the movements that are now spreading throughout europe? brask. progress backward! luther is merely destined to serve as a purging fire for what is ancient, descended from untold ages and well tried, so that it may be cleansed and by the struggle urged on to greater victories. gustaf. i care nothing for your learned arguments. brask. but your highness is extending protection to criminals and interfering with the privileges of the church; for the church has been grievously wronged by master olof. gustaf. well, put him under the ban. brask. it has been done, and yet he remains in the service of your highness. gustaf. what more do you want done to him? tell me? (pause.) brask. furthermore, he has gone so far as to marry secretly in violation of the canon law. gustaf. is that so? that's quick action. brask. it doesn't concern your highness? good and well! but if he stirs up the people? gustaf. then i'll step in. anything more? brask (after a pause). i ask you for heaven's sake not to plunge the country into disaster again. it is not yet ripe for a new faith. we are but reeds in the wind and can be bent--but when it comes to the faith, or the church--never! gustaf (holding out his hand to the bishop). maybe you are right! but let us be enemies rather than false friends, bishop hans! brask. be it so! but do not do what you will regret. every stone you tear out of the church will be thrown at you by the people. gustaf. don't force me to extremes, your grace, for then we shall have the same horrible spectacle here as in germany. for the last time: are you willing to make concessions if the welfare of the country is at stake? brask. the church-gustaf. the church comes first--very well! good-bye! [exit brask. reënter the constable.] gustaf. the bishop has confirmed your statement, and that was what i wanted him to do. now we shall need stone-masons who know how to tear down. the walls will be left, the cross may stay on the roof and the bell in the tower, but i will clear out the vaults. one must begin at the bottom! constable. the people will think you are taking away their faith. they will have to be educated. gustaf. we'll send master olof to preach to them. constable. master olof is a dangerous man. gustaf. but needed just now. constable. he has carried on like the anabaptists instead of opposing them. gustaf. i know. we'll get to that later on. send him in. constable. lars the chancellor would be a better man. gustaf. bring them both in. constable. or olof's brother, lars pedersson. gustaf. no good yet. he is too soft for fighting, but his time will come, too. [exit constable.] the constable returns with master olof and lars andersson. gustaf (to the chancellor). do you want to help me, lars? lars. you are thinking of the church? gustaf. yes, it will have to be torn down. lars. i am not the man for that. your majesty had better ask master olof. gustaf. you won't, then? lars. i can't! but i have a weapon for you. (he hands the new translation of the bible to the king.) gustaf. holy writ! a good weapon, indeed! will you wield it, olof? olof. with the help of god--yes! gustaf (to olof, after having signalled to lars to leave). have you calmed down yet, olof? (olof does not answer). i gave you four days to think it over. how have you been carrying out your task? olof (impetuously). i have spoken to the people-gustaf. still in a fever! and you mean to defend those madmen named anabaptists? olof (bravely). i do! gustaf. steady!--you have married in a hurry? olof. i have. gustaf. you are under the ban? olof. i am. gustaf. and still as brave as ever! if you were sent to the gallows as a rebel with the rest, what would you say then? olof. i should regret not being permitted to finish my task, but i should thank the lord for having been allowed to do what i have done. gustaf. that's good! would you dare to go up to that old owl's-nest upsala and tell its learned men that the pope is not god and that he has nothing to do with sweden? olof. only that? gustaf. will you tell them that the only word of god is the bible? olof. must that be all? gustaf. you are not to mention the name of luther! olof (after some hesitation). then i will not go. gustaf. would you rather go to your death? olof. no, but i know that my sovereign needs me. gustaf. it isn't noble to take advantage of my misfortune, olof. well, say anything; you please, but you will have to pardon me if i take back a part of it afterwards. olof. truth isn't sold by the yard. gustaf. 'sdeath! (changing tone.) well, suit yourself! olof (kneeling). then i may say all that is in my mind? gustaf. you may. olof. then, if i can only throw a single spark of doubt into the soul of this sleeping people, my life will not have been wasted.--it is to be a reformation, then? gustaf (after a pause). yes. (pause.) olof (timidly). and what is to become of the anabaptists? gustaf. need you ask? they must die. olof. will your highness permit me one more question? gustaf. tell me: what do those madmen want? olof. the sad thing is that they do not know it themselves, and if i were to tell you-gustaf. speak out! [gert enters quickly, pretending to be insane.] gustaf. who are you to dare intrude here? gert. i want most humbly to beseech your highness to attest the correctness of this document. gustaf. wait till you are called. gert. of course, i should like to, but the guards won't wait for me. i escaped from prison, you see, because my place wasn't there. gustaf. are you one of those anabaptists? gert. yes, i happened to get mixed up with them, but here i have a certificate proving that i belong to the asylum, the third department for incurables, cell number seven. gustaf (to olof). send word to the guard. gert. that isn't necessary, for i want nothing but justice, and it's something the guard doesn't handle. gustaf (looking hard at gert). i suppose you have had a share in those outrages in the city churches? gert. of course, i have! no sane person could behave so madly. we wanted only to make a few minor alterations in the style. they seemed too low in the ceiling. gustaf. what do you really want? gert. oh, we want a great deal, although we haven't got through with one-half of it yet. yes, we want so many things and we want them so quickly, that our reason cannot keep pace with them, and that's why it has been lagging behind a little. yes, we wish among other things to change the furnishings a little in the churches, and to remove the windows because the air seems so musty. yes, and there is a lot more we want, but that will have to wait for a while. gustaf (to olof). that's a perilous disease--for anything else it cannot be. olof. who knows? gustaf. now i am tired. you'll have a fortnight in which to get ready. your hand that you will help me! olof. i will do my part. gustaf. give orders to have rink and knipperdollink sent to malmö. olof. and then? gustaf. they'll have a chance to escape. that fool over there you can send back to the asylum. farewell! [exit.] gert (shaking his clenched fist after gustaf). well, are we going? olof. where? gert. home. (olof remains silent.) you don't wish to send your father-in-law to the madhouse, do you, olof? olof. you ask me what i wish--how about my duty? gert. is there no duty above the royal command? olof. are you beginning again? gert. what will christine say if you put her father among madmen? olof. tempt me not! gert. do you see how difficult it is to serve the king? (olof does not answer.) i won't make you unhappy, my poor boy. here's balm for your conscience. (he takes out a document.) olof. what is it? gert. a certificate of health. you see, it is necessary to be a madman among sane people, and sane among mad men. olof. how did you get it? gert. don't you think i deserve it? olof. i can't tell. gert. true enough: you don't yet dare. [enter servant.] servant. will you please go your way. they 're about to sweep. gert. perhaps the place has to be aired, too? servant. yes, indeed! gert. don't forget to open the windows. servant. no, you may be sure, and it's needed, too, for we are not accustomed to this kind of company. gert. look here, old man--i carry a greeting from your father. servant. oh, you do? gert. perhaps you never knew him? servant. why, certainly! gert. do you know what he said? servant. no. gert. wet the broom, he said, or you'll get the dust all over yourself. servant. i don't understand. gert. well, that's your only excuse. [exeunt gert and olof.] servant. rabble! scene 2 (olof's study. there are windows in the background, through which the sun is shining into the room. trees are visible outside. christine is standing at one of the windows, watering her flowers. while doing so she is prattling to some birds in a cage. olof is seated at a table, writing. with an impatient mien he looks up and across the room to christine as if he wished her to keep quiet. this happens several times, until at last christine knocks down one of the flower pots, when olof taps the floor lightly with his foot.) christine. oh, my poor little flower! look, olof, four buds were broken off. olof. yes, i see. christine. no, you don't. you must come over here. olof. my dear, i haven't time. christine. you haven't looked at the starlings which i bought for you this morning. don't you think they sing sweetly? olof. rather. christine. rather? olof. it's hard for me to work when they are screaming like that. christine. they are not screaming, olof, but you seem to be more fond of a night bird that does scream. tell me, what is the meaning of the owl that appears on your signet ring? olof. the owl is an ancient symbol of wisdom. christine. i think that's stupid! wise people don't love the darkness. olof. the wise man hates the darkness and the night, but his keen eye turns night into day. christine. why are you always right, olof? can you tell me? olof. because i know it pleases you, my dear, to let me be in the right. christine. now, you are right again.--what is that you are writing? olof. i am translating. christine. read a little of it to me. olof. i don't think you could understand it. christine. why shouldn't i? is it not in swedish? olof. yes, but it is too abstract for you. christine. abstract? what does that mean? olof. you wouldn't understand if i told you, but if you don't understand what i read to you, then you understand what is meant by "abstract." christine (picking up a piece of half-finished embroidery). go on and read while i work at this. olof. listen carefully, then, and forgive me if you find it tedious. christine. i shall understand because i want to. olof (reading). "matter when considered separate from form is something wholly without predictability, indeterminable and indistinguishable. for nothing can originate out of pure non-being, but only out of the non-being of reality, which is synonymous with being as a possibility. being in its possibility is no more non-being than is reality. for that reason every existence is a realized possibility. thus matter is to aristotle a much more positive substratum than to plato, who declares it to be pure non-being. and thereby it becomes plain how aristotle could conceive of matter in its opposition to form as a positive negativity." christine (throwing aside her work). stop! why is it that i cannot understand that? have i not the same mental faculties as you? i am ashamed, olof, because you have such a poor creature of a wife that she cannot understand what you say. no, i will stick to my embroidery, i will clean and dust your study, i will at least learn to read your wishes in your eyes. i may become your slave, but never, never shall i be able to understand you. oh, olof, i am not worthy of you! why did you make me your wife? you must have over-valued me in a moment of intoxication. now you will regret it, and we shall both be unhappy. olof. christine! don't take it like that, dear! come and sit here by me. (he picks up the embroidery.) will you believe me if i tell you that i couldn't possibly do a thing like this? never in my life could i do it. are you not then cleverer than i, and am i not the lesser of us two? christine. but why can't you do it? olof. for the same reason that you couldn't understand me a moment ago: i haven't learned how. and perhaps you will feel happy once more if i tell you that you can learn to understand this book--which, by the by, is not identical with me--while on the other hand, i could never learn to do your work. christine. why couldn't you? olof. because i am not built that way and don't want to do it. christine. but if you wanted to? olof. well, there, my dear, you have my weak point. i could never want to do it. believe me, you are stronger than i, for you have power over your own will, but i have not. christine. do you think i could learn to understand that book of yours? olof. i am convinced of it. but you must not. christine. am i still to be kept in ignorance? olof. no, no--understand me right! the moment you understood what i understand, you would cease to think of me as-christine. a god-olof. let it go at that! but believe me, you would lose what now puts you above me--the power to control your own will--and then you would be less than i, and i could not respect you. do you see? it stakes us happy to overvalue each other; let us keep that illusion. christine. now i don't understand you at all, but i must trust you, olof. you are right! olof. please leave me alone, christine--i beg you! christine. do i disturb you? olof. there are some very serious thoughts that occupy me. you know, i expect something decisive to happen today. the king has abdicated because the people would not do what he desired. to-day i shall either reach my goal or have to start the fight all over again. christine. may i not be happy to-day, olof--on midsummer eve? olof. why should you be so very happy to-day? christine. why should i not--since i have been set free from slavery and have become your wife? olof. can you forgive me that my happiness is a little more sober because it has cost me--a mother? christine. i know, and i feel it very deeply. but when your mother learns of our marriage, she will forgive you and put her curse on me. whose burden will then be the heavier? however, it doesn't matter, because it's borne for your sake. and this much i know: that terrible struggles are awaiting you; that daring thoughts are growing in your mind; and that i can never share your struggle, never help you with advice, never defend you against those that vilify you--but still i must look on, and through it all i must go on living in my own little world, employing myself with petty things which you do not appreciate, but would miss if they were not attended to. olof, i cannot weep with you, so you must help me to make you smile with me. come down from those heights which i cannot attain. leave your battles on the hilltops and return some time to our home. as i cannot ascend to you, you must descend to me for a moment. forgive me, olof, if i talk childishly! i know that you are a man sent by the lord, and i have felt the blessing with which your words are fraught. but you are more than that--you are a man, and you are my husband--or at least ought to be. you won't fall from your exalted place if you put aside your solemn speech now and then and let the clouds pass from your forehead. you are not too great, are you, to look at a flower or listen to a bird? i put the flowers on your table, olof, in order that they might rest your eyes--and you ordered the maid to take them out because they gave you a headache. i tried to cheer the lonely silence of your work by bringing the birds--whose song you call screaming. i asked you to come to dinner a while ago--you hadn't time. i wanted to talk to you--you hadn't time. you despise this little corner of reality--and yet that is what you have set aside for me. you don't want to lift me up to you--but try at least not to push me further down. i will take away everything that might disturb your thoughts. you shall have peace from me--and from my rubbish! (she throws the flowers out of the window, picks up the birdcage, and starts to leave.) olof. christine, dear child, forgive me! you don't understand me! christine. always the same: "you don't understand me!" oh, i know now what it means. in that moment in the sacristy i matured so completely that i reached my second childhood at once! olof. i'll look at your birds and prattle with your flowers, dear heart. christine (putting aside the bird-cage). no, the time for prattle is gone by--from now on we shall be serious. you need not fear my boisterous happiness. it was only put on for your sake, and as it doesn't suit your sombre calling, i'll--(she bursts into tears.) olof (putting his arms around her and kissing her.) christine! christine! you are right! please pardon me! christine. you gave me an unlucky gift, olof, when you gave me freedom, for i don't know what to do with it. i must have some one to obey! olof. and so you shall, but don't let us talk of it any more. let us eat now--in fact, i feel quite hungry. christine (pleased). do you really know how to be hungry? (at that moment she looks out of the window and makes a gesture of dismay.) go on, olof, and i'll be with you in a moment. i only want to get things in a little better order in here. olof (as he goes out). don't let me wait so long for you as you have had to wait for me. (christine folds her hands as if praying and takes up a position indicating that she is waiting far somebody about to enter from the street. pause.) [enter olof's mother. she passes christine without looking at her.] mother. is master olof at home? christine (who has started to meet her in a friendly way, is taken aback for a moment; then she answers in the same tone). no, but if you care to be seated, he will be here soon. mother. thank you! (she seats herself. pause.) bring me a glass of water. (christine waits on her.) now you can leave me. christine. it is my housewifely duty to bear you company. mother. i didn't know that the housekeeper of a priest could call herself a housewife. christine. i am the wife of olof with the sanction of the lord. don't you know that we are married? mother. you are a harlot--that's what i know! christine. that word i do not understand. mother. you are the same kind of woman as she with whom master olof was talking that evening in the beer-shop. christine. the one that looked so unhappy? yes, i don't feel very happy. mother. of course not! take yourself out of my sight! your presence shames me! christine (on her knees). for the sake of your son, don't heap abuse on me! mother. with a mother's authority i command you to leave my son's house, the threshold of which you have defiled. christine. as a housewife i open my door to whom i may choose to receive. i should have closed it to you, had i been able to guess what language you would use. mother. big words, indeed! i command you to leave! christine. with what right do you force yourself into this house in order to drive me out of my own home? you have borne a son, and raised him--that was your duty, your mission, and you may thank your god for being permitted to fill that mission so well, which is a good fortune not granted to everybody. now you have reached the edge of the grave. why not resign yourself before the end comes? or have you raised your son so poorly that he is still a child and needs your guidance? if you want gratitude, come and look for it, but not in this way. or do you think it is the destiny of a child to sacrifice its own life merely to show you gratitude? his mission is calling: "go!" and you cry to him: "come to me, you ingrate!" is he to go astray--is he to waste his powers, that belong to his country, to mankind--merely for the satisfaction of your private little selfishness? or do you imagine that the fact of having borne and raised him does even entitle you to gratitude? did not your life's mission and destiny lie in that? should you not thank the lord for being given such a high mission? or did you do it only that you might spend the rest of your life clamoring for gratitude? don't you see that by using that word "gratitude" you tear down all that you have built up before? and what makes you presume that you have rights over me? is marriage to mean a mortgaging of my free will to anybody whom nature has made the mother or father of my husband--who unfortunately could not exist without either? you are not _my_ mother. my troth was not pledged to you when i took olof as my husband. and i have sufficient respect for my husband not to permit anybody to insult him, even if it be his own mother. that's why i have spoken as i have! mother. alas, such are the fruits borne by the teachings of my son! christine. if you choose to revile your son, it had better be in his presence. (she goes to the door and calls.) olof! mother. such guile already! christine. already? it's nothing new, i think, although i didn't know i had it until it was needed. [enter olof.] olof. mother! i am right glad to see you! mother. thanks, my son--and good-bye! olof. are you going? what does that mean? i wish to talk to you. mother. no need! she has said all there is to say. you will not have to show me the door. olof. in god's name, mother, what are you saying? christine, what does this mean? mother (about to leave). good-bye, olof! this is more than i can ever forgive you! olof (trying to hold her back). stay and explain, at least! mother. it was not worthy of you! to send her to tell me that you owe me nothing and need me no more! oh, that was cruel! [exit.] olof. what did you say, christine? christine. i don't remember, because there were so many things which i had never dared to think, but which i must have dreamt while father kept me still enslaved. olof. i don't know you any more, christine. christine. no, i begin to feel a little lost myself. olof. were you unkind to mother? christine. i suppose i was. does it seem to you that i have grown hard, olof? olof. did you show her the door? christine. forgive me, olof! i was not kind to her. olof. for my sake you might have made your words a little milder. why didn't you call me at once? christine. i wished to see if i had the strength to take care of myself. olof, would you sacrifice me to your mother, if she demanded it? olof. i cannot answer such a question offhand. christine. i'll do it in your place. it pleases you to submit willingly to your mother's will and wish because you are strong--and i, on the other hand, feel hurt by doing so, for i am weak. i will never do it! olof. not if i ask you? christine. that's more than you can ask. or would you have me hate her?--tell me, olof, what is meant by a "harlot"? olof. you ask such strange questions. christine. will you please answer me? olof. will you forgive me if i don't? christine. always this unending silence! do you not yet dare to tell me all? am i to be a child forever? then you had better put me in a nursery and talk baby-talk to me. olof. it means an unfortunate woman. christine. no, it means something more than that. olof. has anybody dared to use that word to you? christine (after a pause). no. olof. now you are not telling the truth, christine. christine. i know i lie! oh, since yesterday i have grown very wicked! olof. you are hiding something that happened yesterday! christine. i am--i thought that i could keep it to myself, but it has grown too much for me. olof. speak--i beg you! christine. but you mustn't call me silly! a crowd of people pursued me all the way to our door and called after me that horrible word which i don't understand. people do not laugh at an unfortunate woman-olof. yes, dear, that's just what they do. christine. i didn't understand their words, but their actions were plain enough to make me wicked! olof. and yet you were so kind to me! forgive me if i have been hard to you!--it is a name given by brute force to its own victims. sooner or later, you'll learn more about it, but never dare to defend an "unfortunate woman"--for then they will throw mud at you! (a messenger enters and hands him a letter.) at last! (after a glance at the letter.) you read it to me, christine! it is from your lips i want to hear the glad tidings. christine (reading). "young man, you have conquered! i, your enemy, desire to be the first to tell you so, and i address myself to you without any sense of humiliation because, in speaking for the new faith, you have wielded no weapons but those of the spirit. whether you be right, i cannot tell, but i think you have deserved a piece of advice from an older man: stop here, for your enemies are gone! do not wage war on creatures made of air, for that will lame your arm and you will die of dry rot. do not put your trust in princes--is another piece of advice given you by a once powerful man who has now to step aside and leave to the lord to settle what is to become of his prostrated church. johannes brask." (speaking.) you have conquered! olof (joyfully). i thank thee, lord, for this hour. (pause.) no, it scares me, christine! this fortune is too great. i am too young to have reached the goal already. to have no more to do--oh, what a frightful thought! no further fighting--that would be death! christine. oh, rest a moment, and be happy that it is over. olof. can there be an end to anything? an end to such a beginning? no, no!--oh, that i could begin it all anew! it wasn't the victory i wanted, but the fight! christine. olof, do not tempt the lord! i have a feeling that much remains undone--very much, indeed! [enter courtier.] courtier. good-day to you, secretary! and pleasant news! [exit christine.] olof. be welcome! some of it i have heard already. courtier. thanks for your splendid answering of that stupid galle. you went after him like a man. a little too fiercely, perhaps--not quite so much fire, you know! and a little venom doesn't hurt. olof. you have news from the king? courtier. yes, and you shall have a brief summary of the conditions agreed on: first, mutual support for the resistance and punishment of all rebellions. olof. go on, if you please. courtier. second, the king shall have the right to take possession of the palaces and fortified places of the bishops, as well as to fix their incomes-olof. third-courtier. now comes the best of all--the principal point of the whole undertaking: third, the nobility shall have the right to claim whatever of its properties and inheritances have fallen to churches and cloisters since the revision by king carl knutsson in 1454-olof. and fourth? courtier. provided the heir can get twelve men under oath to attest his right of inheritance at the assizes. (he folds the document from which he has been reading.) olof. have you finished? courtier. yes. isn't that pretty good? olof. nothing more? courtier. oh, there are a few minor points of no special importance. olof. let me hear them. courtier (reading again). there is a fifth point about the right of preachers to preach the word of god, but, of course, they have had that all the time. olof. nothing more? courtier. yes, then comes the ordinance: a register is to be established showing the amount of tithes collected by all bishops, chapters, and canons, and the king shall have the right to prescribe-olof. oh, that's neither here nor there! courtier.--how much of those may be retained, and how much shall be surrendered to him for the use of the crown; furthermore, all appointments to spiritual offices--and this ought to interest you--to spiritual offices, minor as well as major, can hereafter be made only with the sanction of the king, so that-olof. will you please read me the point dealing with the faith-courtier. the faith--there is nothing about it. oh, yes, let me see--from this day the gospel is to be read in all schoolhouses. olof. is that all? courtier. all? oh, no, i remember! i have a special order from the king to you--and a most sensible one--that, as the people are stirred up over all these innovations, you must by no means disturb the old forms; must not abolish masses, holy water, nor any other usage, nor furthermore indulge in any reckless acts, for hereafter the king will not close his eyes to your escapades as he has had to do in the past, when he lacked power to do otherwise. olof. i see! and the new faith which he has permitted me to preach so far? courtier. it is to ripen slowly.--it will come! it will come! olof. is there anything more? courtier (rising). no. if you will only keep calm now, you may go very far. oh, yes--i came near forgetting the best part of all. my dear pastor, permit me to congratulate you! here is your appointment. pastor of the city church, with an income of three thousand, at your age--indeed, you could now settle down in peace and enjoy life, even if you were never to get any further. it is splendid to have reached one's goal while still so young. i congratulate you! [exit.] olof (flinging the appointment on the floor). so this is all that i have fought and suffered for! an appointment! a royal appointment! i have been serving belial instead of god! woe be to you, false king, who have sold your lord and god! alas for me, who have sold my life and my labors to mammon! o god in heaven, forgive me! (he throws himself, weeping, on a bench.) [enter christine and gert. christine comes forward, while gert remains in the background.] christine (picks up the appointment and reads it; then she runs to olof, her face beaming). now, olof, i can wish you joy with a happy heart! (she starts to caress him, but he leaps to his feet and pushes her away.) olof. leave me alone! you, too! gert (coming forward). well, olof, the faith-olof. the lack of faith, you mean! gert. the pope is beaten, isn't he? hadn't we better begin with the emperor soon? olof. we began at the wrong end. gert. at last! olof. you were right, gert! i am with you now! it's war, but it must be open and honest. gert. until to-day you have been dreaming childish dreams. olof. i know it. now the flood is coming! let it come! alas for them and for us! christine. olof, for heaven's sake, stop! olof. leave me, child! here you will be drowned, or you will drag me down. gert. what made you venture out in the storm, my child? [exit christine.] (the ringing of bells, the joyful shouting of crowds, and the sounding of drums and trumpets become audible.) olof (going to the window). what has set the people shouting? gert. the king is providing them with a maypole and music outside north gate. olof. and are they not aware that he will chasten them with swords instead of rods? gert. aware? if they were! olof. poor children! they dance to his piping and follow his drums to their death! must all die, then, in order that one may live? gert. no, one shall die that all may live! (olof makes a gesture dismay and repugnance.) act iv (a room in the house of olof's mother. at the right stands a bedstead with four posts, in which the mother is lying sick. christine is asleep on a chair. lars pedersson is renewing the oil of the night-lamp and turning the hour glass.) lars (speaking to himself). midnight--now comes the critical time. (he goes to the bed and listens. at that moment christine moans in her sleep. he crosses the room and wakens her.) christine! (she wakes with a start.) go to bed, child; i will watch. christine. no, i will wait. i must speak to her before she dies--i think olof should be here soon. lars. it is for his sake you are watching! christine. yes, and you mustn't say that i have slept. do you hear? lars. poor girl!--you're not happy! christine. who says one should be happy? lars. does olof know that you are here? christine. no, he would never permit it. he wants to keep me like the carved image of some saint standing on a shelf. the smaller and weaker he can make me, the greater is his pleasure in placing his strength at my feet-mother (waking). lars! (christine holds back lars and steps forward.) who is that? christine. the nurse. mother. christine! christine. do you want anything? mother. nothing from you. christine. dame christine! mother. don't make my last moments more bitter. go away from here! lars (coming forward). what do you want, mother? mother. take away that woman! and bring the father confessor--i shall soon die. lars. is not your own son worthy of receiving your last confidences? mother. no, he has done nothing to deserve them. has mårten come yet? lars. mårten is a bad man. mother. o lord, how terrible thy punishment! my children standing between myself and thee! am i then to be denied the consolations of religion in my last moments? you have taken my life--do you want to destroy my soul, too--the soul of your mother? (she falls into a faint.) lars. do you hear that, christine! what are we to do? shall we let her die in the deception practised on her by a miserable wretch like mårten--and perhaps get her thanks for it--or shall we turn her final prayer into a curse? no, let them come, rather! or what do you think, christine? christine. i dare not think at all. lars (goes out for a moment, but returns quickly). oh, it is horrible! they have fallen asleep over their dice and their tumblers. and by such as those my mother is to be prepared for her death! christine. but why not tell her the truth? lars. she won't believe it, and it is cast back on us as a lie. mother. my son, won't you listen to your mother's last request? lars (going out). may god forgive me! christine. olof would never have done that! (lars returns with mårten and nils, whereupon he leads christine out of the room.) mårten (going up to the bed). she's sleeping. nils (places a box on the floor, opens it, and begins to take out aspersorium, censer, chrismatory, palms, and candles). that means we can't go to work yet. mårten. if we have waited all this time, we can afford to wait a little longer--provided that damned priest doesn't show up. nils. master olof, you mean?--do you think that fellow out there noticed anything? mårten. what do i care? as soon as the old woman gives up the coin, i am free. nils. you 're a pretty thorough-paced rascal, you are! mårten. yes, but i am getting tired of it. i am beginning to long for peace. do you know what life is? nils. no. mårten. pleasure! "the flesh was god!" isn't that the way it's written somewhere? nils. "the word became flesh," you mean? mårten. oh, yes--of course! nils. you might have been it pretty big man, with your head! mårten. yes, indeed! that's what they feared, and that's why they whipped the soul out of my body in the convent--for after all i had a soul once! but now there's nothing but body left, and now the body is going to have its turn. nils. and i suppose they whipped all conscience out of you at the same time? mårten. well, practically.--but now i want that recipe for spiced rochelle which you were talking of when we fell asleep out there. nils. did i say rochelle? i meant claret. that is, it can be either the one or the other. well, you take a gallon of wine and half a pound of cardamom that has been well cleaned-mårten. hush--damn you! she is moving. out with the book! nils (keeps on reading in an undertone during the following scene). aufer immensam, deus aufer iram; et cruentatum cohibe flagellum nec scelus nostrum proferes ad aequam pendere lancem. mother. is that you, mårten? mårten. it's brother nils praying to the holy virgin. (nils lights the censer without interrupting his reading.) mother. what a precious boon to hear the word of the lord in the sacred tongue! mårten. no sweeter sacrifice is known to god than the prayers of pious souls. mother. like the incense, my heart is set on fire with holy devotion. mårten (sprinkling her with holy water). the stains of sin are by your god washed off! mother. amen!--mårten, i am passing away--the godlessness of the king makes it impossible for me by earthly gifts to strengthen the holy church in her power of saving souls. you are a pious man--take my property and pray for me and for my children. pray that the almighty may turn their hearts away from all lies, so that some time we may meet again in heaven. mårten (taking the bag of money she hands him). goodwife, your sacrifice is acceptable to the lord, and for your sake my prayers will be heard by god. mother. i want to sleep awhile in order to be strong enough to receive the last sacrament. mårten. no one shall disturb your final moments--not even those who were your children once. mother. it seems cruel, father mårten, but it's the will of god. (she falls asleep; mårten and nils withdraw from the bed.) mårten (opening the bag and kissing the gold coins). what stores of pleasure lie hidden beneath the hardness of this gold--ah! nils. are we going now? mårten. oh, we might, as our errand here is done, but i think it would be a pity to let the old woman die unsaved. nils. unsaved? mårten. yes! nils. do you believe in that? mårten. it's hard to know what one is to believe nowadays. one dies happily in this faith, and another in that. all assert that they have found the truth. nils. and if you were to die now, mårten? mårten. that's out of the question! nils. but if? mårten. then i suppose i should go to heaven like the rest. but i should prefer to settle a small account with master olof first. you see, there is one pleasure that surpasses all the rest, and that's the pleasure of revenge. nils. what has he done to you? mårten. he has dared to see through me; he has exposed me; he can read what i am thinking--oh! nils. and that's why you hate him? mårten. isn't that enough? (somebody is heard knocking on the door leading to the street.) somebody is coming! read, damn you! (nils begins to drone out the same verse as before. the sound of a key being inserted in the lock is heard. the door is opened from the outside.) [enter olof, looking greatly agitated.] mother (waking up). father mårten! olof (goes to the bed). here is your son, mother! why didn't you let me know that you were sick? mother. farewell, olof! i forgive you all the evil you have done to me, if you will not disturb the few moments i need to prepare myself for heaven. father mårten! bring here the sacred ointment, so that i may die in peace. olof. so that's why you didn't call me! (he catches sight of the money bag which mårten has forgotten to hide, and snatches it away from the monk.) oh, souls are being bartered here! and this was to be the price! leave this room and this death-bed! here is my place, not yours! mårten. you mean to prevent us from fulfilling our office? olof. i am showing you the door! mårten. as long as we are not suspended, we are doing our duty here by the king's authority, and not by the pope's. olof. i shall cleanse the church of the lord without regard to the will of king or pope. mother. will you plunge my soul into perdition, olof? will you let me die with a curse? olof. calm yourself, mother! you are not going to die in a lie. seek your god in prayer, he is not so far away as you believe. mårten. a man who won't save his own mother from the pangs of purgatory must be the devil's prophet indeed. mother. christ jesu, help my soul! olof. will you leave this room, or must i use force? take away that rubbish! (he kicks the ritual accessories across the floor.) mårten. i'll go if you'll let me have the money your mother has given to the church. mother. so that's why you came, olof? you wanted my gold! let him have it, mårten. i'll let you have all of it, olof, if you will only leave me in peace! i'll give you more than that! i'll let you have everything! olof (driven to despair). in god's name, take the money and go! i beg you! mårten (grabbing the bag and going out with nils). where the devil is abroad, there our power ends, dame christine! (to olof.) as a heretic you are lost for all eternity! as a law-breaker you will get your punishment right here! beware of the king! [exeunt.] olof (kneeling beside his mother's bed). mother, listen to me before you die! (the mother has lost consciousness.) mother, mother, if you are alive, speak to your son! forgive me, but i could not act except as i have done. i know you have been suffering all your life for my sake. you have been praying to god that i should keep his paths. the lord has heard your prayer. do you want me now to render your whole life futile? do you want me now, by obeying you, to destroy that structure which has cost you so much in toil and tears? forgive me! mother. olof, my soul is no longer of this world--it's out of another life i speak to you: turn back! break that unclean bond which ties your body only. take back the faith you got from me, and i will forgive you! olof (weeping bitterly). mother! mother! mother. swear that you will do it! olof (after long silence). no! mother. the curse of god is upon you--i see him--i see his angry look--help me, holy virgin! olof. that is not the god of love! mother. it is the god of retribution!--it is you who have provoked his ire--and it is you who now cast me into the flames of his wrath!--cursed be the hour when i bore you! (she dies.) olof. mother! mother! (he takes her hand.) she's dead! and she has not forgiven me!--oh, if your soul be still within this room, behold your son: i will do your will, and what was sacred to you shall be sacred to me! (he lights the tall wax candles left behind by the friars and places them around the bed.) you shall have the consecrated candles that are to light your road. (he puts a palm leaf in her hand.) and with this palm of peace shall come forgetfulness of that last struggle with what was earthly. oh, mother, if you see me now, then you must forgive me! (in the meantime the sun has risen, and the red glow of its first rays lights up the curtains; at the sight of it, olof leaps to his feet.) you make my candles fade, o morning sun! you have more love than i! (he goes to the window and opens it.) lars (entering softly and looking around surprised). olof! olof (putting his arms around him). brother, all is over! lars (goes to the bed and kneels for a moment; then he rises again). she is dead! (he prays silently.) you were here alone? olof. it was you who let in the monks. lars. and you who drove them out. olof. that should have been your task. lars. she forgave you? olof. she died with a curse on her lips. (pause.) lars (pointing to the candles). who arranged these ceremonies? (pause.) olof (irritated and humiliated). i weakened for a moment. lars. so you are human, after all? i thank you for it! olof. are you mocking my weakness? lars. i am praising it. olof. and i am cursing it!--god in heaven, am i not right? lars. no, you are wrong. [enter christine while lars is still speaking.] christine. you are too much in the right! olof. christine, what are you doing here? christine. it was so silent and lonesome at home. olof. i asked you not to come here. christine. i thought i might be of some use, but i see now--another time i shall stay at home. olof. you have been awake all night? christine. that is nothing! i will go now if you tell me to! olof. go in there and rest a little while we talk. (christine begins absentmindedly to extinguish the candles.) olof. what are you doing, dear? christine. why, it is full daylight. (lars gives olof a significant glance.) olof. my mother is dead, christine. christine (as she goes to olof to let him kiss her on the forehead, the look on her face is compassionate but cold). i am sorry for your loss. [exit christine.] (pause. the brothers look for a moment in the direction where she disappeared, then at each other.) lars. i beg you, olof, as your friend and brother, don't go on as you have been doing. olof. the old story! but he who has put his axe to the tree cannot draw back until the tree is down. the king has betrayed our cause. now i will see what i can do for it. lars. the king is wise. olof. he is a miser, a traitor, and a protector of the nobility. first he uses me to hunt his game, and then he wants to kick me out. lars. he sees farther than you do. if you were to go to three million people, telling them: "your faith is false; believe my words instead"--do you think it possible that they would at once cast aside their most intimate and most keenly experienced conviction, which until then had been a support to them in sorrow as well as in joy? no, the life of the soul would be in a bad condition, indeed, if all the old things could be disposed of so quickly. olof. but it is not so. the whole people is full of doubt. among the priests there is hardly one who knows what to believe--if he cares to believe anything at all. everything is ready for the new, and it is only you who are to blame--you weaklings whose consciences will not permit you to sow doubt where nothing but a feeble faith remains. lars. look out, olof! you wish to play the part of god. olof. well, that is what we must do, for i don't think that he himself intends to conic down to us any more. lars. you are tearing down and tearing down, olof, so that soon there will be nothing left, and when people ask, "what do we get instead?" you always answer, "not this," "not that," but never once do you answer, "this." olof. presumptuous man! do you think faith can be given by one to another? do you think that luther has given us anything new? no! he has merely torn away the screens that had been placed around the light. the new that i want is doubt of the old, not because it is old, but because it is decaying. (lars points toward their mother's body.) i know what you mean. she was too old, and i thank god that she is dead. now i am free--only now! god has willed it! lars. either you have lost your senses, or you are a wicked man! olof. don't reproach me! i have as much respect for our mother's memory as you have, but if she had not died now, i don't know how far my sacrifices might have gone. have you noticed in the springtime, brother, how the fallen leaves of yesteryear cover the ground as if to smother all the young; things that are coming out? what do these do? they push aside the withered leaves, or pass right through them, because they must get up! lars. you are right to a certain extent.--olof, you broke the laws of the church during a time of lawlessness and unrest. what could be forgiven then must be punished now. don't force the king to appear worse than he is. don't let your scorn for the law and your wilfulness force him to punish a man to whom he acknowledges himself indebted. olof. nothing is more wilful than his own rule, and he must learn to tolerate the same thing in others. tell me you have taken service with the king--are you going to work against me? lars. i am. olof. then we are enemies, and that is what i need, for the old ones have disappeared. lars. but the tie of blood, olof-olof. i know it only in its source, which is the heart. lars. yet you wept for our mother. olof. weakness, or perhaps a touch of old devotion and gratitude, but not because of the tie of blood. what is it, anyhow? lars. you are tired out, olof. olof. yes, i feel exhausted; i have been awake all night. lars. you were so late in coming. olof. i was out. lars. your doings seem to shun the daylight. olof. the daylight shuns my doings. lars. beware of false apostles of freedom! olof (struggling with sleepiness and fatigue). that's a self-contradictory term. oh, don't talk to me--i can't stand any more. i spoke so much at our meeting--but you don't know about our society--concordia res parvae crescunt--we mean to continue the reformation--gert is a farsighted man--i seem so small beside him--good-night, lars! (he falls asleep on a chair.) lars (stands looking at him with solicitude). poor brother--may god protect you! (resounding blows on the street door are heard.) what's that? (he goes to the window.) gert (outside). for god's sake, open! lars. why, it isn't a matter of life and death, father gert. [exit.] gert (outside). in god's name, let me in! [enter christine with a blanket.] christine. olof, why are they knocking like that? he's asleep! (she wraps him up in the blanket.) oh, that i were sleep, so that you might flee to me when tired out by your struggles! (the rattle of a heavy cart is heard; then the cart comes to a stop outside the house.). olof (waking up with a start). is it five already? christine. no, it is only three. olof. wasn't that a baker's cart i heard? christine. i don't know, but i don't think it would make such a noise. (she goes to the window.) look, olof! what can this he? olof (going to the window). the headsman's cart!--no, it isn't that. christine. it is a hearse! [enter lars and gert.] lars. the plague! all. the plague! gert. the plague is here! christine, my child, leave this house! the angel of death has put his mark upon the gate. olof. who sent the cart? gert. the man who put the black cross on the door. no dead body must be left a moment in the house. olof. then mårten was the angel of death--and all is nothing but a lie. gert. look out of the window, and you'll see that the cart is loaded full. (blows are heard at the street door again.) you hear! they're waiting! olof. without proper burial? that shall never be! lars. without ceremonies, olof! gert. come away with me, christine, from this dreadful place! i'll take you out of the city to some healthier spot. christine. i will stay with olof after this. if you, father, had loved me a little less, you would not have done so much harm. gert. olof, you who have the power, command her to follow me olof. i set her free from your tyranny once, you selfish man, and she shall never return to it again. gert. christine, get out of this house, at least! christine. not a step until olof orders me. olof. i will no longer order you at all, christine--remember that! [enter several buriers.] burier. i've come for a body. no time to spare! olof. begone from here! burier. the king's order! lars. consider what you do, olof! the law demands it! gert. this is no time to hesitate! the crazy mob is aroused against you. this house was the first one to be marked, and they are crying: "god's punishment upon the heretic!" olof (kneeling beside the bed). mother, forgive! (rising.) do your duty! (the buriers come forward and begin to get their ropes ready.) gert (aside to olof). "god's punishment upon the king" is our cry! act v scene i (the cemetery of the convent of st. clara. in the background appears a partly demolished convent building, from which a gang of workmen are carrying out timber and debris. at the left is a mortuary chapel. its windows are lighted from within, and whenever the door is opened, a brilliantly illuminated crucifix on the chancel wall, with a sarcophagus standing in front of it, becomes visible. a number of the graves have been opened. the moon is just rising from behind the ruined convent. windrank is seated outside the chapel door. singing is heard from within the chapel.) [enter nils.] nils (goes up to windrank). good evening, windrank. windrank. please don't talk to me. nils. what's the matter now? windrank. didn't you hear what i told you? nils. has your scurvy ending as a skipper affected you so badly that you think of turning monk? windrank. 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57. nils. you haven't lost your reason, have you? windrank. 58, 59, 60--in the name of jesu, get away from here! nils. you had better have a little nightcap with me. windrank. 64, 65--that's what i expected! get you gone, tempter! i'll never take a drink again--until the day after to-morrow. nils. but it's a fine remedy against the plague, and with all this cadaverous stuff about, you had better be careful. windrank. 70--so you really think it's good for the plague? nils. excellent! windrank. only a drop, then! (he drinks from the bottle offered him by nils.) nils. only a drop! but tell me, are you suffering from vertigo since you are counting to a hundred? windrank. hush! hush! there's an epoch coming. nils. an epoch? windrank. yes, the day after to-morrow. nils. and that's why you keep counting like that? windrank. no, it's only because i find it so hard to hold my tongue. now, for heaven's sake, keep quiet! please go away, or you'll get me into trouble!--71, 72, 73. nils. who's inside? windrank. 74, 75. nils. is it a funeral? windrank. 76, 77.--go to hell, won't you! nils. just another tiny drop, and the counting will be easier. windrank. just a little one--i will! (he drinks. singing is heard outside.) nils. here come the nuns of st. clara to celebrate the memory of their saint for the last time. windrank. that's fine mummery in days like these when everybody is getting educated. nils. they have obtained the king's permission. you see, the plague broke out in the parish of st. clara, and some believe it was because of the godless destruction of st. clara's convent. windrank. and now they mean to drive away the plague with singing--as if that bugaboo were a hater of music. but, of course, it wouldn't be a wonder if he did flee from their hoarse screeching. nils. will you please tell me who has dared to invade this last sanctuary--for it's here the bones of the saint are to be deposited before the place is torn down entirely. windrank. then there'll be a fight, i fear. [the singing has drawn nearer. a procession enters, made up of dominican friars and franciscan nuns, headed by mårten. they come to a halt and continue singing, while the workmen are making a great deal of noise in the background.] procession. cur super vermes luteos furorem sunnis, o magni fabricator orbis! quid sumus quam fex, putris, umbra, pulvis glebaque terrae! mårten (to the abbess). you can see, my sister, how the abode of the lord has been despoiled. abbess. the lord who has delivered us into the hands of the egyptians will also set its free in due time. mårten (to the workmen). cease working, and do not disturb our pious task! overseer. our orders are to work day and night until this den has been torn down. abbess. alas, that unbelief has spread so far down among the people! mårten. we are celebrating this feast with the permission of the king. overseer. well, i don't mind! mårten. and therefore i command you to cease your noise. i'll appeal directly to your workmen, whom you have forced into this shameless undertaking.--i'll ask them if they have any respect whatever left for holy-overseer. you had better not, for i am in command here. furthermore, i can tell you that they are glad enough to have a chance of tearing down these hornets' nests for which they themselves have had to pay--and then, too, they are pretty thankful to earn something during a time of famine. (he goes toward the background.) mårten. let us forget the wickedness and tumult of this world. let us enter the sacred place and pray for them. abbess. lord, lord, the cities of thy sanctuary are laid waste! zion is laid waste, and jerusalem is lying desolate! windrank. 100.--nobody can get in here! the conspirators (within the chapel). we swear! mårten. who has dared to invade the chapel? windrank. it's no more a chapel since it has become a royal storehouse. abbess. that's why the godless one gave us his permission! [the door of the chapel is thrown open and the conspirators appear; among them olof, lars andersson, gert, the german, the dane, the man from smaland, and others.] olof (much excited). what kind of buffoonery is this? mårten. make way for the handmaidens of st. clara! olof. do you think your idols can keep away the plague that god has sent you as a punishment? do you think the lord will find those pieces of bone you carry in the box there so pleasant that he forgives all your dreadful sins? take away that abomination! (he takes the reliquary from the abbess and throws it into one of the open graves.) from dust you have come, and to dust you shall return, even if your name was sancta clara da spoleto and you ate only three ounces of bread a day and slept among the swine at night! (the nuns scream.) mårten. if you fear not what is holy, fear at least your temporal ruler. look here! he has still so much respect left for divine things that he dreads the wrath of the saint. (he shows a document to olof.) olof. do you know what the lord did with the king of the assyrians when he permitted the worship of idols? he smote him and all his people. thus the righteous is made to suffer with the unrighteous. in the name of the one omnipotent god, i declare this worship of baal abolished, even if all the kings of the earth give their permit. the pope wanted to sell my soul to satan, but i tore the contract to pieces--you remember? should i then fear a king who wants to sell his people to the baalim? (he tears the document to pieces.) mårten (to his followers). you are my witnesses that he has defamed the king. olof (to his followers). and you are my witnesses before god that i have led the people of a godless king away from him! mårten. listen, ye faithful! it is because of this heretic that god has smitten us with the plague--it is the punishment of god, and it fell first of all on his mother. olof. listen, ye faithless papists! it was the punishment of the lord on me because i had served sennacherib against judah. i will atone my crime by leading judah against the kings of the assyrians and the egyptians. (the moon has risen in the meantime. it is very red, and a fiery glare pervades the place. the crowd is frightened.) olof (mounting one of the graves). heaven is weeping blood over your sins and your idolatry. punishment shall be meted out, for those in authority have fallen into wrongdoing. can't you see that the very graves are yawning for prey-(gert seizes olof by the arm, whispers to him, and leads him down from the mound. the crowd is panic-stricken.) abbess. give us back our reliquary, so that we may abandon this home of desolation. mårten. it is better to let the bones of the saint remain in this consecrated soil than to have them touched by the vile hands of heretics! olof. you are afraid of the plague, cowards that you are! is your faith in the sacred bones no stronger? (gert whispers to olof again. the procession has in the meantime scattered, so that only a part of it remains on the stage.) olof (to mårten). now you should be satisfied, you hypocrite! go and tell him whom you serve that a box of silver is about to be buried here, and he'll dig it out of the earth with his own nails. tell him that the moon, which is usually made of silver, has turned into gold, merely to make your master raise his eyes toward heaven for once. tell him that you, by your blasphemous buffooneries, have succeeded in provoking an honest man's wrath-[exeunt mårten and the members of the procession.] gert. enough, olof! (to all the conspirators except olof and lars.) leave us, please! [exeunt the conspirators, exchanging whispers.] gert (to olof and lars). it's too late to back down now! olof. what do you want, gert--speak! gert (showing them a bound volume). before you two, servants of god, a people steps forth to make its confession. do you acknowledge your oath? olof and lars. we have sworn! gert. this book is the result of my silent labors. on every page you will find a cry of distress, a sigh from thousands who have been blind enough to think it god's will that they should suffer the tyranny of one man--who have thought it their duty not even to hope for liberation. (olof takes the volume and begins to read.) you shall hear complaints all the way from the primeval forests of norrland down to the sound. out of the wreckage from the churches the king is building new castles for the nobility and new prisons for the people. you shall read how the king is bartering away law and justice by letting murderers escape their punishment if they seek refuge at the salt-works. you shall read how he is taxing vice by letting harlots pay for the right to ply their traffic. yea, the very fishes of the rivers, the water of the sea itself, have been usurped by him. but the end is in sight. the eyes of the people have been opened. there is seething and fermenting everywhere. soon the tyranny will be crushed, and the people shall be free! olof. who wrote the songs in this book? gert. the people! these are songs of the people--so they sing who feel the yoke pressing. i have visited city and country, asking them: "are you happy?" these are the answers! i have held assizes. here are the verdicts entered. do you believe that a million wills may conquer one? do you believe that god has bestowed this land with all its human souls and all its property upon a single man, for him to deal with as it suits his pleasure? or do you not rather believe that he should do the will of all?--you do not answer? you are awed, i see, by the thought that it may come to an end! listen to my confession! tomorrow the oppressor dies, and you shall all be free! olof and lars. what are you saying? gert. you didn't understand what i was talking about at our meetings. olof. you have deceived us! gert. not at all! you are perfectly free. two voices less mean nothing. everything is prepared. lars. have you considered the consequences? gert. fool! is it not for the sake of the consequences that i have done all this? olof. supposing gert be right--what do you say, lars? lars. i wasn't born to lead. olof. all are born to lead, but all are not willing to sacrifice the flesh. gert. only he who has the courage to face scorn and ridicule can lead. for hatred is as nothing compared with the laughter that kills. olof. and if it should miscarry? gert. dare to face that, too! you don't know that thomas münster has established a new spiritual kingdom at muhlhausen. you don't know that all europe is in revolt. who was dacke, if not a defender of the oppressed? what have the dalecarlians meant by all their rebellions, if not to defend their freedom against him who broke his plighted faith? he does such things and goes unpunished, but when they want to defend themselves, then he raises the cry of revolt and treason. olof. so this is the point to which you wanted to lead me, gert? gert. have you not been led here by the current? you will, but do not dare! to-morrow, in the church, the mine will go off, and that will be a signal for the people to rise and choose a ruler after their own heart. olof (turning over the leaves of the book). if it be the will of all, then nobody can stop it. gert, let me take this book to the king and show him what is the will of his people, and he will grant them their rights. gert. oh, you child! for a moment he may be scared, and perhaps restore a silver pitcher to some church. then he'll point toward heaven and say: "it is not by my own will that i sit here and do you wrong, but by the will of god!" olof. then the will of god be done! gert. but how? olof. he must die that all may live. murderer, ingrate, traitor--those will be my names, perchance. i am sacrificing everything, even my honor, my conscience, and my faith--could i possibly give more for those pitiable ones who are crying for salvation? let us go ere i repent! gert. even if you did, it would already be too late. don't you know that mårten is a spy, and perhaps sentence has already been pronounced against the rebel! olof. well, i won't repent--and why should i repent of an act that implies the carrying out of god's own judgment? forward, then, in the name of the lord. [exeunt.] [enter harlot, who kneels at a grave which she has strewn with flowers.] harlot. hast thou punished me enough now, o lord, to pardon me? [enter christine quickly.] christine. have you seen master olof, goodwife? harlot. are you his friend or his enemy? christine. do you mean to insult me? harlot. pardon me! i haven't seen him since the last time i prayed. christine. you look so sorrowful! oh, i know you now! it was you to whom olof was talking that night in greatchurch. harlot. you mustn't let it be seen that you are talking to me. you don't know who i am, do you? christine. oh, yes, i know. harlot. you know--so they have told you? christine. olof told me. harlot. o my god! and don't you despise me? christine. you are an unfortunate, down-trodden woman, olof told me. why should i despise misfortune? harlot. then you cannot be happy yourself? christine. no, we have shared the same fate. harlot. i am not the only one, then! tell me, who was the worthless man to whom you gave your love? christine. worthless? harlot. oh, pardon--to one who loves, no one seems worthless! to whom did you give your love? christine. you know master olof, don't you? harlot. oh, tell me that it is not true! don't rob me of my faith in him, too! it is the only thing i have left since god took my child! christine. you have had a child? then you have been happy once. harlot. i thank god, who did not permit my son to find out the unworthiness of his mother. christine. have you been guilty of any crime, that you speak so? harlot. i have just buried it. christine. your child? how can you! and i pray god every day to grant me a little one--so that i may at least have one creature to love! harlot. oh, poor child, pray to god that he preserve you from it! christine. i don't understand you, goodwife! harlot. don't call me that! you know who i am, don't you? christine. well, don't they offer prayers in the churches for those who have hopes? harlot. not for such as we! christine. such as we? harlot. they pray for the others and curse us. christine. what do you mean by "the others"? i don't understand you at all. harlot. do you know the wife of master olof? christine. why, that is i! harlot. you? oh, why didn't i guess at once? can you forgive me a moment's doubt? how could vice look like you and him? alas! you must leave me. you are a child, still ignorant of wickedness. you must not be talking to me longer. god bless you! good-bye! (she starts to leave.) christine. don't leave me! whoever you be, for god's sake, stay! they have broken into our house, and my husband is not to be found. take me away from here--home to yourself--anywhere. you must be a good woman--you cannot be wicked-harlot (interrupting her). if i tell you that the brutality of the crowd wouldn't hurt you half so much as my company, then perhaps you will forgive me for leaving-christine. who are you? harlot. i am an outcast on whom has been fulfilled that curse which god hurled at woman after the fall of our first parents. ask me no more, for if i told you more, your contempt would goad me to a self-defence that would be still more contemptible.--here comes somebody who perhaps will be generous enough to escort you, if you promise to let him have your honor and virtue and eternal peace for his trouble--for that is probably the least he will accept for his protection at such a late hour as this! please forgive me--it is not at you that i am railing. [enter windrank, intoxicated.] windrank. why the devil can't a fellow be left alone, even here among the corpses? see here, my good ladies, please don't ask me anything, for now i can't guarantee that i won't answer. the day after to-morrow i'll tell you all about it, for then it'll be too late. perhaps you're some of those nuns that have been made homeless? well, although women are nothing but women, i don't think i have any right to be impolite, for all that the sun set long ago. of course, there is an old law saying that nobody can be arrested after sunset, but though the law is a bugbear, i think it's too polite to insist on anything when it's a question of ladies. hush, hush, tongue! why, the old thing is going like a spinning-wheel, but that comes from that infernal gin! why should i be dragged into this kind of thing? of course, i'll get well paid and be a man of means, but don't believe that i am doing it for the sake of the money! it's done now, but i don't want to--i don't want to! i want to sleep in peace nights and have no ghosts to trouble me. suppose i goo and tell? no, then they'll arrest me. suppose somebody else would go and tell? perhaps one of you nuns might be so kind as to do it? christine (who has been conferring with the harlot). if you have anything on your conscience that troubles you, please tell us. windrank. am i to tell? that's just what i want to get out of, but this is horrible, and i can't stand it any longer. i am forced to do it. why should i be the one? i don't want to. christine. my dear man, you mean to commit-windrank. a murder. who told you? well, thank god that you know! by all means, go ahead and tell about it--at once--or i'll have no peace--no peace in all eternity! christine (recovering from the first shock). why should you murder him? windrank. oh, there are such a lot of reasons. just look at the way he is tearing down your nunneries. christine. the king? windrank. yes, of course! the father and liberator of his country! of course, he's an oppressor, but that's no reason why he should be murdered. christine. when is it going to happen? windrank. why, to-morrow--in greatchurch--right in church! [at a signal from christine, the harlot leaves.] christine. how could they pick you for such a deed? windrank. well, you see, i gave a connection or two among the church attendants, and then i am poor, of course. what the devil does it matter who puts the match to the powder, if only some shrewd fellow is pointing the gun? and then we have several other little schemes in reserve, although i'm to fire the first shot. but why don't you run off and tell about it? christine. it has already been done. windrank. well, god be thanked and praised! goodbye, there goes all my money! christine. tell me who you are, you conspirators. windrank. no, that i won't tell! [enter nils. he crosses the stage followed by a troop of soldiers and a crowd of people.] christine. do you see that they are already looking for you? windrank. i wash my hands of it. nils (goes up to windrank without noticing christine). have you seen olof pedersson? windrank. why? nils. because he is wanted. windrank. no, i haven't seen him. are there others wanted? nils. yes, many. windrank. no, i haven't seen any of them. nils. well, it will soon be your turn. [exit.] christine. are they looking for the conspirators? windrank. what a question! now i'm going to clear out. good-bye! christine. tell me before you go-windrank. haven't time! christine. is master olof one of them? windrank. of course! (christine sinks down unconscious on one of the graves. windrank is suddenly sobered and genuinely moved.) good lord in heaven, it must be his wife! (he goes to christine.) i think i've killed her! oh, hans, hans, all you can do now is to get a rope for yourself! what business did you have to get mixed up with the high and mighty?--come here, somebody, and help a poor woman! [enter olof, led by soldiers carrying torches as he catches sight of christine, he tears himself loose and throws himself on his knees beside her.] olof. christine! christine. olof! you're alive! come away from here and let us go home! olof (overwhelmed). it's too late! scene 2 (within greatchurch. olof and gert, dressed as penitents, stand in the pillory near the entrance. the organ is playing and the bells are ringing. the service is just ended, and the people are leaving the church. the sexton and his wife are standing by themselves in a corner near the footlights.) sexton. lars the chancellor, he was pardoned, but not master olof. wife. the chancellor has always been a man of peace and has never stirred up any trouble, so i can't understand how he could want to have anything to do with such dreadful things. sexton. the chancellor has always had a queer streak, although he has never said much, and though he was pardoned, it cost him everything he had. i can't help being sorry for master olof; i have always had a liking for him, even though he has been a fire-brand. wife. well, what's the use of making a young fellow like that pastor? sexton. of course, he's rather young, and that has been his main fault, but i'm sure time will cure it. wife. what nonsense you are talking, seeing that he's going to die to-day. sexton. well, lord, lord, if i hadn't clean forgotten about it! but then it doesn't seem quite right to me, either. wife. do you know if he has repented? sexton. i doubt very much, for i am sure his neck is just as stiff as ever. wife. but i suppose he'll thaw out a little now, when he sees his class of children whom they wouldn't let him prepare for confirmation. sexton. well, i must say that the king can be pretty mean when he turns that side to. now he is making the pastor do church penance the very same day his children are being confirmed. it's almost as bad as when he made the dean drink with the headsman, or when he sent those two prelates riding through the city with crowns of birch bark on their heads. wife. and his own brother lars has been sent to shrive him. sexton. see, here come the children! how sad they're looking--well, i don't wonder. i think i'll have to go in and have a cry myself-(enter the children about to be confirmed, boys and girls. they begin to march past olof, carrying bunches of flowers in their hands. they look sad and keep their eyes on the ground. a number of older people accompany the children. a few curious persons point out olof and are rebuked by others. last of all the children in the procession comes vilhelm, one of the scholars with whom olof was seen playing in the first act. he stops timidly in front of him, kneels, and drops his bunch of flowers at the feet of olof, who does not notice it because he has pulled down the hood of his penitential robe so that it hides his face. some of the people mutter disapprovingly, while others show signs of pleasure. mårten comes forward to take away the flowers, but is pushed back by the crowd. soldiers clear a path for lars pedersson, who appears in canonicals. the crowd disappears gradually, leaving lars, olof, and gert alone on the stage. the playing of the organ ceases, but the bells continue to toll.) lars. olof, the king has refused to listen to the petition for pardon submitted by the city corporation. are you prepared to die? olof. i am not able to think so far. lars. i have been ordered to prepare you. olof. that will have to be done in haste, for my blood is still running quickly through my veins. lars. have you repented? olof. no! lars. do you want to pass into eternity with an unforgiving mind? olof. oh, put aside the formulas, if you want me to listen to you. i can't think that i am going to die now--there 's far too much of life and strength left in me. lars. i must tell you that i don't think so either, and that it is for a new life in this world i am trying to prepare you. olof. then i may live? lars. if you will admit that you were mistaken in the past, and if you will take back what you have said about the king. olof. how could i? that would be to die indeed! lars. this was what i had to tell you. now you must decide for yourself. olof. one doesn't parley about one's convictions. lars. even a mistake may turn into conviction. i shall leave you to think the matter over. [exit.] gert. our harvest wasn't ready. it takes a lot of snow to make the fall crops ripen--nay, centuries must pass before you will even see the first shoots. all the conspirators are under arrest, they say, and te deums are sung on that account. but they are mistaken; conspirators are abroad everywhere--in the royal apartments, in the churches, and in the market-places--but they dare not do what we have dared. and yet they'll reach that point some time. good-bye, olof! you must live a little longer, for you are young. i shall die with the utmost pleasure. the name of every new martyr becomes the rallying-cry for a new host. don't believe that a human soul was ever set on fire by a lie. don't ever distrust those feelings that shake you to your inmost soul when you have seen some one suffer spiritual or physical oppression. if the whole world tell you that you are wrong, believe your own heart just the same--if you are brave enough to do so. the day when you deny your self--then you are dead, and eternal perdition will seem a mercy to one who, has been guilty of the sin against the holy ghost. olof. you speak of my release as though it were a certainty. gert. the corporation has offered 500 ducats for your ransom, and if it cost only 2000 to get birgitta declared a saint, then 500 should suffice to get you declared guiltless. the king doesn't dare to take your life! [enter the lord high constable, followed by the headsman and soldiers.] constable. take away gert the printer. gert (to olof, as he is being led away). good-bye, olof! take care of my daughter, and don't ever forget the great whitsunday! constable. master olof, you are a young man who has been led astray. the king will pardon you for the sake of your youth, but as a safeguard he demands a retraction wherein you take back whatever you have ventured beyond and against his orders. olof. then the king is still in need of me? constable. there are many more who need you, but don't rely on his mercy until you have fulfilled his condition. here is the king's warrant. in a moment your fetters may be shed, if so be your will, but it will be just as easy to tear up this sheet of paper. olof. one who contents himself with 500 ducats is not likely to care very much for a retraction-constable. that is a lie! the headsman is waiting for you. but pray listen to a few words from an old man. i, too, have been young, and moved by strong passions. they belong to youth; but those passions are meant to be killed. i did as you do. i went around telling the truth, and all i got in return was ingratitude, or, at the best, a smile of derision. i, too, wanted to build a little heaven here on earth--(speaking with marked emphasis) of course, on other foundations than yours--but soon i came to my senses, and the chimeras were sent packing. i have no desire to make you out a man wishing to gain notoriety by getting himself talked about--i don't believe anything of the kind. you are moved by good intentions, but they are such as must cause harm. your blood is hot, and it blinds you because you exercise no self-control. you preach freedom, and you are plunging thousands into the slavery of license. retrace your steps, young man, and make atonement for your errors! restore what you have torn down, and your fellow-men will bless you! olof (agitated to a point of desperation). it is the truth you speak; i hear it, but who taught you to speak like that? constable. experience--that which you lack! olof. can i have lived and fought for a lie? must i now declare my whole youth and the best part of my manhood lost, useless, wasted? oh, let me rather die together with my mistake! constable. you should have broken loose from your dreams earlier. but calm yourself! your life is still ahead of you. the past has been a school--hard, to be sure, but all the more wholesome. hitherto you have given your life to whims and follies. now you have some inkling of what reality demands of you. outside that door your creditors are waiting with their claims. here are their bills. the clergy of the young church demand that you live to finish what you have begun so splendidly. the city corporation demands its secretary for the council. the congregation demands its shepherd. the children of the confirmation class demand their teacher. those are your legal creditors. but there is one more waiting outside, to whom perhaps you owe more than all the rest, and who yet demands nothing at all--your young wife. you have torn her from her father's side and set her adrift in the storm. you have broken down her childhood faith and filled her mind with restlessness. your reckless deeds have goaded the brutal mob into driving her out of her own home. yet she does not even demand your love: all she asks of you is permission to spend a life of suffering by your side.--now you can see that we, too, give a little consideration to other people, although you call us selfish.--let me open this door, which will lead you back into the world. discipline your heart before it hardens, and thank god for granting you more time to work for mankind. olof (breaking into tears). i am lost! (constable gives a sign to the headsman, who removes the fetters and the garb of penitence from olof; then the constable opens the door to the sacristy, and delegates from the lords, the clergy, and the city guilds enter.) constable. olof pedersson, formerly pastor of the city church at stockholm, do you hereby repent of your misdeeds and retract what you have said beyond and against the king's order? do you declare your willingness to keep your oath to the sovereign of this realm, and to serve him faithfully? (olof remains silent. lars pedersson and christine approach him, while many of those present make pleading gestures.) olof (in a cold and determined voice). yes! constable. in the name of the king, i set you free! (olof and christine embrace. a number of persons come forward to press his hand and utter words of congratulation.) olof (in the same cold voice). before i leave this room, let me be alone a moment with my god. i need it! once upon a time i struck the first blow right here, and here-lars. right here you have won your greatest victory this very day! (all leave the room except olof, who falls on his knees.) [enter vilhelm cautiously. he looks very much surprised at seeing olof alone and free.] vilhelm. i come to bid you farewell, master olof, before you pass on to another life. olof (rising). you have not deserted me, vilhelm! help me, then, to mourn those happy moments of my youth that are now nothing but a memory! vilhelm. before you die i want to thank you for all that you have done for us. it was i who gave you those flowers, which you haven't noticed.--they have been trampled on, i see. i wanted to bring you a reminder of the days when we were playing under the lindens in the convent close at strängnäs. i thought it might do you good to hear that we have never thanked god, as you said we would, because you didn't return to us. we have never forgotten you, for it was you who relieved us of those cruel penances, and it was you who flung open the heavy convent doors and gave us back our freedom and the blue sky and the happiness of living. why you must die, we do not know, but _you_ could never do anything wrong. and if you die because you have rendered help to some of those that were oppressed, as they tell us, then you should not be sorry, although it hurts very, very much. once you told us how hus was burned because he had dared to tell the truth to those in power. you told us how he went to the stake and joyfully commended himself into the hands of god, and how he prophesied about the swan that should come singing new songs in praise of awakened freedom. that's the way i have thought that you would meet your death--with your head thrown back, and your eyes toward the sky, and the people crying: "so dies a witness!" (olof leans against the pillory, his face showing how the words of vilhelm strike home to him.) gert (his voice heard from a distant part of the church.) renegade! (olof sinks down overwhelmed at the foot of the pillory.) plays by august strindberg second series there are crimes and crimes miss julia the stronger creditors pariah translated with introductions by edwin björkman authorized edition contents introduction to "there are crimes and crimes" there are crimes and crimes introduction to "miss julia" author's preface miss julia introduction to "the stronger" the stronger introduction to "creditors" creditors introduction to "pariah" pariah there are crimes and crimes introduction strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "there are crimes and crimes." in the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finest historical dramas: "the saga of the folkungs," "gustavus vasa," and "eric xiv." just before, he had finished "advent," which he described as "a mystery," and which was published together with "there are crimes and crimes" under the common title of "in a higher court." back of these dramas lay his strange confessional works, "inferno" and "legends," and the first two parts of his autobiographical dream-play, "toward damascus"--all of which were finished between may, 1897, and some time in the latter part of 1898. and back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, when, at paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by the transmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spirit was travelling through all the seven hells in its search for the heaven promised by the great mystics of the past. "there are crimes and crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as his first definite step beyond that crisis, of which the preceding works were at once the record and closing chord. when, in 1909, he issued "the author," being a long withheld fourth part of his first autobiographical series, "the bondwoman's son," he prefixed to it an analytical summary of the entire body of his work. opposite the works from 1897-8 appears in this summary the following passage: "the great crisis at the age of fifty; revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings, swedenborgian heavens and hells." but concerning "there are crimes and crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year he writes triumphantly: "light after darkness; new productivity, with recovered faith, hope and love--and with full, rock-firm certitude." in its german version the play is named "rausch," or "intoxication," which indicates the part played by the champagne in the plunge of _maurice_ from the pinnacles of success to the depths of misfortune. strindberg has more and more come to see that a moderation verging closely on asceticism is wise for most men and essential to the man of genius who wants to fulfil his divine mission. and he does not scorn to press home even this comparatively humble lesson with the naive directness and fiery zeal which form such conspicuous features of all his work. but in the title which bound it to "advent" at their joint publication we have a better clue to what the author himself undoubtedly regards as the most important element of his work--its religious tendency. the "higher court," in which are tried the crimes of _maurice_, _adolphe_, and _henriette_, is, of course, the highest one that man can imagine. and the crimes of which they have all become guilty are those which, as _adolphe_ remarks, "are not mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes against the spirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against god. the play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritual change, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the waters of life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled. there are two distinct currents discernible in this dramatic revelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order-for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress is implied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all in our growing modern conviction that _any_ vital faith is better than none at all. one of the currents in question refers to the means rather than the end, to the road rather than the goal. it brings us back to those uncanny soul-adventures by which strindberg himself won his way to the "full, rock-firm certitude" of which the play in its entirety is the first tangible expression. the elements entering into this current are not only mystical, but occult. they are derived in part from swedenborg, and in part from that picturesque french dreamer who signs himself "sar péladan"; but mostly they have sprung out of strindberg's own experiences in moments of abnormal tension. what happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at paris in 1895, and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude in his "inferno" and "legends," all this is here presented in dramatic form, but a little toned down, both to suit the needs of the stage and the calmer mood of the author. coincidence is law. it is the finger-point of providence, the signal to man that he must beware. mystery is the gospel: the secret knitting of man to man, of fact to fact, deep beneath the surface of visible and audible existence. few writers could take us into such a realm of probable impossibilities and possible improbabilities without losing all claim to serious consideration. if strindberg has thus ventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his success can be explained only by the presence in the play of that second, parallel current of thought and feeling. this deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface is fantastic. it is the manifestation of that "rock-firm certitude" to which i have already referred. and nothing will bring us nearer to it than strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his "speeches to the swedish nation" two years ago. in that pamphlet there is a chapter headed "religion," in which occurs this passage: "since 1896 i have been calling myself a christian. i am not a catholic, and have never been, but during a stay of seven years in catholic countries and among catholic relatives, i discovered that the difference between catholic and protestant tenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial, and that the division which once occurred was merely political or else concerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane to the religion itself. a registered protestant i am and will remain, but i can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but come nearest to being a swedenborgian. i use my bible christianity internally and privately to tame my somewhat decivilized nature-decivilised by that veterinary philosophy and animal science (darwinism) in which, as student at the university, i was reared. and i assure my fellow-beings that they have no right to complain because, according to my ability, i practise the christian teachings. for only through religion, or the hope of something better, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life as that of an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it be possible to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation." here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that strindberg's religiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself to morality. at bottom he is first and last, and has always been, a moralist--a man passionately craving to know what is right and to do it. during the middle, naturalistic period of his creative career, this fundamental tendency was in part obscured, and he engaged in the game of intellectual curiosity known as "truth for truth's own sake." one of the chief marks of his final and mystical period is his greater courage to "be himself" in this respect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance, to a position which the late william james undoubtedly would have acknowledged as "pragmatic." to combat the assertion of over-developed individualism that we are ends in ourselves, that we have certain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure and happiness merely because we happen to appear here in human shape, this is one of strindberg's most ardent aims in all his later works. as to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives must be held subservient, he is not dogmatic. it may be another life. he calls it god. and the code of service he finds in the tenets of all the christian churches, but principally in the commandments. the plain and primitive virtues, the faith that implies little more than square dealing between man and man--these figure foremost in strindberg's ideals. in an age of supreme self-seeking like ours, such an outlook would seem to have small chance of popularity, but that it embodies just what the time most needs is, perhaps, made evident by the reception which the public almost invariably grants "there are crimes and crimes" when it is staged. with all its apparent disregard of what is commonly called realism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use of methods generally held superseded--such as the casual introduction of characters at whatever moment they happen to be needed on the stage--it has, from the start, been among the most frequently played and most enthusiastically received of strindberg's later dramas. at stockholm it was first taken up by the royal dramatic theatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the intimate theatre, then devoted exclusively to strindberg's works. it was one of the earliest plays staged by reinhardt while he was still experimenting with his little theatre at berlin, and it has also been given in numerous german cities, as well as in vienna. concerning my own version of the play i wish to add a word of explanation. strindberg has laid the scene in paris. not only the scenery, but the people and the circumstances are french. yet he has made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect french manners of speaking or ways of thinking. as he has given it to us, the play is french only in its most superficial aspect, in its setting--and this setting he has chosen simply because he needed a certain machinery offered him by the catholic, but not by the protestant, churches. the rest of the play is purely human in its note and wholly universal in its spirit. for this reason i have retained the french names and titles, but have otherwise striven to bring everything as close as possible to our own modes of expression. should apparent incongruities result from this manner of treatment, i think they will disappear if only the reader will try to remember that the characters of the play move in an existence cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeral reality in order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduring one. there are crimes and crimes a comedy 1899 characters maurice, a playwright jeanne, his mistress marion, their daughter, five years old adolphe, a painter henriette, his mistress emile, a workman, brother of jeanne madame catherine the abbé a watchman a head waiter a commissaire two detectives a waiter a guard servant girl act i, scene 1. the cemetery 2. the crêmerie act ii, scene 1. the auberge des adrets 2. the bois de boulogne act iii, scene 1. the crêmerie 2. the auberge des adrets act iv, scene 1. the luxembourg gardens 2. the crêmerie (all the scenes are laid in paris) there are crimes and crimes act i first scene (the upper avenue of cypresses in the montparnasse cemetery at paris. the background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses on which are inscribed "o crux! ave spes unica!" and the ruins of a wind-mill covered with ivy.) (a well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and muttering prayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers.) (jeanne is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody.) (marion is playing with some withered flowers picked from a rubbish heap on the ground.) (the abbé is reading his breviary while walking along the further end of the avenue.) watchman. [enters and goes up to jeanne] look here, this is no playground. jeanne. [submissively] i am only waiting for somebody who'll soon be here-watchman. all right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers. jeanne. [to marion] drop the flowers, dear. abbé. [comes forward and is saluted by the watchman] can't the child play with the flowers that have been thrown away? watchman. the regulations don't permit anybody to touch even the flowers that have been thrown away, because it's believed they may spread infection--which i don't know if it's true. abbé. [to marion] in that case we have to obey, of course. what's your name, my little girl? marion. my name is marion. abbé. and who is your father? (marion begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer.) abbé. pardon my question, madame. i had no intention--i was just talking to keep the little one quiet. (the watchman has gone out.) jeanne. i understood it, reverend father, and i wish you would say something to quiet me also. i feel very much disturbed after having waited here two hours. abbé. two hours--for him! how these human beings torture each other! o crux! ave spes unica! jeanne. what do they mean, those words you read all around here? abbé. they mean: o cross, our only hope! jeanne. is it the only one? abbé. the only certain one. jeanne. i shall soon believe that you are right, father. abbé. may i ask why? jeanne. you have already guessed it. when he lets the woman and the child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not far off. abbé. and when he has left you, what then? jeanne. then we have to go into the river. abbé. oh, no, no! jeanne. yes, yes! marion. mamma, i want to go home, for i am hungry. jeanne. just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home. abbé. woe unto those who call evil good and good evil. jeanne. what is that woman doing at the grave over there? abbé. she seems to be talking to the dead. jeanne. but you cannot do that? abbé. she seems to know how. jeanne. this would mean that the end of life is not the end of our misery? abbé. and you don't know it? jeanne. where can i find out? abbé. hm! the next time you feel as if you wanted to learn about this well-known matter, you can look me up in our lady's chapel at the church of st. germain--here comes the one you are waiting for, i guess. jeanne. [embarrassed] no, he is not the one, but i know him. abbé. [to marion] good-bye, little marion! may god take care of you! [kisses the child and goes out] at st. germain des prés. emile. [enters] good morning, sister. what are you doing here? jeanne. i am waiting for maurice. emile. then i guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for i saw him on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with some friends. [kissing the child] good morning, marion. jeanne. ladies also? emile. of course. but that doesn't mean anything. he writes plays, and his latest one has its first performance tonight. i suppose he had with him some of the actresses. jeanne. did he recognise you? emile. no, he doesn't know who i am, and it is just as well. i know my place as a workman, and i don't care for any condescension from those that are above me. jeanne. but if he leaves us without anything to live on? emile. well, you see, when it gets that far, then i suppose i shall have to introduce myself. but you don't expect anything of the kind, do you--seeing that he is fond of you and very much attached to the child? jeanne. i don't know, but i have a feeling that something dreadful is in store for me. emile. has he promised to marry you? jeanne. no, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes. emile. hopes, yes! do you remember my words at the start: don't hope for anything, for those above us don't marry downward. jeanne. but such things have happened. emile. yes, they have happened. but, would you feel at home in his world? i can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand what they were talking of. now and then i take my meals where he is eating--out in the kitchen is my place, of course--and i don't make out a word of what they say. jeanne. so you take your meals at that place? emile. yes, in the kitchen. jeanne. and think of it, he has never asked me to come with him. emile. well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has some respect for the mother of his child. the women over there are a queer lot. jeanne. is that so? emile. but maurice never pays any attention to the women. there is something _square_ about that fellow. jeanne. that's what i feel about him, too, but as soon as there is a woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer. emile. [smiling] you don't tell me! but listen: are you hard up for money? jeanne. no, nothing of that kind. emile. well, then the worst hasn't come yet--look! over there! there he comes. and i'll leave you. good-bye, little girl. jeanne. is he coming? yes, that's him. emile. don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, jeanne! [goes out.] jeanne. no, i won't. (maurice enters.) marion. [runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] papa, papa! maurice. my little girl! [greets jeanne] can you forgive me, jeanne, that i have kept you waiting so long? jeanne. of course i can. maurice. but say it in such a way that i can hear that you are forgiving me. jeanne. come here and let me whisper it to you. (maurice goes up close to her.) (jeanne kisses him on the cheek.) maurice. i didn't hear. (jeanne kisses him on the mouth.) maurice. now i heard! well--you know, i suppose that this is the day that will settle my fate? my play is on for tonight, and there is every chance that it will succeed--or fail. jeanne. i'll make sure of success by praying for you. maurice. thank you. if it doesn't help, it can at least do no harm--look over there, down there in the valley, where the haze is thickest: there lies paris. today paris doesn't know who maurice is, but it is going to know within twenty-four hours. the haze, which has kept me obscured for thirty years, will vanish before my breath, and i shall become visible, i shall assume definite shape and begin to be somebody. my enemies--which means all who would like to do what i have done--will be writhing in pains that shall be my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that i have suffered. jeanne. don't talk that way, don't! maurice. but that's the way it is. jeanne. yes, but don't speak of it--and then? maurice. then we are on firm ground, and then you and marion will bear the name i have made famous. jeanne. you love me then? maurice. i love both of you, equally much, or perhaps marion a little more. jeanne. i am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not of her. maurice. have you no confidence in my feelings toward you? jeanne. i don't know, but i am afraid of something, afraid of something terrible-maurice. you are tired out and depressed by your long wait, which once more i ask you to forgive. what have you to be afraid of? jeanne. the unexpected: that which you may foresee without having any particular reason to do so. maurice. but i foresee only success, and i have particular reasons for doing so: the keen instincts of the management and their knowledge of the public, not to speak of their personal acquaintance with the critics. so now you must be in good spirits-jeanne. i can't, i can't! do you know, there was an abbé here a while ago, who talked so beautifully to us. my faith--which you haven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on a window to clean it--i couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, but this old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the light came through, and it was possible again to see that the people within were at home--to-night i will pray for you at st. germain. maurice. now i am getting scared. jeanne. fear of god is the beginning of wisdom. maurice. god? what is that? who is he? jeanne. it was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to your manhood. and it is he who will carry us through the terrors that lie ahead of us. maurice. what is lying ahead of us? what do you know? where have you learned of this? this thing that i don't know? jeanne. i can't tell. i have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heard nothing. but during these two dreadful hours i have experienced such an infinity of pain that i am ready for the worst. marion. now i want to go home, mamma, for i am hungry. maurice. yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [takes her into his arms.] marion. [shrinking] oh, you hurt me, papa! jeanne. yes, we must get home for dinner. good-bye then, maurice. and good luck to you! maurice. [to marion] how did i hurt you? doesn't my little girl know that i always want to be nice to her? marion. if you are nice, you'll come home with us. maurice. [to jeanne] when i hear the child talk like that, you know, i feel as if i ought to do what she says. but then reason and duty protest--good-bye, my dear little girl! [he kisses the child, who puts her arms around his neck.] jeanne. when do we meet again? maurice. we'll meet tomorrow, dear. and then we'll never part again. jeanne. [embraces him] never, never to part again! [she makes the sign of the cross on his forehead] may god protect you! maurice. [moved against his own will] my dear, beloved jeanne! (jeanne and marion go toward the right; maurice toward the left. both turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other.) maurice. [comes back] jeanne, i am ashamed of myself. i am always forgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. here are the tickets for tonight. jeanne. thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post of duty alone, and so i have to take up mine--with marion. maurice. your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. yes, i am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure to serve her husband--i must have my hands free tonight, and there is no place for women and children on the battle-field--and this you understood! jeanne. don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, and then you'll have no illusions to lose. and now you'll see that i can be as forgetful as you--i have bought you a tie and a pair of gloves which i thought you might wear for my sake on your day of honour. maurice. [kissing her hand] thank you, dear. jeanne. and then, maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, as you do all the time. i want you to be good-looking, so that others will like you too. maurice. there is no jealousy in _you_! jeanne. don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it. maurice. just now i feel as if i could give up this evening's victory--for i am going to win-jeanne. hush, hush! maurice. and go home with you instead. jeanne. but you mustn't do that! go now: your destiny is waiting for you. maurice. good-bye then! and may that happen which must happen! [goes out.] jeanne. [alone with marion] o crux! ave spes unica! (curtain.) second scene (the crêmerie. on the right stands a buffet, on which are placed an aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit, preserves, etc. in the background is a door leading to the kitchen, where workmen are taking their meals. at the other end of the kitchen can be seen a door leading out to a garden. on the left, in the background, stands a counter on a raised platform, and back of it are shelves containing all sorts of bottles. on the right, a long table with a marble top is placed along the wall, and another table is placed parallel to the first further out on the floor. straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. the walls are covered with oil-paintings.) (mme. catherine is sitting at the counter.) (maurice stands leaning against it. he has his hat on and is smoking a cigarette.) mme. catherine. so it's tonight the great event comes off, monsieur maurice? maurice. yes, tonight. mme. catherine. do you feel upset? maurice. cool as a cucumber. mme. catherine. well, i wish you luck anyhow, and you have deserved it, monsieur maurice, after having had to fight against such difficulties as yours. maurice. thank you, madame catherine. you have been very kind to me, and without your help i should probably have been down and out by this time. mme. catherine. don't let us talk of that now. i help along where i see hard work and the right kind of will, but i don't want to be exploited--can we trust you to come back here after the play and let us drink a glass with you? maurice. yes, you can--of course, you can, as i have already promised you. (henriette enters from the right.) (maurice turns around, raises his hat, and stares at henriette, who looks him over carefully.) henriette. monsieur adolphe is not here yet? mme. catherine. no, madame. but he'll soon be here now. won't you sit down? henriette. no, thank you, i'll rather wait for him outside. [goes out.] maurice. who--was--that? mme. catherine. why, that's monsieur adolphe's friend. maurice. was--that--her? mme. catherine. have you never seen her before? maurice. no, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he was afraid i might take her away from him. mme. catherine. ha-ha!--well, how did you think she looked? maurice. how she looked? let me see: i can't tell--i didn't see her, for it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at once and come so close to me that i couldn't make out her features at all. and she left her impression on the air behind her. i can still see her standing there. [he goes toward the door and makes a gesture as if putting his arm around somebody] whew! [he makes a gesture as if he had pricked his finger] there are pins in her waist. she is of the kind that stings! mme. catherine. oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies! maurice. yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. but do you know, madame catherine, i am going before she comes back, or else, or else--oh, that woman is horrible! mme. catherine. are you afraid? maurice. yes, i am afraid for myself, and also for some others. mme. catherine. well, go then. maurice. she seemed to suck herself out through the door, and in her wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--yes, you may laugh, but can't you see that the palm over there on the buffet is still shaking? she's the very devil of a woman! mme. catherine. oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all your reason. maurice. i want to go, but i cannot--do you believe in fate, madame catherine? mme. catherine. no, i believe in a good god, who protects us against evil powers if we ask him in the right way. maurice. so there are evil powers after all! i think i can hear them in the hallway now. mme. catherine. yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tears off a piece of linen for you. get away now--through the kitchen. (maurice rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps into emile.) emile. i beg your pardon. [he retires the way he came.] adolphe. [comes in first; after him henriette] why, there's maurice. how are you? let me introduce this lady here to my oldest and best friend. mademoiselle henriette--monsieur maurice. maurice. [saluting stiffly] pleased to meet you. henrietta. we have seen each other before. adolphe. is that so? when, if i may ask? maurice. a moment ago. right here. adolphe. o-oh!--but now you must stay and have a chat with us. maurice. [after a glance at mme. catherine] if i only had time. adolphe. take the time. and we won't be sitting here very long. henriette. i won't interrupt, if you have to talk business. maurice. the only business we have is so bad that we don't want to talk of it. henriette. then we'll talk of something else. [takes the hat away from maurice and hangs it up] now be nice, and let me become acquainted with the great author. mme. catherine signals to maurice, who doesn't notice her. adolphe. that's right, henriette, you take charge of him. [they seat themselves at one of the tables.] henriette. [to maurice] you certainly have a good friend in adolphe, monsieur maurice. he never talks of anything but you, and in such a way that i feel myself rather thrown in the background. adolphe. you don't say so! well, henriette on her side never leaves me in peace about you, maurice. she has read your works, and she is always wanting to know where you got this and where that. she has been questioning me about your looks, your age, your tastes. i have, in a word, had you for breakfast, dinner, and supper. it has almost seemed as if the three of us were living together. maurice. [to henriette] heavens, why didn't you come over here and have a look at this wonder of wonders? then your curiosity could have been satisfied in a trice. henriette. adolphe didn't want it. (adolphe looks embarrassed.) henriette. not that he was jealous-maurice. and why should he be, when he knows that my feelings are tied up elsewhere? henriette. perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings. maurice. i can't understand that, seeing that i am notorious for my constancy. adolphe. well, it wasn't that-henriette. [interrupting him] perhaps that is because you have not faced the fiery ordeal-adolphe. oh, you don't know-henriette. [interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld a faithful man. maurice. then it's going to behold one. henriette. where? maurice. here. (henriette laughs.) adolphe. well, that's going it-henriette. [interrupting him and directing herself continuously to maurice] do you think i ever trust my dear adolphe more than a month at a time? maurice. i have no right to question your lack of confidence, but i can guarantee that adolphe is faithful. henriette. you don't need to do so--my tongue is just running away with me, and i have to take back a lot--not only for fear of feeling less generous than you, but because it is the truth. it is a bad habit i have of only seeing the ugly side of things, and i keep it up although i know better. but if i had a chance to be with you two for some time, then your company would make me good once more. pardon me, adolphe! [she puts her hand against his cheek.] adolphe. you are always wrong in your talk and right in your actions. what you really think--that i don't know. henriette. who does know that kind of thing? maurice. well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who could then clear himself? henriette. do you also have evil thoughts? maurice. certainly; just as i commit the worst kind of cruelties in my dreams. henriette. oh, when you are dreaming, of course--just think of it�no, i am ashamed of telling-maurice. go on, go on! henriette. last night i dreamt that i was coolly dissecting the muscles on adolphe's breast--you see, i am a sculptor--and he, with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me instead with the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than i. maurice. was he dead? henriette. no, he was living. maurice. but that's horrible! and didn't it make you suffer? henriette. not at all, and that astonished me most, for i am rather sensitive to other people's sufferings. isn't that so, adolphe? adolphe. that's right. rather abnormally so, in fact, and not the least when animals are concerned. maurice. and i, on the other hand, am rather callous toward the sufferings both of myself and others. adolphe. now he is not telling the truth about himself. or what do you say, madame catherine? mme. catherine. i don't know of anybody with a softer heart than monsieur maurice. he came near calling in the police because i didn't give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on the buffet. just look at them: it is as if they could hear what i am saying. maurice. yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind of polite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--so you are a sculptor, mademoiselle henriette? henriette. a bit of one. enough to do a bust. and to do one of you--which has long been my cherished dream--i hold myself quite capable. maurice. go ahead! that dream at least need not be long in coming true. henriette. but i don't want to fix your features in my mind until this evening's success is over. not until then will you have become what you should be. maurice. how sure you are of victory! henriette. yes, it is written on your face that you are going to win this battle, and i think you must feel that yourself. maurice. why do you think so? henriette. because i can feel it. this morning i was ill, you know, and now i am well. (adolphe begins to look depressed.) maurice. [embarrassed] listen, i have a single ticket left--only one. i place it at your disposal, adolphe. adolphe. thank you, but i surrender it to henriette. henriette. but that wouldn't do? adolphe. why not? and i never go to the theatre anyhow, as i cannot stand the heat. henriette. but you will come and take us home at least after the show is over. adolphe. if you insist on it. otherwise maurice has to come back here, where we shall all be waiting for him. maurice. you can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. in fact, i ask, i beg you to do so--and if you don't want to wait outside the theatre, you can meet us at the auberge des adrets-that's settled then, isn't it? adolphe. wait a little. you have a way of settling things to suit yourself, before other people have a chance to consider them. maurice. what is there to consider--whether you are to see your lady home or not? adolphe. you never know what may be involved in a simple act like that, but i have a sort of premonition. henriette. hush, hush, hush! don't talk of spooks while the sun is shining. let him come or not, as it pleases him. we can always find our way back here. adolphe. [rising] well, now i have to leave you--model, you know. good-bye, both of you. and good luck to you, maurice. to-morrow you will be out on the right side. good-bye, henriette. henriette. do you really have to go? adolphe. i must. maurice. good-bye then. we'll meet later. (adolphe goes out, saluting mme. catherine in passing.) henriette. think of it, that we should meet at last! maurice. do you find anything remarkable in that? henriette. it looks as if it had to happen, for adolphe has done his best to prevent it. maurice. has he? henriette. oh, you must have noticed it. maurice. i have noticed it, but why should you mention it? henriette. i had to. maurice. no, and i don't have to tell you that i wanted to run away through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and was stopped by a guest who closed the door in front of me. henriette. why do you tell me about it now? maurice. i don't know. (mme. catherine upsets a number of glasses and bottles.) maurice. that's all right, madame catherine. there's nothing to be afraid of. henriette. was that meant as a signal or a warning? maurice. probably both. henriette. do they take me for a locomotive that has to have flagmen ahead of it? maurice. and switchmen! the danger is always greatest at the switches. henriette. how nasty you can be! mme. catherine. monsieur maurice isn't nasty at all. so far nobody has been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him. maurice. sh, sh, sh! henriette. [to maurice] the old lady is rather impertinent. maurice. we can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so. henriette. with pleasure. this is not the place for me. i can just feel their hatred clawing at me. [goes out.] maurice. [starts after her] good-bye, madame catherine. mme. catherine. a moment! may i speak a word to you, monsieur maurice? maurice. [stops unwillingly] what is it? mme. catherine. don't do it! don't do it! maurice. what? mme. catherine. don't do it! maurice. don't be scared. this lady is not my kind, but she interests me. or hardly that even. mme. catherine, don't trust yourself! maurice. yes, i do trust myself. good-bye. [goes out.] (curtain.) act ii first scene (the auberge des adrets: a café in sixteenth century style, with a suggestion of stage effect. tables and easy-chairs are scattered in corners and nooks. the walls are decorated with armour and weapons. along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses and jugs.) (maurice and henriette are in evening dress and sit facing each other at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and three filled glasses. the third glass is placed at that side of the table which is nearest the background, and there an easy-chair is kept ready for the still missing "third man.") maurice. [puts his watch in front of himself on the table] if he doesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming at all. and suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [touches the third glass with the rim of his own.] henriette. [doing the same] here's to you, adolphe! maurice. he won't come. henriette. he will come. maurice. he won't. henriette. he will. maurice. what an evening! what a wonderful day! i can hardly grasp that a new life has begun. think only: the manager believes that i may count on no less than one hundred thousand francs. i'll spend twenty thousand on a villa outside the city. that leaves me eighty thousand. i won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for i am tired, tired, tired. [sinks back into the chair] have you ever felt really happy? henriette. never. how does it feel? maurice. i don't quite know how to put it. i cannot express it, but i seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. it isn't nice, but that's the way it is. henriette. is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies? maurice. why, the victor has to count his killed and wounded enemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory. henriette. are you as bloodthirsty as all that? maurice. perhaps not. but when you have felt the pressure of other people's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant to shake off the enemy and draw a full breath at last. henriette. don't you find it strange that yon are sitting here, alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you-and on an evening like this, when you ought to have a craving to show yourself like a triumphant hero to all the people, on the boulevards, in the big restaurants? maurice. of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to be here, and your company is all i care for. henriette. you don't look very hilarious. maurice. no, i feel rather sad, and i should like to weep a little. henriette. what is the meaning of that? maurice. it is fortune conscious of its own nothingness and waiting for misfortune to appear. henriette. oh my, how sad! what is it you are missing anyhow? maurice. i miss the only thing that gives value to life. henriette. so you love her no longer then? maurice. not in the way i understand love. do you think she has read my play, or that she wants to see it? oh, she is so good, so self-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for a night's fun she would regard as sinful. once i treated her to champagne, you know, and instead of feeling happy over it, she picked up the wine list to see what it cost. and when she read the price, she wept--wept because marion was in need of new stockings. it is beautiful, of course: it is touching, if you please. but i can get no pleasure out of it. and i do want a little pleasure before life runs out. so far i have had nothing but privation, but now, now--life is beginning for me. [the clock strikes twelve] now begins a new day, a new era! henriette. adolphe is not coming. maurice. no, now he won't, come. and now it is too late to go back to the crêmerie. henriette. but they are waiting for you. maurice. let them wait. they have made me promise to come, and i take back my promise. are you longing to go there? henriette. on the contrary! maurice. will you keep me company then? henriette. with pleasure, if you care to have me. maurice. otherwise i shouldn't be asking you. it is strange, you know, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't place it at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless when you have not a woman. henriette. you don't need to be without a woman--you? maurice. well, that's the question. henriette. don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hour of success and fame? maurice. no, i don't know, for i have had no experience of it. henriette. you are a queer sort! at this moment, when you are the most envied man in paris, you sit here and brood. perhaps your conscience is troubling you because you have neglected that invitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at the milk shop? maurice. yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and even here i am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, their well-grounded anger. my comrades in distress had the right to demand my presence this evening. the good madame catherine had a privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope was to spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. and i have robbed them of their faith in me. i can hear the vows they have been making: "maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; he doesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his word." now i have made them forswear themselves. (while he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begun to play the finale of beethoven's sonata in d-minor (op. 31, no. 3). the allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and at last passionately, violently, with complete abandon.) maurice. who can be playing at this time of the night? henriette. probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. but listen! your presentation of the case is not correct. remember that adolphe promised to meet us here. we waited for him, and he failed to keep his promise. so that you are not to blame-maurice. you think so? while you are speaking, i believe you, but when you stop, my conscience begins again. what have you in that package? henriette. oh, it is only a laurel wreath that i meant to send up to the stage, but i had no chance to do so. let me give it to you now--it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. [she rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him on the forehead] hail to the victor! maurice. don't! henriette. [kneeling] hail to the king! maurice. [rising] no, now you scare me. henriette. you timid man! you of little faith who are afraid of fortune even! who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you into a dwarf? maurice. a dwarf? yes, you are right. i am not working up in the clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but i forge my weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. you think that my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. on the contrary, i despise it: it is not enough for me. you think i am afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over there and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which you don't suspect. away, ghost! [he brushes the third, untouched glass off the table] away with you, you superfluous third person--you absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. you stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself already beaten. as i crush this glass under my foot, so i will crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no longer yours. henriette. good! that's the way! well spoken, my hero! maurice. now i have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful helper, on your altar, astarte! are you satisfied? henriette. astarte is a pretty name, and i'll keep it--i think you love me, maurice. maurice. of course i do--woman of evil omen, you who stir up man's courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do you lead me? i loved you before i saw you, for i trembled when i heard them speak of you. and when i saw you in the doorway, your soul poured itself into mine. and when you left, i could still feel your presence in my arms. i wanted to flee from you, but something held me back, and this evening we have been driven together as the prey is driven into the hunter's net. whose is the fault? your friend's, who pandered for us! henriette. fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what does it mean?--adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together before. he is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had no right himself. i am jealous of him on your behalf. i hate him because he has cheated you out of your mistress. i should like to blot him from the host of the living, and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make him unmade, unborn! maurice. well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. we'll cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and then we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will never look up again. [raising his glass] our fate is sealed. woe unto us! what will come next? henriette. next comes the new era--what have you in that package? maurice. i cannot remember. henriette. [opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of gloves] that tie is a fright! it must have cost at least fifty centimes. maurice. [snatching the things away from her] don't you touch them! henriette. they are from her? maurice. yes, they are. henriette. give them to me. maurice. no, she's better than we, better than everybody else. henriette. i don't believe it. she is simply stupider and stingier. one who weeps because you order champagne-maurice. when the child was without stockings. yes, she is a good woman. henriette. philistine! you'll never be an artist. but i am an artist, and i'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's cap instead of the laurel wreath--her name is jeanne? maurice. how do you know? henriette. why, that's the name of all housekeepers. maurice. henriette! (henriette takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into the fireplace.) maurice. [weakly] astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. you shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, then i'll send you packing. henriette. can you tell me what it is that binds you to me? maurice. if i only knew, i should be able to tear myself away. but i believe it must be those qualities which you have and i lack. i believe that the evil within you draws me with the irresistible lure of novelty. henriette. have you ever committed a crime? maurice. no real one. have you? henriette. yes. maurice. well, how did you find it? henriette. it was greater than to perform a good deed, for by that we are placed on equality with others; it was greater than to perform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised above others and rewarded. that crime placed me outside and beyond life, society, and my fellow-beings. since then i am living only a partial life, a sort of dream life, and that's why reality never gets a hold on me. maurice. what was it you did? henriette. i won't tell, for then you would get scared again. maurice. can you never be found out? henriette. never. but that does not prevent me from seeing, frequently, the five stones at the place de roquette, where the scaffold used to stand; and for this reason i never dare to open a pack of cards, as i always turn up the five-spot of diamonds. maurice. was it that kind of a crime? henriette. yes, it was that kind. maurice. of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. have you no conscience? henriette. none, but i should be grateful if you would talk of something else. maurice. suppose we talk of--love? henriette. of that you don't talk until it is over. maurice. have you been in love with adolphe? henriette. i don't know. the goodness of his nature drew me like some beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. yet there was much about his person that offended my eye, so that i had to spend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, before i could make a presentable figure of him. when he talked, i could notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson was often badly digested and awkwardly applied. you can imagine then how miserable the copy must appear now, when i am permitted to study the original. that's why he was afraid of having us two meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his time was up. maurice. poor adolphe! henriette. i feel sorry for him, too, as i know he must be suffering beyond all bounds-maurice. sh! somebody is coming. henriette. i wonder if it could be he? maurice. that would be unbearable. henriette. no, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you think the situation would have shaped itself? maurice. at first he would have been a little sore at you because he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried to find us in several other cafes--but his soreness would have changed into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had not deceived him. and in the joy at having wronged us by his suspicions, he would love both of us. and so it would make him happy to notice that we had become such good friends. it had always been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dream that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the world a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"yes, i trust you, maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly because your feelings are tied up elsewhere." henriette. bravo! you must have been in a similar situation before, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. do you know that adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannot enjoy his mistress without having his friend along? maurice. that's why i had to be called in to entertain you--hush! there is somebody outside--it must be he. henriette. no, don't you know these are the hours when ghosts walk, and then you can see so many things, and hear them also. to keep awake at night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me the same charm as a crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond the laws of nature. maurice. but the punishment is fearful--i am shivering or quivering, with cold or with fear. henriette. [wraps her opera cloak about him] put this on. it will make you warm. maurice. that's nice. it is as if i were inside of your skin, as if my body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were being remoulded in your shape. i can feel the moulding process going on. but i am also growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, where your bosom has left an impression, i can feel my own beginning to bulge. (during this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has been practicing the sonata in d-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimes wildly fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a little while, and at other times nothing has been heard but a part of the finale: bars 96 to 107.) maurice. what a monster, to sit there all night practicing on the piano. it gives me a sick feeling. do you know what i propose? let us drive out to the bois de boulogne and take breakfast in the pavilion, and see the sun rise over the lakes. henriette. bully! maurice. but first of all i must arrange to have my mail and the morning papers sent out by messenger to the pavilion. tell me, henriette: shall we invite adolphe? henriette. oh, that's going too far! but why not? the ass can also be harnessed to the triumphal chariot. let him come. [they get up.] maurice. [taking off the cloak] then i'll ring. henriette. wait a moment! [throws herself into his arms.] (curtain.) second scene (a large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the bois de boulogne. it is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, and divans. there are glass doors in the background, and beside them windows overlooking the lakes. in the foreground a table is spread, with flowers in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine in decanters, oysters on platters, many different kinds of wine glasses, and two lighted candelabra. on the right there is a round table full of newspapers and telegrams.) (maurice and henriette are sitting opposite each other at this small table.) (the sun is just rising outside.) maurice. there is no longer any doubt about it. the newspapers tell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on my success. this is the beginning of a new life, and my fate is wedded to yours by this night, when you were the only one to share my hopes and my triumph. from your hand i received the laurel, and it seems to me as if everything had come from you. henriette. what a wonderful night! have we been dreaming, or is this something we have really lived through? maurice. [rising] and what a morning after such a night! i feel as if it were the world's first day that is now being illumined by the rising sun. only this minute was the earth created and stripped of those white films that are now floating off into space. there lies the garden of eden in the rosy light of dawn, and here is the first human couple--do you know, i am so happy i could cry at the thought that all mankind is not equally happy--do you hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves beating against a rocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest? do you know what it is? it is paris whispering my name. do you see the columns of smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands? they are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, then it must become so, for i will it. at this moment all the telegraph instruments of europe are clicking out my name. the oriental express is carrying the newspapers to the far east, toward the rising sun; and the ocean steamers are carrying them to the utmost west. the earth is mine, and for that reason it is beautiful. now i should like to have wings for us two, so that we might rise from here and fly far, far away, before anybody can soil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out of my dream--for it is probably a dream! henriette. [holding out her hand to him] here you can feel that you are not dreaming. maurice. it is not a dream, but it has been one. as a poor young man, you know, when i was walking in the woods down there, and looked up to this pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, and always my thoughts carried me up to this room, with the balcony outside and the heavy curtains, as to a place of supreme bliss. to be sitting here in company with a beloved woman and see the sun rise while the candles were still burning in the candelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my youth. now it has come true, and now i have no more to ask of life--do you want to die now, together with me? henriette. no, you fool! now i want to begin living. maurice. [rising] to live: that is to suffer! now comes reality. i can hear his steps on the stairs. he is panting with alarm, and his heart is beating with dread of having lost what it holds most precious. can you believe me if i tell you that adolphe is under this roof? within a minute he will be standing in the middle of this floor. henriette. [alarmed] it was a stupid trick to ask him to come here, and i am already regretting it--well, we shall see anyhow if your forecast of the situation proves correct. maurice. oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings. (the head waiter enters with a card.) maurice. ask the gentleman to step in. [to henriette] i am afraid we'll regret this. henriette. too late to think of that now--hush! (adolphe enters, pale and hollow-eyed.) maurice. [trying to speak unconcernedly] there you are! what became of you last night? adolphe. i looked for you at the hotel des arrets and waited a whole hour. maurice. so you went to the wrong place. we were waiting several hours for you at the auberge des adrets, and we are still waiting for you, as you see. adolphe. [relieved] thank heaven! henriette. good morning, adolphe. you are always expecting the worst and worrying yourself needlessly. i suppose you imagined that we wanted to avoid your company. and though you see that we sent for you, you are still thinking yourself superfluous. adolphe. pardon me: i was wrong, but the night was dreadful. (they sit down. embarrassed silence follows.) henriette. [to adolphe] well, are you not going to congratulate maurice on his great success? adolphe. oh, yes! your success is the real thing, and envy itself cannot deny it. everything is giving way before you, and even i have a sense of my own smallness in your presence. maurice. nonsense!--henriette, are you not going to offer adolphe a glass of wine? adolphe. thank you, not for me--nothing at all! henriette. [to adolphe] what's the matter with you? are you ill? adolphe. not yet, but-henriette. your eyes-adolphe. what of them? maurice. what happened at the crêmerie last night? i suppose they are angry with me? adolphe. nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused a depression which it hurt me to watch. but nobody was angry with you, believe me. your friends understood, and they regarded your failure to come with sympathetic forbearance. madame catherine herself defended you and proposed your health. we all rejoiced in your success as if it had been our own. henriette. well, those are nice people! what good friends you have, maurice. maurice. yes, better than i deserve. adolphe. nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are a man greatly blessed in his friends--can't you feel how the air is softened to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that stream toward you from a thousand breasts? (maurice rises in order to hide his emotion.) adolphe. from a thousand breasts that you have rid of the nightmare that had been crushing them during a lifetime. humanity had been slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why men feel grateful toward you. to-day they are once more holding their heads high and saying: you see, we are a little better than our reputation after all. and that thought makes them better. (henriette tries to hide her emotion.) adolphe. am i in the way? just let me warm myself a little in your sunshine, maurice, and then i'll go. maurice. why should you go when you have only just arrived? adolphe. why? because i have seen what i need not have seen; because i know now that my hour is past. [pause] that you sent for me, i take as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of what has happened, a frankness that hurts less than deceit. you hear that i think well of my fellow-beings, and this i have learned from you, maurice. [pause] but, my friend, a few moments ago i passed through the church of st. germain, and there i saw a woman and a child. i am not wishing that you had seen them, for what has happened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought or a word to them before you set them adrift on the waters of the great city, then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. and now i bid you good-by. henriette. why must you go? adolphe. and you ask that? do you want me to tell you? henriette. no, i don't. adolphe. good-by then! [goes out.] maurice. the fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked." henriette. what a difference between this scene and the one we imagined! he is better than we. maurice. it seems to me now as if all the rest were better than we. henriette. do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, and that the woods have lost their rose colour? maurice. yes, i see, and the blue lake has turned black. let us flee to some place where the sky is always blue and the trees are always green. henriette. yes, let us--but without any farewells. maurice. no, with farewells. henriette. we were to fly. you spoke of wings--and your feet are of lead. i am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and get two pairs of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourself away. maurice. perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little arms is needed to hold me fast. henriette. it is the child that holds you then, and not the woman? maurice. it is the child. henriette. the child! another woman's child! and for the sake of it i am to suffer. why must that child block the way where i want to pass, and must pass? maurice. yes, why? it would be better if it had never existed. henriette. [walks excitedly back and forth] indeed! but now it does exist. like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in the ground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage. maurice. the triumphal chariot!--the ass is driven to death, but the rock remains. curse it! [pause.] henriette. there is nothing to do. maurice. yes, we must get married, and then our child will make us forget the other one. henriette. this will kill this! maurice. kill! what kind of word is that? henriette. [changing tone] your child will kill our love. maurice. no, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, but it will not be killed. henriette. [opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] look at it! five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! can it be possible that our fates are determined in advance? that our thoughts are guided as if through pipes to the spot for which they are bound, without chance for us to stop them? but i don't want it, i don't want it!--do you realise that i must go to the scaffold if my crime should be discovered? maurice. tell me about your crime. now is the time for it. henriette. no, i should regret it afterward, and you would despise me--no, no, no!--have you ever heard that a person could be hated to death? well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and my sisters, and he melted away like wax before a fire. ugh! let us talk of something else. and, above all, let us get away. the air is poisoned here. to-morrow your laurels will be withered, the triumph will be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant hero will hold the public attention. away from here, to work for new victories! but first of all, maurice, you must embrace your child and provide for its immediate future. you don't have to see the mother at all. maurice. thank you! your good heart does you honour, and i love you doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide. henriette. and then you go to the crêmerie and say good-by to the old lady and your friends. leave no unsettled business behind to make your mind heavy on our trip. maurice. i'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at the railroad station. henriette. agreed! and then: away from here--away toward the sea and the sun! (curtain.) act iii first scene (in the crêmerie. the gas is lit. mme. catherine is seated at the counter, adolphe at a table.) mme. catherine. such is life, monseiur adolphe. but you young ones are always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubber over it afterward. adolphe. no, it isn't that. i reproach nobody, and i am as fond as ever of both of them. but there is one thing that makes me sick at heart. you see, i thought more of maurice than of anybody else; so much that i wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give him pleasure--but now i have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the loss of her. i have lost both of them, and so my loneliness is made doubly painful. and then there is still something else which i have not yet been able to clear up. mme. catherine. don't brood so much. work and divert yourself. now, for instance, do you ever go to church? adolphe. what should i do there? mme. catherine. oh, there's so much to look at, and then there is the music. there is nothing commonplace about it, at least. adolphe. perhaps not. but i don't belong to that fold, i guess, for it never stirs me to any devotion. and then, madame catherine, faith is a gift, they tell me, and i haven't got it yet. mme. catherine. well, wait till you get it--but what is this i heard a while ago? is it true that you have sold a picture in london for a high price, and that you have got a medal? adolphe. yes, it's true. mme. catherine. merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say about it? adolphe. i am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost worthless to me at this moment. i am afraid of it as of a spectre: it brings disaster to speak of having seen it. mme. catherine. you're a queer fellow, and that's what you have always been. adolphe. not queer at all, but i have seen so much misfortune come in the wake of fortune, and i have seen how adversity brings out true friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of success--you asked me if i ever went to church, and i answered evasively. this morning i stepped into the church of st. germain without really knowing why i did so. it seemed as if i were looking for somebody in there--somebody to whom i could silently offer my gratitude. but i found nobody. then i dropped a gold coin in the poor-box. it was all i could get out of my church-going, and that was rather commonplace, i should say. mme. catherine. it was always something; and then it was fine to think of the poor after having heard good news. adolphe. it was neither fine nor anything else: it was something i did because i couldn't help myself. but something more occurred while i was in the church. i saw maurice's girl friend, jeanne, and her child. struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they seemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune. mme. catherine. well, children, i don't know in what kind of shape you keep your consciences. but how a decent fellow, a careful and considerate man like monsieur maurice, can all of a sudden desert a woman and her child, that is something i cannot explain. adolphe. nor can i explain it, and he doesn't seem to understand it himself. i met them this morning, and everything appeared quite natural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagine anything else. it was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction of a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty. there are things, madame catherine, that we cannot explain, and for this reason it is not for us to judge. and besides, you saw how it happened. maurice felt the danger in the air. i foresaw it and tried to prevent their meeting. maurice wanted to run away from it, but nothing helped. why, it was as if a plot had been laid by some invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile into each other's arms. of course, i am disqualified in this case, but i wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty." mme. catherine. well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that's what i call religion. adolphe. heavens, could it be that i am religious without knowing it. mme. catherine. but then, to _let_ oneself be driven or tempted into evil, as monsieur maurice has done, means weakness or bad character. and if you feel your strength failing you, then you ask for help, and then you get it. but he was too conceited to do that--who is this coming? the abbé, i think. adolphe. what does he want here? abbé. [enters] good evening, madame. good evening, monsieur. mme. catherine. can i be of any service? abbé. has monsieur maurice, the author, been here to-day? mme. catherine. not to-day. his play has just been put on, and that is probably keeping him busy. abbé. i have--sad news to bring him. sad in several respects. mme. catherine. may i ask of what kind? abbé. yes, it's no secret. the daughter he had with that girl, jeanne, is dead. mme. catherine. dead! adolphe. marion dead! abbé. yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previous illness. mme. catherine. o lord, who can tell thy ways! abbé. the mother's grief makes it necessary that monsieur maurice look after her, so we must try to find him. but first a question in confidence: do you know whether monsieur maurice was fond of the child, or was indifferent to it? mme. catherine. if he was fond of marion? why, all of us know how he loved her. adolphe. there's no doubt about that. abbé. i am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as i am concerned. mme. catherine. has there been any doubt about it? abbé. yes, unfortunately. it has even been rumoured in the neighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its mother in order to go away with a strange woman. in a few hours this rumour has grown into definite accusations, and at the same time the feeling against him has risen to such a point that his life is threatened and he is being called a murderer. mme. catherine. good god, what is _this_? what does it mean? abbé. now i'll tell you my opinion--i am convinced that the man is innocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about it as i do. but appearances are against monsieur maurice, and i think he will find it rather hard to clear himself when the police come to question him. adolphe. have the police got hold of the matter? abbé. yea, the police have had to step in to protect him against all those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. probably the commissaire will be here soon. mme. catherine. [to adolphe] there you see what happens when a man cannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when he trifles with vice. god will punish! adolphe. then he is more merciless than man. abbé. what do you know about that? adolphe. not very much, but i keep an eye on what happens-abbé. and you understand it also? adolphe. not yet perhaps. abbé. let us look more closely at the matter--oh, here comes the commissaire. commissaire. [enters] gentlemen--madame catherine--i have to trouble you for a moment with a few questions concerning monsieur maurice. as you have probably heard, he has become the object of a hideous rumour, which, by the by, i don't believe in. mme. catherine. none of us believes in it either. commissaire. that strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sake i must give him a chance to defend himself. abbé. that's right, and i guess he will find justice, although it may come hard. commissaire. appearances are very much against him, but i have seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocence was discovered. let me tell you what there is against him. the little girl, marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretly visited by the father, who seems to have made sure of the time when the child was to be found alone. fifteen minutes after his visit the mother returned home and found the child dead. all this makes the position of the accused man very unpleasant--the postmortem examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison, but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that leave no traces behind them. to me all this is mere coincidence of the kind i frequently come across. but here's something that looks worse. last night monsieur maurice was seen at the auberge des adrets in company with a strange lady. according to the waiter, they were talking about crimes. the place de roquette and the scaffold were both mentioned. a queer topic of conversation for a pair of lovers of good breeding and good social position! but even this may be passed over, as we know by experience that people who have been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to dig up all the worst that lies at the bottom of their souls. far more serious is the evidence given by the head waiter as to their champagne breakfast in the bois de boulogne this morning. he says that he heard them wish the life out of a child. the man is said to have remarked that, "it would be better if it had never existed." to which the woman replied: "indeed! but now it does exist." and as they went on talking, these words occurred: "this will kill this!" and the answer was: "kill! what kind of word is that?" and also: "the five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, the place de roquette." all this, you see, will be hard to get out of, and so will the foreign journey planned for this evening. these are serious matters. adolphe. he is lost! mme. catherine. that's a dreadful story. one doesn't know what to believe. abbé. this is not the work of man. god have mercy on him! adolphe. he is in the net, and he will never get out of it. mme. catherine. he had no business to get in. adolphe. do you begin to suspect him also, madame catherine? mme. catherine. yes and no. i have got beyond having an opinion in this matter. have you not seen angels turn into devils just as you turn your hand, and then become angels again? commissaire. it certainly does look queer. however, we'll have to wait and hear what explanations he can give. no one will be judged unheard. good evening, gentlemen. good evening, madame catherine. [goes out.] abbé. this is not the work of man. adolphe. no, it looks as if demons had been at work for the undoing of man. abbé. it is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is a terrible test. jeanne. [enters, dressed in mourning] good evening. pardon me for asking, but have you seen monsieur maurice? mme. catherine. no, madame, but i think he may be here any minute. you haven't met him then since-jeanne. not since this morning. mme. catherine. let me tell you that i share in your great sorrow. jeanne. thank you, madame. [to the abbé] so you are here, father. abbé. yes, my child. i thought i might be of some use to you. and it was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to the commissaire. jeanne. the commissaire! he doesn't suspect maurice also, does he? abbé. no, he doesn't, and none of us here do. but appearances are against him in a most appalling manner. jeanne. you mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--it means nothing to me, who has heard such things before when maurice had had a few drinks. then it is his custom to speculate on crimes and their punishment. besides it seems to have been the woman in his company who dropped the most dangerous remarks. i should like to have a look into that woman's eyes. adolphe. my dear jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman may have done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, she had no intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of her nature. i know her to be a good soul and one who can very well bear being looked straight in the eye. jeanne. your judgment in this matter, adolphe, has great value to me, and i believe what you say. it means that i cannot hold anybody but myself responsible for what has happened. it is my carelessness that is now being punished. [she begins to cry.] abbé. don't accuse yourself unjustly! i know you, and the serious spirit in which you have regarded your motherhood. that your assumption of this responsibility had not been sanctioned by religion and the civil law was not your fault. no, we are here facing something quite different. adolphe. what then? abbé. who can tell? (henriette enters, dressed in travelling suit.) adolphe. [rises with an air of determination and goes to meet henriette] you here? henriette. yes, where is maurice? adolphe. do you know--or don't you? henriette. i know everything. excuse me, madame catherine, but i was ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. [to adolphe] who is that woman?--oh! (henriette and jeanne stare at each other.) (emile appears in the kitchen door.) henriette. [to jeanne] i ought to say something, but it matters very little, for anything i can say must sound like an insult or a mockery. but if i ask you simply to believe that i share your deep sorrow as much as anybody standing closer to you, then you must not turn away from me. you mustn't, for i deserve your pity if not your forbearance. [holds out her hand.] jeanne. [looks hard at her] i believe you now--and in the next moment i don't. [takes henriette's hand.] henriette. [kisses jeanne's hand] thank you! jeanne. [drawing back her hand] oh, don't! i don't deserve it! i don't deserve it! abbé. pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems to prevail temporarily at least, won't you, mademoiselle henriette, shed some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surrounding the main point of accusation? i ask you, as a friend among friends, to tell us what you meant with all that talk about killing, and crime, and the place de roquette. that your words had no connection with the death of the child, we have reason to believe, but it would give us added assurance to hear what you were really talking about. won't you tell us? henriette. [after a pause] that i cannot tell! no, i cannot! adolphe. henriette, do tell! give us the word that will relieve us all. henriette. i cannot! don't ask me! abbé. this is not the work of man! henriette. oh, that this moment had to come! and in this manner! [to jeanne] madame, i swear that i am not guilty of your child's death. is that enough? jeanne. enough for us, but not for justice. henriette. justice! if you knew how true your words are! abbé. [to henriette] and if you knew what you were saying just now! henriette. do you know that better than i? abbé. yes, i do. (henriette looks fixedly at the abbé.) abbé. have no fear, for even if i guess your secret, it will not be exposed. besides, i have nothing to do with human justice, but a great deal with divine mercy. maurice. [enters hastily, dressed for travelling. he doesn't look at the others, who are standing in the background, but goes straight up to the counter, where mme. catherine is sitting.] you are not angry at me, madame catherine, because i didn't show up. i have come now to apologise to you before i start for the south at eight o'clock this evening. (mme. catherine is too startled to say a word.) maurice. then you are angry at me? [looks around] what does all this mean? is it a dream, or what is it? of course, i can see that it is all real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--there is jeanne, looking like a statue and dressed in black--and henriette looking like a corpse--what does it mean? (all remain silent.) maurice. nobody answers. it must mean something dreadful. [silence] but speak, please! adolphe, you are my friend, what is it? [pointing to emile] and there is a detective! adolphe. [comes forward] you don't know then? maurice. nothing at all. but i must know! adolphe. well, then--marion is dead. maurice. marion--dead? adolphe. yes, she died this morning. maurice. [to jeanne] so that's why you are in mourning. jeanne, jeanne, who has done this to us? jeanne. he who holds life and death in his hand. maurice. but i saw her looking well and happy this morning. how did it happen? who did it? somebody must have done it? [his eyes seek henriette.] adolphe. don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none to he found. unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion in a direction where none ought to exist. maurice. what direction is that? adolphe. well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk last night and this morning has placed you in a light that is anything but favourable. maurice, so they were listening to us. let me see, what were we saying--i remember!--then i am lost! adolphe. but if you explain your thoughtless words we will believe you. maurice. i cannot! and i will not! i shall be sent to prison, but it doesn't matter. marion is dead! dead! and i have killed her! (general consternation.) adolphe. think of what you are saying! weigh your words! do you realise what you said just now? maurice. what did i say? adolphe. you said that you had killed marion. maurice. is there a human being here who could believe me a murderer, and who could hold me capable of taking my own child's life? you who know me, madame catherine, tell me: do you believe, can you believe-mme. catherine. i don't know any longer what to believe. what the heart thinketh the tongue speaketh. and your tongue has spoken evil words. maurice. she doesn't believe me! adolphe. but explain your words, man! explain what you meant by saying that "your love would kill everything that stood in its way." maurice. so they know that too--are you willing to explain it, henriette? henriette. no, i cannot do that. abbé. there is something wrong behind all this and you have lost our sympathy, my friend. a while ago i could have sworn that you were innocent, and i wouldn't do that now. maurice. [to jeanne] what you have to say means more to me than anything else. jeanne. [coldly] answer a question first: who was it you cursed during that orgie out there? maurice. have i done that too? maybe. yes, i am guilty, and yet i am guiltless. let me go away from here, for i am ashamed of myself, and i have done more wrong than i can forgive myself. henriette. [to adolphe] go with him and see that he doesn't do himself any harm. adolphe. shall i--? henriette. who else? adolphe. [without bitterness] you are nearest to it--sh! a carriage is stopping outside. mme. catherine. it's the commissaire. well, much as i have seen of life, i could never have believed that success and fame were such short-lived things. maurice. [to henriette] from the triumphal chariot to the patrol wagon! jeanne. [simply] and the ass--who was that? adolphe. oh, that must have been me. commissaire. [enters with a paper in his hand] a summons to police headquarters--to-night, at once--for monsieur maurice gérard--and for mademoiselle henrietta mauclerc--both here? maurice and henriette. yes. maurice. is this an arrest? commissaire. not yet. only a summons. maurice. and then? commissaire. we don't know yet. (maurice and henriette go toward the door.) maurice. good-bye to all! (everybody shows emotion. the commissaire, maurice, and henriette go out.) emile. [enters and goes up to jeanne] now i'll take you home, sister. jeanne. and what do you think of all this? emile. the man is innocent. abbé. but as i see it, it is, and must always be, something despicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonable when a woman and her child are involved. emile. well, i should rather feel that way, too, now when it concerns my own sister, but unfortunately i am prevented from throwing the first stone because i have done the same thing myself. abbé. although i am free from blame in that respect, i am not throwing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is punished by its consequences. jeanne. pray for him! for both of them! abbé. no, i'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence to want to change the counsels of the lord. and what has happened here is, indeed, not the work of man. (curtain.) second scene (the auberge des adrets. adolphe and henriette are seated at the same table where maurice and henriette were sitting in the second act. a cup of coffee stands in front of adolphe. henriette has ordered nothing.) adolphe. you believe then that he will come here? henriette. i am sure. he was released this noon for lack of evidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets before it was dark. adolphe. poor fellow! oh, i tell you, life seems horrible to me since yesterday. henriette. and what about me? i am afraid to live, dare hardly breathe, dare hardly think even, since i know that somebody is spying not only on my words but on my thoughts. adolphe. so it was here you sat that night when i couldn't find you? henriette. yes, but don't talk of it. i could die from shame when i think of it. adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, stuff than he or i-adolphe. sh, sh, sh! henriette. yes, indeed! and what was it that made me stay here? i was lazy; i was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched me--i cannot explain it. but if you had come, it would never have happened. and to-day you are great, and he is small--less than the least of all. yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. to-day he has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. and public opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will be judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that see farthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he was responsible for it anyhow. adolphe. you know what my thoughts are in this matter, henriette, but i should like to know that both of you are spotless. won't you tell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? it cannot be a chance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so largely with killing and the scaffold. henriette. it was no chance. it was something that had to be said, something i cannot tell you--probably because i have no right to appear spotless in your eyes, seeing that i am not spotless. adolphe. all this is beyond me. henriette. let us talk of something else--do you believe there are many unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may even be our intimate friends? adolphe. [nervously] why? what do you mean? henriette. don't you believe that every human being at some time or another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fall under the law if it were discovered? adolphe. yes, i believe that is true, but no evil act escapes being punished by one's own conscience at least. [rises and unbuttons his coat] and--nobody is really good who has not erred. [breathing heavily] for in order to know how to forgive, one must have been in need of forgiveness--i had a friend whom we used to regard as a model man. he never spoke a hard word to anybody; he forgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with a strange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. at last, late in life, he gave me his secret in a single word: i am a penitent! [he sits down again.] (henriette remains silent, looking at him with surprise.) adolphe. [as if speaking to himself] there are crimes not mentioned in the criminal code, and these are the worse ones, for they have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be more severe than we are against our own selves. henriette. [after a pause] well, that friend of yours, did he find peace? adolphe. after endless self-torture he reached a certain degree of composure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. he never dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared to feel himself entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise: in a word, he could never quite forgive himself. henriette. never? what had he done then? adolphe. he had wished the life out of his father. and when his father suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. those imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, and he was sent to an asylum. from this he was discharged after a time as wholly recovered--as they put it. but the sense of guilt remained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for his evil thoughts. henriette. are you sure the evil will cannot kill? adolphe. you mean in some mystic way? henriette. as you please. let it go at mystic. in my own family--i am sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with their hatred. you see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all our tastes and inclinations. wherever he discovered a natural gift, he tried to root it out. in that way he aroused a resistance that accumulated until it became like an electrical battery charged with hatred. at last it grew so powerful that he languished away, became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came to wish himself dead. adolphe. and your conscience never troubled you? henriette. no, and furthermore, i don't know what conscience is. adolphe. you don't? well, then you'll soon learn. [pause] how do you believe maurice will look when he gets here? what do you think he will say? henriette. yesterday morning, you know, he and i tried to make the same kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you. adolphe. well? henriette. we guessed entirely wrong. adolphe. can you tell me why you sent for me? henriette. malice, arrogance, outright cruelty! adolphe. how strange it is that you can admit your faults and yet not repent of them. henriette. it must be because i don't feel quite responsible for them. they are like the dirt left behind by things handled during the day and washed off at night. but tell me one thing: do you really think so highly of humanity as you profess to do? adolphe. yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and a little worse. henriette. that is not a straightforward answer. adolphe. no, it isn't. but are you willing to answer me frankly when i ask you: do you still love maurice? henriette. i cannot tell until i see him. but at this moment i feel no longing for him, and it seems as if i could very well live without him. adolphe. it's likely you could, but i fear you have become chained to his fate--sh! here he comes. henriette. how everything repeats itself. the situation is the same, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting you yesterday. maurice. [enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] here i am, my dear friends, if this be me. for that last night in a cell changed me into a new sort of being. [notices henriette and adolphe.] adolphe. sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk things over. maurice. [to henriette] perhaps i am in the way? adolphe. now, don't get bitter. maurice. i have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, and suspicious also, so i guess i'll soon be left to myself. and who wants to keep company with a murderer? henriette. but you have been cleared of the charge. maurice. [picks up a newspaper] by the police, yes, but not by public opinion. here you see the murderer maurice gérard, once a playwright, and his mistress, henriette mauclerc-henriette. o my mother and my sisters--my mother! jesus have mercy! maurice. and can you see that i actually look like a murderer? and then it is suggested that my play was stolen. so there isn't a vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. in place of my own, the name of octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and he is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. o solon, solon! such is fortune, and such is fame! you are fortunate, adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded. henriette. so you don't know that adolphe has made a great success in london and carried off the first prize? maurice. [darkly] no, i didn't know that. is it true, adolphe? adolphe. it is true, but i have returned the prize. henriette. [with emphasis] that i didn't know! so you are also prevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend? adolphe. my friend? [embarrassed] oh, yes, yes! maurice. your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still farther apart. adolphe. that's what i expected, and i suppose i'll be as lonely with my success as you with your adversity. think of it--that people feel hurt by your fortune! oh, it's ghastly to be alive! maurice. you say that! what am i then to say? it is as if my eyes had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape of all life had been changed by it. this room looks like the room i saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. i recognise both of you, of course, but your faces are new to me. i sit here and search for words because i don't know what to say to you. i ought to defend myself, but i cannot. and i almost miss the cell, for it protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass right through me. the murderer maurice and his mistress! you don't love me any longer, henriette, and no more do i care for you. today you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive. (two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a table in the background.) adolphe. wait a little and get your thoughts together. that you have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in some of the evening papers. and that puts an end to the whole matter. your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the worst, you can write a new one. leave paris for a year and let everything become forgotten. you who have exonerated mankind will be exonerated yourself. maurice. ha-ha! mankind! ha-ha! adolphe. you have ceased to believe in goodness? maurice. yes, if i ever did believe in it. perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. when i, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what must then be the wretchedness of the rest? adolphe. now i'll go out and get all the evening papers, and then we'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different way. maurice. [turning toward the background] two detectives!--it means that i am released under surveillance, so that i can give myself away by careless talking. adolphe. those are not detectives. that's only your imagination. i recognise both of them. [goes toward the door.] maurice. don't leave us alone, adolphe. i fear that henriette and i may come to open explanations. adolphe. oh, be sensible, maurice, and think of your future. try to keep him quiet, henriette. i'll be back in a moment. [goes out.] henriette. well, maurice, what do you think now of our guilt or guiltlessness? maurice. i have killed nobody. all i did was to talk a lot of nonsense while i was drunk. but it is your crime that comes back, and that crime you have grafted on to me. henriette. oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--was it not you who cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, and wanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? and was it not i who made you visit marion and show yourself to madame catherine? maurice. yes, you are right. forgive me! you proved yourself more human than i, and the guilt is wholly my own. forgive me! but all the same i am without guilt. who has tied this net from which i can never free myself? guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yet guilty! oh, it is driving me mad--look, now they sit over there and listen to us--and no waiter comes to take our order. i'll go out and order a cup of tea. do you want anything? henriette. nothing. (maurice goes out.) first detective. [goes up to henriette] let me look at your papers. henriette. how dare you speak to me? detective. dare? i'll show you! henriette. what do you mean? detective. it's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. yesterday you came here with one man, and today with another. that's as good as walking the streets. and unescorted ladies don't get anything here. so you'd better get out and come along with me. henriette. my escort will be back in a moment. detective. yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kind that doesn't help a girl a bit! henriette. o god! my mother, my sisters!--i am of good family, i tell you. detective. yes, first-rate family, i am sure. but you are too well known through the papers. come along! henriette. where? what do you mean? detective. oh, to the bureau, of course. there you'll get a nice little card and a license that brings you free medical care. henriette. o lord jesus, you don't mean it! detective. [grabbing henriette by the arm] don't i mean it? henriette. [falling on her knees] save me, maurice! help! detective. shut up, you fool! (maurice enters, followed by waiter.) waiter. gentlemen of that kind are not served here. you just pay and get out! and take the girl along! maurice. [crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] henriette, pay for me, and let us get away from this place. i haven't a sou left. waiter. so the lady has to put up for her alphonse! alphonse! do you know what that is? henriette. [looking through her pocket-book] oh, merciful heavens! i have no money either!--why doesn't adolphe come back? detective. well, did you ever see such rotters! get out of here, and put up something as security. that kind of ladies generally have their fingers full of rings. maurice. can it be possible that we have sunk so low? henriette. [takes off a ring and hands it to the waiter] the abbé was right: this is not the work of man. maurice. no, it's the devil's!--but if we leave before adolphe returns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away. henriette. that would be in keeping with the rest--but we'll go into the river now, won't we? maurice. [takes henriette by the hand as they walk out together] into the river--yes! (curtain.) act iv first scene (in the luxembourg gardens, at the group of adam and eve. the wind is shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, and pieces of paper from the ground.) (maurice and henriette are seated on a bench.) henriette. so you don't want to die? maurice. no, i am afraid. i imagine that i am going to be very cold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and a few shavings to lie on. and besides that, it seems to me as if there were still some task waiting for me, but i cannot make out what it is. henriette. but i can guess what it is. maurice. tell me. henriette. it is revenge. you, like me, must have suspected jeanne and emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. such a revenge on a rival none but a woman could devise. maurice. exactly what i was thinking. but let me tell you that my suspicions go even further. it seems as if my sufferings during these last few days had sharpened my wits. can you explain, for instance, why the waiter from the auberge des adrets and the head waiter from the pavilion were not called to testify at the hearing? henriette. i never thought of it before. but now i know why. they had nothing to tell, because they had not been listening. maurice. but how could the commissaire then know what we had been saying? henriette. he didn't know, but he figured it out. he was guessing, and he guessed right. perhaps he had had to deal with some similar case before. maurice. or else he concluded from our looks what we had been saying. there are those who can read other people's thoughts-adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we should have called him an ass. it's the rule, i understand, although it's varied at times by the use of "idiot" instead. but ass was nearer at hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages and triumphal chariots. it is quite simple to figure out a fourth fact, when you have three known ones to start from. henriette. just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so completely. maurice. that's the result of thinking too well of one's fellow beings. this is all you get out of it. but do you know, _i_ suspect somebody else back of the commissaire, who, by-the-bye, must be a full-fledged scoundrel. henriette. you mean the abbé, who was taking the part of a private detective. maurice. that's what i mean. that man has to receive all kinds of confessions. and note you: adolphe himself told us he had been at the church of st. germain that morning. what was he doing there? he was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. and then the priest put the questions together for the commissaire. henriette. tell me something: do you trust adolphe? maurice. i trust no human being any longer. henriette. not even adolphe? maurice. him least of all. how could i trust an enemy--a man from whom i have taken away his mistress? henriette. well, as you were the first one to speak of this, i'll give you some data about our friend. you heard he had returned that medal from london. do you know his reason for doing so? maurice. no. henriette. he thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a penitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction. maurice. can that he possible? but what has he done? henriette. he has committed a crime of the kind that is not punishable under the law. that's what he gave me to understand indirectly. maurice. he, too! he, the best one of all, the model man, who never speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything. henriette. well, there you can see that we are no worse than others. and yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils were after us. maurice. he, also! then mankind has not been slandered--but if he has been capable of _one_ crime, then you may expect anything of him. perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us when he saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insisted that those fellows were not detectives. but, of course, you may expect anything from a deceived lover. henriette. could he be as mean as that? no, it is impossible, impossible! maurice. why so? if he is a scoundrel?--what were you two talking of yesterday, before i came? henriette. he had nothing but good to say of you. maurice. that's a lie! henriette. [controlling herself and changing her tone] listen. there is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever-for what reason, i don't know. have you thought of madame catherine's wavering attitude in this matter? didn't she say finally that she believed you capable of anything? maurice. yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is. to think evil of other people without reason, you must be a villain yourself. (henriette looks hard at him. pause.) henriette. to think evil of others, you must be a villain yourself. maurice. what do you mean? henriette. what i said. maurice. do you mean that i--? henriette. yes, that's what i mean now! look here! did you meet anybody but marion when you called there yesterday morning? maurice. why do you ask? henriette. guess! maurice. well, as you seem to know--i met jeanne, too. henriette. why did you lie to me? maurice. i wanted to spare you. henriette. and now you want me to believe in one who has been lying to me? no, my boy, now i believe you guilty of that murder. maurice. wait a moment! we have now reached the place for which my thoughts have been heading all the time, though i resisted as long as possible. it's queer that what lies next to one is seen last of all, and what one doesn't _want_ to believe cannot be believed--tell me something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we parted in the bois? henriette. [alarmed] why? maurice. you went either to adolphe--which you couldn't do, as he was attending a lesson--or you went to--marion! henriette. now i am convinced that you are the murderer. maurice. and i, that you are the murderess! you alone had an interest in getting the child out of the way--to get rid of the rock on the road, as you so aptly put it. henriette. it was you who said that. maurice. and the one who had an interest in it must have committed the crime. henriette. now, maurice, we have been running around and around in this tread-mill, scourging each other. let us quit before we get to the point of sheer madness. maurice. you have reached that point already. henriette. don't you think it's time for us to part, before we drive each other insane? maurice. yes, i think so. henriette. [rising] good-bye then! (two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background.) henriette. [turns and comes back to maurice] there they are again! maurice. the dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden. henriette. and force us back upon each other as if we were chained together. maurice. or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. are we really to marry? to settle down in the same place? to be able to close the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last? henriette. and shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage portion; you torturing me with the memory of adolphe, and i getting back at you with jeanne--and marion. maurice. never mention the name of marion again! don't you know that she was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps? henriette. and you are not there? what does that mean? maurice. it means that both jeanne and the police have warned me against the rage of the people. henriette. a coward, too? maurice. all the vices! how could you ever have cared for me? henriette. because two days ago you were another person, well worthy of being loved-maurice. and now sunk to such a depth! henriette. it isn't that. but you are beginning to flaunt bad qualities which are not your own. maurice. but yours? henriette. perhaps, for when you appear a little worse i feel myself at once a little better. maurice. it's like passing on a disease to save one's selfrespect. henriette. and how vulgar you have become, too! maurice. yes, i notice it myself, and i hardly recognise myself since that night in the cell. they put in one person and let out another through that gate which separates us from the rest of society. and now i feel myself the enemy of all mankind: i should like to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing less than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour. henriette. i had a letter from my mother today. she is the widow of a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of honour and that kind of thing. do you want to read the letter? no, you don't!--do you know that i am an outcast? my respectable acquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if i show myself on the streets alone the police will take me. do you realise now that we have to get married? maurice. we despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that is hell pure and simple! but, henriette, before we unite our destinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on more equal terms. henriette. all right, i'll tell you. i had a friend who got into trouble--you understand. i wanted to help her, as her whole future was at stake--and she died! maurice. that was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, too. henriette. you say so now, but the next time you lose your temper you will accuse me of it. maurice. no, i won't. but i cannot deny that it has shaken my faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. tell me, is her lover still alive, and does he know to what extent you were responsible? henriette. he was as guilty as i. maurice. and if his conscience should begin to trouble him--such things do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: then you would be lost. henriette. i know it, and it is this constant dread which has made me rush from one dissipation to another--so that i should never have time to wake up to full consciousness. maurice. and now you want me to take my marriage portion out of your dread. that's asking a little too much. henriette. but when i shared the shame of maurice the murderer-maurice. oh, let's come to an end with it! henriette. no, the end is not yet, and i'll not let go my hold until i have put you where you belong. for you can't go around thinking yourself better than i am. maurice. so you want to fight me then? all right, as you please! henriette. a fight on life and death! (the rolling of drums is heard in the distance.) maurice. the garden is to be closed. "cursed is the ground for thy sake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." henriette. "and the lord god said unto the woman--" a guard. [in uniform, speaking very politely] sorry, but the garden has to be closed. (curtain.) second scene (the crêmerie. mme. catherine is sitting at the counter making entries into an account book. adolphe and henriette are seated at a table.) adolphe. [calmly and kindly] but if i give you my final assurance that i didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, i thought you had played me false, this ought to convince you. henriette. but why did you fool us by saying that those fellows were not policemen? adolphe. i didn't think myself that they were, and then i wanted to reassure you. henriette. when you say it, i believe you. but then you must also believe me, if i reveal my innermost thoughts to you. adolphe. go on. henriette. but you mustn't come back with your usual talk of fancies and delusions. adolphe. you seem to have reason to fear that i may. henriette. i fear nothing, but i know you and your scepticism-well, and then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me! adolphe. i promise. henriette. now think of it, although i must say it's something terrible: i have partial evidence that maurice is guilty, or at least, i have reasonable suspicions-adolphe. you don't mean it! henriette. listen, and judge for yourself. when maurice left me in the bois, he said he was going to see marion alone, as the mother was out. and now i have discovered afterward that he did meet the mother. so that he has been lying to me. adolphe. that's possible, and his motive for doing so may have been the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is guilty of a murder? henriette. can't you see that?--don't you understand? adolphe. not at all. henriette. because you don't want to!--then there is nothing left for me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove an alibi. adolphe. henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. you, like he, have reached the border line of--insanity. the demons of distrust have got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of partial guilt to wound the other with. let me see if i can make a straight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing his child? henriette. yes, he's mad enough to do so. adolphe. you call his suspicions mad, but not your own. henriette. you have first to prove the contrary, or that i suspect him unjustly. adolphe. yes, that's easy. a new autopsy has proved that marion died of a well-known disease, the queer name of which i cannot recall just now. henriette. is it true? adolphe. the official report is printed in today's paper. henriette. i don't take any stock in it. they can make up that kind of thing. adolphe. beware, henriette--or you may, without knowing it, pass across that border line. beware especially of throwing out accusations that may put you into prison. beware! [he places his hand on her head] you hate maurice? henriette. beyond all bounds! adolphe. when love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted from the start. henriette. [in a quieter mood] what am i to do? tell me, you who are the only one that understands me. adolphe. but you don't want any sermons. henriette. have you nothing else to offer me? adolphe. nothing else. but they have helped me. henriette. preach away then! adolphe. try to turn your hatred against yourself. put the knife to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that _your_ trouble roots. henriette. explain yourself. adolphe. part from maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse your qualms of conscience together. break off your career as an artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for freedom and fun--as they call it. and you have seen now how much fun there is in it. then go home to your mother. henriette. never! adolphe. some other place then. henriette. i suppose you know, adolphe, that i have guessed your secret and why you wouldn't accept the prize? adolphe. oh, i assumed that you would understand a half-told story. henriette. well--what did you do to get peace? adolphe. what i have suggested: i became conscious of my guilt, repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my life like that of a penitent. henriette. how can you repent when, like me, you have no conscience? is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith is? adolphe. everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless you seek it--seek! (henriette remains silent.) adolphe. but don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you may harden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable. henriette. [after a pause] is conscience fear of punishment? adolphe. no, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by the misdeeds of our lower selves. henriette. then i must have a conscience also? adolphe. of course you have, but-henriette, tell me, adolphe, are you what they call religious? adolphe. not the least bit. henriette. it's all so queer--what is religion? adolphe. frankly speaking, i don't know! and i don't think anybody else can tell you. sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience. henriette. yes, it is a punishment. now i know what to do. good-bye, adolphe! adolphe. you'll go away from here? henriette. yes, i am going--to where you said. good-bye my friend! good-bye, madame catherine! mme. catherine. have you to go in such a hurry? henriette. yes. adolphe. do you want me to go with you? henriette. no, it wouldn't do. i am going alone, alone as i came here, one day in spring, thinking that i belonged where i don't belong, and believing there was something called freedom, which does not exist. good-bye! [goes out.] mme. catherine. i hope that lady never comes back, and i wish she had never come here at all! adolphe. who knows but that she may have had some mission to fill here? and at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity. mme. catherine. i don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that. adolphe. and she has even done less wrong than the rest of us. mme. catherine. that's possible, but not probable. adolphe. you are always so severe, madame catherine. tell me: have you never done anything wrong? mme. catherine. [startled] of course, as i am a sinful human creature. but if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right to tell others to keep away. and you may do so without being held severe or uncharitable. didn't i say to monsieur maurice the moment that lady entered here: look out! keep away! and he didn't, and so he fell in. just like a naughty, self-willed child. and when a man acts like that he has to have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster. adolphe. well, hasn't he had his spanking? mme. catherine. yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, as he is still going around complaining. adolphe. that's a very popular interpretation of the whole intricate question. mme. catherine. oh, pish! you do nothing but philosophise about your vices, and while you are still at it the police come along and solve the riddle. now please leave me alone with my accounts! adolphe. there's maurice now. mme. catherine. yes, god bless him! maurice. [enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat near adolphe] good evening. (mme. catherine nods and goes on figuring.) adolphe. well, how's everything with you? maurice. oh, beginning to clear up. adolphe. [hands him a newspaper, which maurice does not take] so you have read the paper? maurice. no, i don't read the papers any longer. there's nothing but infamies in them. adolphe. but you had better read it first-maurice. no, i won't! it's nothing but lies--but listen: i have found a new clue. can you guess who committed that murder? adolphe. nobody, nobody! maurice. do you know where henriette was during that quarter hour when the child was left alone?--she was _there_! and it is she who has done it! adolphe. you are crazy, man. maurice. not i, but henriette, is crazy. she suspects me and has threatened to report me. adolphe. henriette was here a while ago, and she used the selfsame words as you. both of you are crazy, for it has been proved by a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, the name of which i have forgotten. maurice. it isn't true! adolphe. that's what she said also. but the official report is printed in the paper. maurice. a report? then they have made it up! adolphe. and that's also what she said. the two of you are suffering from the same mental trouble. but with her i got far enough to make her realise her own condition. maurice. where did she go? adolphe. she went far away from here to begin a new life. maurice. hm, hm!--did you go to the funeral? adolphe. i did. maurice. well? adolphe. well, jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard word to say about you. maurice. she is a good woman. adolphe. why did you desert her then? maurice. because i _was_ crazy--blown up with pride especially--and then we had been drinking champagne-adolphe. can you understand now why jeanne wept when you drank champagne? maurice. yes, i understand now--and for that reason i have already written to her and asked her to forgive me--do you think she will forgive me? adolphe. i think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody. maurice. do you think she will forgive me completely, so that she will come back to me? adolphe. well, i don't know about _that_. you have shown yourself so poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust her fate to you any longer. maurice. but i can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, and i know she will come back to me. adolphe. how can you know that? how can you believe it? didn't you even suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sent the police after henriette out of revenge? maurice. but i don't believe it any longer--that is to say, i guess that fellow emile is a pretty slick customer. mme. catherine. now look here! what are you saying of monsieur emile? of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybody kept as straight as he--there is no flaw in him, but a lot of sense and tact. emile. [enters] monsieur gérard? maurice. that's me. emile. pardon me, but i have something to say to you in private. maurice. go right on. we are all friends here. (the abbé enters and sits down.) emile. [with a glance at the abbé] perhaps after-maurice. never mind. the abbé is also a friend, although he and i differ. emile. you know who i am, monsieur gérard? my sister has asked me to give you this package as an answer to your letter. (maurice takes the package and opens it.) emile. and now i have only to add, seeing as i am in a way my sister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, i acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tie between you does not exist any longer. maurice. but you must have a grudge against me? emile. must i? i can't see why. on the other hand, i should like to have a declaration from you, here in the presence of your friends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable of such a meanness as to send the police after mademoiselle henriette. maurice. i wish to take back what i said, and i offer you my apology, if you will accept it. emile. it is accepted. and i wish all of you a good evening. [goes out.] everybody. good evening! maurice. the tie and the gloves which jeanne gave me for the opening night of my play, and which i let henrietta throw into the fireplace. who can have picked them up? everything is dug up; everything comes back!--and when she gave them to me in the cemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, so that other people would like me also--and she herself stayed at home--this hurt her too deeply, and well it might. i have no right to keep company with decent human beings. oh, have i done this? scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrifice offered to my own welfare. this was what i threw away in order to get--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that would have belonged in the pillory--abbé, now i come over to you. abbé. welcome! maurice. give me the word that i need. abbé. do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and inform you that you have done nothing wrong? maurice. speak the right word! abbé. with your leave, i'll say then that i have found your behaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself. maurice. what can i do, what can i do, to get out of this? abbé. you know as well as i do. maurice. no, i know only that i am lost, that my life is spoiled, my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever. abbé. and so you are looking for a new existence in some better world, which you are now beginning to believe in? maurice. yes, that's it. abbé. you have been living in the flesh and you want now to live in the spirit. are you then so sure that this world has no more attractions for you? maurice. none whatever! honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry leaves; women, mere intoxicants. let me hide myself behind your consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled two days and lasted two eternities. abbé. all right! but this is not the place to go into the matter more closely. let us make an appointment for this evening at nine o'clock in the church of st. germain. for i am going to preach to the inmates of st. lazare, and that may be your first step along the hard road of penitence. maurice. penitence? abbé. well, didn't you wish-maurice. yes, yes! abbé. then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock. maurice. that will be splendid! abbé. give me your hand that you will not look back. maurice. [rising, holds out his hand] here is my hand, and my will goes with it. servant girl. [enters from the kitchen] a telephone call for monsieur maurice. maurice. from whom? servant girl. from the theatre. (maurice tries to get away, but the abbé holds on to his hand.) abbé. [to the servant girl] find out what it is. servant girl. they want to know if monsieur maurice is going to attend the performance tonight. abbé. [to maurice, who is trying to get away] no, i won't let you go. maurice. what performance is that? adolphe. why don't you read the paper? mme. catherine and the abbé. he hasn't read the paper? maurice. it's all lies and slander. [to the servant girl] tell them that i am engaged for this evening: i am going to church. (the servant girl goes out into the kitchen.) adolphe. as you don't want to read the paper, i shall have to tell you that your play has been put on again, now when you are exonerated. and your literary friends have planned a demonstration for this evening in recognition of your indisputable talent. maurice. it isn't true. everybody. it is true. maurice. [after a pause] i have not deserved it! abbé. good! adolphe. and furthermore, maurice-maurice. [hiding his face in his hands] furthermore! mme. catherine. one hundred thousand francs! do you see now that they come back to you? and the villa outside the city. everything is coming back except mademoiselle henriette. abbé. [smiling] you ought to take this matter a little more seriously, madame catherine. mme. catherine. oh, i cannot--i just can't keep serious any longer! [she breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smother with her handkerchief.] adolphe. say, maurice, the play begins at eight. abbé. but the church services are at nine. adolphe. maurice! mme. catherine. let us hear what the end is going to be, monsieur maurice. (maurice drops his head on the table, in his arms.) adolphe. loose him, abbé! abbé. no, it is not for me to loose or bind. he must do that himself. maurice. [rising] well, i go with the abbé. abbé. no, my young friend. i have nothing to give you but a scolding, which you can give yourself. and you owe a duty to yourself and to your good name. that you have got through with this as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have suffered your punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. and when providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add. maurice. but why did the punishment have to be so hard when i was innocent? abbé. hard? only two days! and you were not innocent. for we have to stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. and in your thought you became a murderer when your evil self wished the life out of your child. maurice. you are right. but my decision is made. to-night i will meet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself-but to-morrow evening i go to the theatre. mme. catherine. a good solution, monsieur maurice. adolphe. yes, that is the solution. whew! abbé. yes, so it is! (curtain.) miss julia introduction the volume containing the translation of "there are crimes and crimes" had barely reached the public when word came across the ocean that august strindberg had ended his long fight with life. his family had long suspected some serious organic trouble. early in the year, when lie had just recovered from an illness of temporary character, their worst fears became confirmed. an examination disclosed a case of cancer in the stomach, and the disease progressed so rapidly that soon all hope of recovery was out of the question. on may 14, 1912, strindberg died. with his death peace came in more senses than one. all the fear and hatred which he had incurred by what was best as well as worst in him seemed to be laid at rest with his own worn-out body. the love and the admiration which he had son in far greater measure were granted unchecked expression. his burial, otherwise as simple as he himself had prescribed, was a truly national event. at the grave of the arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representative of the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous members of the riksdag. thousands of men and women representing the best of sweden's intellectual and artistic life went to the cemetery, though the hour of the funeral was eight o'clock in the morning. it was an event in which the masses and the classes shared a common sorrow, the standards of student organizations mingling with the banners of labour unions. and not only the capital, but the whole country, observed the day as one of mourning. a thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on strindberg's death by the european press was that, in some mysterious manner, he, more than any other writer, appeared to be the incarnation of the past century, with its nervous striving after truth, its fear of being duped, and its fretting dread that evolution and progress might prove antagonistic terms. and at that simple grave in stockholm more than one bareheaded spectator must have heard the gravel rattle on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only a great individual, but a whole human period--great in spite of all its weaknesses--was being laid away for ever. among more than half a hundred plays produced by strindberg during his lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "miss julia," both on account of its masterful construction and its gripping theme. whether liking or disliking it, critics have repeatedly compared it with ibsen's "ghosts," and not always to the advantage of the latter work. it represents, first of all, its author's most determined and most daring endeavour to win the modern stage for naturalism. if he failed in this effort, it must be recalled to his honour that he was among the first to proclaim his own failure and to advocate the seeking of new paths. when the work was still hot from his hands, however, he believed in it with all the fervour of which his spirit was capable, and to bring home its lesson the more forcibly, he added a preface, a sort of dramatic creed, explaining just what he had tried to do, and why. this preface, which has become hardly less famous than the play itself, is here, as i believe, for the first time rendered into english. the acuteness and exhaustiveness of its analysis serves not only to make it a psychological document of rare value, but also to save me much of the comment which without it might be deemed needful. years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the exclusive performance of his own plays at stockholm, strindberg formulated a new dramatic creed--that of his mystical period, in which he was wont to sign himself "the author of 'gustavus vasa,' 'the dream play,' 'the last knight,' etc." it took the form of a pamphlet entitled "a memorandum to the members of the intimate theatre from the stage director" (stockholm, 1908). there he gave the following data concerning "miss julia," and the movement which that play helped to start: "in the '80's the new time began to extend its demands for reform to the stage also. zola declared war against the french comedy, with its brussels carpets, its patent-leather shoes and patent-leather themes, and its dialogue reminding one of the questions and answers of the catechism. in 1887 antoine opened his théâtre libre at paris, and 'thérèse raquin,' although nothing but an adapted novel, became the dominant model. it was the powerful theme and the concentrated form that showed innovation, although the unity of time was not yet observed, and curtain falls were retained. it was then i wrote my dramas: 'miss julia,' 'the father,' and 'creditors.' "'miss julia,' which was equipped with a now well-known preface, was staged by antoine, but not until 1892 or 1893, having previously been played by the students' association of the copenhagen university in 1888 or 1889. in the spring of 1893 'creditors' was put on at the théâtre l'oeuvre, in paris, and in the fall of the same year 'the father' was given at the same theatre, with philippe garnier in the title part. "but as early as 1889 the freie bühne had been started at berlin, and before 1893 all three of my dramas had been performed. 'miss julia' was preceded by a lecture given by paul schlenther, now director of the hofburg theater at vienna. the principal parts were played by rosa bertens, emanuel reicher, rittner and jarno. and sigismund lautenburg, director of the residenz theater, gave more than one hundred performances of 'creditors.' "then followed a period of comparative silence, and the drama sank back into the old ruts, until, with the beginning of the new century, reinhardt opened his kleines theater. there i was played from the start, being represented by the long one-act drama 'the link,' as well as by 'miss julia' (with eysoldt in the title part), and 'there are crimes and crimes.'" he went on to tell how one european city after another had got its "little," or "free," or "intimate" theatre. and had he known of it, he might have added that the promising venture started by mr. winthrop ames at new york comes as near as any one of its earlier rivals in the faithful embodiment of those theories which, with promethean rashness, he had flung at the head of a startled world in 1888. for the usual thing has happened: what a quarter-century ago seemed almost ludicrous in its radicalism belongs to-day to the established traditions of every progressive stage. had strindberg been content with his position of 1888, many honours now withheld might have fallen to his share. but like ibsen, he was first and last--and to the very last!--an innovator, a leader of human thought and human endeavour. and so it happened that when the rest thought to have overtaken him, he had already hurried on to a more advanced position, heedless of the scorn poured on him by those to whom "consistency" is the foremost of all human virtues. three years before his death we find him writing as follows in another pamphlet "an open letter to the intimate theatre," stockholm, 1909--of the position once assumed so proudly and so confidently by himself: "as the intimate theatre counts its inception from the successful performance of 'miss julia' in 1900, it was quite natural that the young director (august falck) should feel the influence of the preface, which recommended a search for actuality. but that was twenty years ago, and although i do not feel the need of attacking myself in this connection, i cannot but regard all that pottering with stage properties as useless." it has been customary in this country to speak of the play now presented to the public as "countess julie." the noble title is, of course, picturesque, but incorrect and unwarranted. it is, i fear, another outcome of that tendency to exploit the most sensational elements in strindberg's art which has caused somebody to translate the name of his first great novel as "the scarlet room,"--instead of simply "the red room,"--thus hoping to connect it in the reader's mind with the scarlet woman of the bible. in sweden, a countess is the wife or widow of a count. his daughter is no more a countess than is the daughter of an english earl. her title is that of "fröken," which corresponds exactly to the german "fräulein" and the english "miss." once it was reserved for the young women of the nobility. by an agitation which shook all sweden with mingled fury and mirth, it became extended to all unmarried women. the french form of _miss julia's_ christian name is, on the other hand, in keeping with the author's intention, aiming at an expression of the foreign sympathies and manners which began to characterize the swedish nobility in the eighteenth century, and which continued to assert themselves almost to the end of the nineteenth. but in english that form would not have the same significance, and nothing in the play makes its use imperative. the valet, on the other hand, would most appropriately be named _jean_ both in england and here, and for that reason i have retained this form of his name. almost every one translating from the scandinavian languages insists on creating a difficulty out of the fact that the three northern nations--like the germans and the french--still use the second person singular of the personal pronoun to indicate a closer degree of familiarity. but to translate the swedish "du" with the english "thou" is as erroneous as it is awkward. tytler laid down his "principles of translation" in 1791--and a majority of translators are still unaware of their existence. yet it ought to seem self-evident to every thinking mind that idiomatic equivalence, not verbal identity, must form the basis of a good and faithful translation. when an english mother uses "you" to her child, she establishes thereby the only rational equivalent for the "du" used under similar circumstances by her swedish sister. nobody familiar with the english language as it actually springs from the lips of living men and women can doubt that it offers ways of expressing varying shades of intimacy no less effective than any found in the swedish tongue. let me give an illustration from the play immediately under discussion. returning to the stage after the ballet scene, _jean_ says to _miss julia_: "i love you--can you doubt it?" and her reply, literally, is: "you?--say thou!" i have merely made him say: "can you doubt it, miss julia?" and her answer: "miss?--call me julia!" as that is just what would happen under similar circumstances among english-speaking people, i contend that not a whit of the author's meaning or spirit has been lost in this translation. if ever a play was written for the stage, it is this one. and on the stage there is nothing to take the place of the notes and introductory explanations that so frequently encumber the printed volume. on the stage all explanations must lie within the play itself, and so they should in the book also, i believe. the translator is either an artist or a man unfit for his work. as an artist he must have a courage that cannot even be cowed by his reverence for the work of a great creative genius. if, mistakenly, he revere the letter of that work instead of its spirit, then he will reduce his own task to mere literary carpentry, and from his pen will spring not a living form, like the one he has been set to transplant, but only a death mask! author's preface like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed to me a sort of _biblia pauperum_, or a bible in pictures for those who cannot read what is written or printed. and in the same way the playwright has seemed to me a lay preacher spreading the thoughts of his time in a form so popular that the middle classes, from which theatrical audiences are mainly drawn, can know what is being talked about without troubling their brains too much. for this reason the theatre has always served as a grammar-school to young people, women, and those who have acquired a little knowledge, all of whom retain the capacity for deceiving themselves and being deceived--which means again that they are susceptible to illusions produced by the suggestions of the author. and for the same reason i have had a feeling that, in our time, when the rudimentary, incomplete thought processes operating through our fancy seem to be developing into reflection, research, and analysis, the theatre might stand on the verge of being abandoned as a decaying form, for the enjoyment of which we lack the requisite conditions. the prolonged theatrical crisis now prevailing throughout europe speaks in favour of such a supposition, as well as the fact that, in the civilised countries producing the greatest thinkers of the age, namely, england and germany, the drama is as dead as are most of the other fine arts. in some other countries it has, however, been thought possible to create a new drama by filling the old forms with the contents of a new time. but, for one thing, there has not been time for the new thoughts to become so popularized that the public might grasp the questions raised; secondly, minds have been so inflamed by party conflicts that pure and disinterested enjoyment has been excluded from places where one's innermost feelings are violated and the tyranny of an applauding or hissing majority is exercised with the openness for which the theatre gives a chance; and, finally, there has been no new form devised for the new contents, and the new wine has burst the old bottles. in the following drama i have not tried to do anything new--for that cannot be done--but i have tried to modernize the form in accordance with the demands which i thought the new men of a new time might be likely to make on this art. and with such a purpose in view, i have chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme that might well be said to lie outside the partisan strife of the day: for the problem of social ascendancy or decline, of higher or lower, of better or worse, of men or women, is, has been, and will be of lasting interest. in selecting this theme from real life, as it was related to me a number of years ago, when the incident impressed me very deeply, i found it suited to a tragedy, because it can only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individual perish, and this must be the case in still higher degree when we see an entire family die out. but perhaps a time will arrive when we have become so developed, so enlightened, that we can remain indifferent before the spectacle of life, which now seems so brutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have closed up those lower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call feelings, and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harmful by the final growth of our reflective organs. the fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on our weakness in not being able to resist the sense of fear that the same fate could befall ourselves. and yet it is possible that a very sensitive spectator might fail to find satisfaction in this kind of pity, while the man believing in the future might demand some positive suggestion for the abolition of evil, or, in other words, some kind of programme. but, first of all, there is no absolute evil. that one family perishes is the fortune of another family, which thereby gets a chance to rise. and the alternation of ascent and descent constitutes one of life's main charms, as fortune is solely determined by comparison. and to the man with a programme, who wants to remedy the sad circumstance that the hawk eats the dove, and the flea eats the hawk, i have this question to put: why should it be remedied? life is not so mathematically idiotic that it lets only the big eat the small, but it happens just as often that the bee kills the lion, or drives it to madness at least. that my tragedy makes a sad impression on many is their own fault. when we grow strong as were the men of the first french revolution, then we shall receive an unconditionally good and joyful impression from seeing the national forests rid of rotting and superannuated trees that have stood too long in the way of others with equal right to a period of free growth--an impression good in the same way as that received from the death of one incurably diseased. not long ago they reproached my tragedy "the father" with being too sad--just as if they wanted merry tragedies. everybody is clamouring arrogantly for "the joy of life," and all theatrical managers are giving orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in being silly and picturing all human beings as so many sufferers from st. vitus' dance or idiocy. i find the joy of life in its violent and cruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in knowing something and learning something. and for this reason i have selected an unusual but instructive case--an exception, in a word--but a great exception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke all lovers of the commonplace. and what also will offend simple brains is that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, that the view-point is not always the same. an event in real life--and this discovery is quite recent--springs generally from a whole series of more or less deep-lying motives, but of these the spectator chooses as a rule the one his reason can master most easily, or else the one reflecting most favourably on his power of reasoning. a suicide is committed. bad business, says the merchant. unrequited love, say the ladies. sickness, says the sick man. crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. but now it may be that the motive lay in all or none of these directions. it is possible that the one who is dead may have hid the main motive by pushing forward another meant to place his memory in a better light. in explanation of _miss julia's_ sad fate i have suggested many factors: her mother's fundamental instincts; her father's mistaken upbringing of the girl; her own nature, and the suggestive influence of her fiancé on a weak and degenerate brain; furthermore, and more directly: the festive mood of the midsummer eve; the absence of her father; her physical condition; her preoccupation with the animals; the excitation of the dance; the dusk of the night; the strongly aphrodisiacal influence of the flowers; and lastly the chance forcing the two of them together in a secluded room, to which must be added the aggressiveness of the excited man. thus i have neither been one-sidedly physiological nor one-sidedly psychological in my procedure. nor have i merely delivered a moral preachment. this multiplicity of motives i regard as praiseworthy because it is in keeping with the views of our own time. and if others have done the same thing before me, i may boast of not being the sole inventor of my paradoxes--as all discoveries are named. in regard to the character-drawing i may say that i have tried to make my figures rather "characterless," and i have done so for reasons i shall now state. in the course of the ages the word character has assumed many meanings. originally it signified probably the dominant ground-note in the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused with temperament. afterward it became the middle-class term for an automaton, so that an individual whose nature had come to a stand still, or who had adapted himself to a certain part in life--who had ceased to grow, in a word--was named a character; while one remaining in a state of development--a skilful navigator on life's river, who did not sail with close-tied sheets, but knew when to fall off before the wind and when to luff again--was called lacking in character. and he was called so in a depreciatory sense, of course, because he was so hard to catch, to classify, and to keep track of. this middle-class notion about the immobility of the soul was transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element has always held sway. there a character became synonymous with a gentleman fixed and finished once for all--one who invariably appeared drunk, jolly, sad. and for the purpose of characterisation nothing more was needed than some physical deformity like a clubfoot, a wooden leg, a red nose; or the person concerned was made to repeat some phrase like "that's capital!" or "barkis is willin'," or something of that kind. this manner of regarding human beings as homogeneous is preserved even by the great molière. _harpagon_ is nothing but miserly, although _harpagon_ might as well have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a fine father, and a public-spirited citizen. what is worse yet, his "defect" is of distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, who are his heirs, and for that reason should not find fault with him, even if they have to wait a little for their wedding. i do not believe, therefore, in simple characters on the stage. and the summary judgments of the author upon men--this one stupid, and that one brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy--should be challenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of the soul-complex, and who realise that "vice" has a reverse very much resembling virtue. because they are modern characters, living in a period of transition more hysterically hurried than its immediate predecessor at least, i have made my figures vacillating, out of joint, torn between the old and the new. and i do not think it unlikely that, through newspaper reading and overheard conversations, modern ideas may have leaked down to the strata where domestic servants belong. my souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past and present stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off pieces of sunday clothing turned into rags--all patched together as is the human soul itself. and i have furthermore offered a touch of evolutionary history by letting the weaker repeat words stolen from the stronger, and by letting different souls accept "ideas"--or suggestions, as they are called--from each other. _miss julia_ is a modern character, not because the man-hating half-woman may not have existed in all ages, but because now, after her discovery, she has stepped to the front and begun to make a noise. the half-woman is a type coming more and more into prominence, selling herself nowadays for power, decorations, distinctions, diplomas, as formerly for money, and the type indicates degeneration. it is not a good type, for it does not last, but unfortunately it has the power of reproducing itself and its misery through one more generation. and degenerate men seem instinctively to make their selection from this kind of women, so that they multiply and produce indeterminate sexes to whom life is a torture. fortunately, however, they perish in the end, either from discord with real life, or from the irresistible revolt of their suppressed instincts, or from foiled hopes of possessing the man. the type is tragical, offering us the spectacle of a desperate struggle against nature. it is also tragical as a romantic inheritance dispersed by the prevailing naturalism, which wants nothing but happiness: and for happiness strong and sound races are required. but _miss julia_ is also a remnant of the old military nobility which is now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain. she is a victim of the discord which a mother's "crime" produces in a family, and also a victim of the day's delusions, of the circumstances, of her defective constitution--all of which may be held equivalent to the old-fashioned fate or universal law. the naturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe out the results of an action--punishment, prison, or fear--and for the simple reason that they remain without regard to his verdict. for fellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured as those on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can be without cost to themselves. even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, the father should forego his vengeance, the daughter would take vengeance upon herself, just as she does in the play, and she would be moved to it by that innate or acquired sense of honour which the upper classes inherit--whence? from the days of barbarism, from the original home of the aryans, from the chivalry of the middle ages? it is beautiful, but it has become disadvantageous to the preservation of the race. it is this, the nobleman's _harakiri_--or the law of the inner conscience compelling the japanese to cut open his own abdomen at the insult of another--which survives, though somewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the nobility. for this reason the valet, _jean_, continues to live, but _miss julia_ cannot live on without honour. in so far as he lacks this life�endangering superstition about honour, the serf takes precedence of the earl, and in all of us aryans there is something of the nobleman, or of don quixote, which makes us sympathise with the man who takes his own life because he has committed a dishonourable deed and thus lost his honour. and we are noblemen to the extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with the living corpse of one who was once great--yes, even if the one thus fallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds. _jean_, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock--one in whom the differentiation is clearly noticeable. he was a cotter's child, and he has trained himself up to the point where the future gentleman has become visible. he has found it easy to learn, having finely developed senses (smell, taste, vision) and an instinct for beauty besides. he has already risen in the world, and is strong enough not to be sensitive about using other people's services. he has already become a stranger to his equals, despising them as so many outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing them because they know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise with envy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure. from this relationship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating between love of distinction and hatred of those who have already achieved it. he says himself that he is an aristocrat, and has learned the secrets of good company. he is polished on the outside and coarse within. he knows already how to wear the frock-coat with ease, but the cleanliness of his body cannot be guaranteed. he feels respect for the young lady, but he is afraid of _christine_, who has his dangerous secrets in her keeping. his emotional callousness is sufficient to prevent the night's happenings from exercising a disturbing influence on his plans for the future. having at once the slave's brutality and the master's lack of squeamishness, he can see blood without fainting, and he can also bend his back under a mishap until able to throw it off. for this reason he will emerge unharmed from the battle, and will probably end his days as the owner of a hotel. and if he does not become a roumanian count, his son will probably go to a university, and may even become a county attorney. otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant information as to the way in which the lower classes look at life from beneath�that is, when he speaks the truth, which is not often, as he prefers what seems favourable to himself to what is true. when _miss julia_ suggests that the lower classes must feel the pressure from above very heavily, _jean_ agrees with her, of course, because he wants to gain her sympathy. but he corrects himself at once, the moment he realises the advantage of standing apart from the herd. and _jean_ stands above _miss julia_ not only because his fate is in ascendancy, but because he is a man. sexually he is the aristocrat because of his male strength, his more finely developed senses, and his capacity for taking the initiative. his inferiority depends mainly on the temporary social environment in which he has to live, and which he probably can shed together with the valet's livery. the mind of the slave speaks through his reverence for the count (as shown in the incident with the boots) and through his religious superstition. but he reveres the count principally as a possessor of that higher position toward which he himself is striving. and this reverence remains even when he has won the daughter of the house, and seen that the beautiful shell covered nothing but emptiness. i don't believe that any love relation in a "higher" sense can spring up between two souls of such different quality. and for this reason i let _miss julia_ imagine her love to be protective or commiserative in its origin. and i let _jean_ suppose that, under different social conditions, he might feel something like real love for her. i believe love to be like the hyacinth, which has to strike roots in darkness _before_ it can bring forth a vigorous flower. in this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossom and seed at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon. _christine_, finally, is a female slave, full of servility and sluggishness acquired in front of the kitchen fire, and stuffed full of morality and religion that are meant to serve her at once as cloak and scapegoat. her church-going has for its purpose to bring her quick and easy riddance of all responsibility for her domestic thieveries and to equip her with a new stock of guiltlessness. otherwise she is a subordinate figure, and therefore purposely sketched in the same manner as the minister and the doctor in "the father," whom i designed as ordinary human beings, like the common run of country ministers and country doctors. and if these accessory characters have seemed mere abstractions to some people, it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certain extent impersonal in the exercise of their callings. this means that they are without individuality, showing only one side of themselves while at work. and as long as the spectator does not feel the need of seeing them from other sides, my abstract presentation of them remains on the whole correct. in regard to the dialogue, i want to point out that i have departed somewhat from prevailing traditions by not turning my figures into catechists who make stupid questions in order to call forth witty answers. i have avoided the symmetrical and mathematical construction of the french dialogue, and have instead permitted the minds to work irregularly as they do in reality, where, during conversation, the cogs of one mind seem more or less haphazardly to engage those of another one, and where no topic is fully exhausted. naturally enough, therefore, the dialogue strays a good deal as, in the opening scenes, it acquires a material that later on is worked over, picked up again, repeated, expounded, and built up like the theme in a musical composition. the plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is concerned only with two persons, i have concentrated my attention on these, introducing only one subordinate figure, the cook, and keeping the unfortunate spirit of the father hovering above and beyond the action. i have done this because i believe i have noticed that the psychological processes are what interest the people of our own day more than anything else. our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how it comes to happen! what we want to see are just the wires, the machinery. we want to investigate the box with the false bottom, touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into the cards to discover how they are marked. in this i have taken for models the monographic novels of the brothers de goncourt, which have appealed more to me than any other modern literature. turning to the technical side of the composition, i have tried to abolish the division into acts. and i have done so because i have come to fear that our decreasing capacity for illusion might be unfavourably affected by intermissions during which the spectator would have time to reflect and to get away from the suggestive influence of the author-hypnotist. my play will probably last an hour and a half, and as it is possible to listen that length of time, or longer, to a lecture, a sermon, or a debate, i have imagined that a theatrical performance could not become fatiguing in the same time. as early as 1872, in one of my first dramatic experiments, "the outlaw," i tried the same concentrated form, but with scant success. the play was written in five acts and wholly completed when i became aware of the restless, scattered effect it produced. then i burned it, and out of the ashes rose a single, well-built act, covering fifty printed pages, and taking hour for its performance. thus the form of the present play is not new, but it seems to be my own, and changing aesthetical conventions may possibly make it timely. my hope is still for a public educated to the point where it can sit through a whole-evening performance in a single act. but that point cannot be reached without a great deal of experimentation. in the meantime i have resorted to three art forms that are to provide resting-places for the public and the actors, without letting the public escape from the illusion induced. all these forms are subsidiary to the drama. they are the monologue, the pantomime, and the dance, all of them belonging originally to the tragedy of classical antiquity. for the monologue has sprung from the monody, and the chorus has developed into the ballet. our realists have excommunicated the monologue as improbable, but if i can lay a proper basis for it, i can also make it seem probable, and then i can use it to good advantage. it is probable, for instance, that a speaker may walk back and forth in his room practising his speech aloud; it is probable that an actor may read through his part aloud, that a servant-girl may talk to her cat, that a mother may prattle to her child, that an old spinster may chatter to her parrot, that a person may talk in his sleep. and in order that the actor for once may have a chance to work independently, and to be free for a moment from the author's pointer, it is better that the monologues be not written out, but just indicated. as it matters comparatively little what is said to the parrot or the cat, or in one's sleep--because it cannot influence the action--it is possible that a gifted actor, carried away by the situation and the mood of the occasion, may improvise such matters better than they could be written by the author, who cannot figure out in advance how much may be said, and how long the talk may last, without waking the public out of their illusions. it is well known that, on certain stages, the italian theatre has returned to improvisation and thereby produced creative actors� who, however, must follow the author's suggestions--and this may be counted a step forward, or even the beginning of a new art form that might well be called _productive_. where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem unreal, i have used the pantomime, and there i have left still greater scope for the actor's imagination--and for his desire to gain independent honours. but in order that the public may not be tried beyond endurance, i have permitted the music--which is amply warranted by the midsummer eve's dance--to exercise its illusory power while the dumb show lasts. and i ask the musical director to make careful selection of the music used for this purpose, so that incompatible moods are not induced by reminiscences from the last musical comedy or topical song, or by folk-tunes of too markedly ethnographical distinction. the mere introduction of a scene with a lot of "people" could not have taken the place of the dance, for such scenes are poorly acted and tempt a number of grinning idiots into displaying their own smartness, whereby the illusion is disturbed. as the common people do not improvise their gibes, but use ready-made phrases in which stick some double meaning, i have not composed their lampooning song, but have appropriated a little known folk-dance which i personally noted down in a district near stockholm. the words don't quite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it, and this is intentional, for the cunning (i. e., weakness) of the slave keeps him from any direct attack. there must, then, be no chattering clowns in a serious action, and no coarse flouting at a situation that puts the lid on the coffin of a whole family. as far as the scenery is concerned, i have borrowed from impressionistic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abruptness, and have thereby in my opinion strengthened the illusion. because the whole room and all its contents are not shown, there is a chance to guess at things--that is, our imagination is stirred into complementing our vision. i have made a further gain in getting rid of those tiresome exits by means of doors, especially as stage doors are made of canvas and swing back and forth at the lightest touch. they are not even capable of expressing the anger of an irate _pater familias_ who, on leaving his home after a poor dinner, slams the door behind him "so that it shakes the whole house." (on the stage the house sways.) i have also contented myself with a single setting, and for the double purpose of making the figures become parts of their surroundings, and of breaking with the tendency toward luxurious scenery. but having only a single setting, one may demand to have it real. yet nothing is more difficult than to get a room that looks something like a room, although the painter can easily enough produce waterfalls and flaming volcanoes. let it go at canvas for the walls, but we might be done with the painting of shelves and kitchen utensils on the canvas. we have so much else on the stage that is conventional, and in which we are asked to believe, that we might at least be spared the too great effort of believing in painted pans and kettles. i have placed the rear wall and the table diagonally across the stage in order to make the actors show full face and half profile to the audience when they sit opposite each other at the table. in the opera "aïda" i noticed an oblique background, which led the eye out into unseen prospects. and it did not appear to be the result of any reaction against the fatiguing right angle. another novelty well needed would be the abolition of the foot-lights. the light from below is said to have for its purpose to make the faces of the actors look fatter. but i cannot help asking: why must all actors be fat in the face? does not this light from below tend to wipe out the subtler lineaments in the lower part of the face, and especially around the jaws? does it not give a false appearance to the nose and cast shadows upward over the eyes? if this be not so, another thing is certain: namely, that the eyes of the actors suffer from the light, so that the effective play of their glances is precluded. coming from below, the light strikes the retina in places generally protected (except in sailors, who have to see the sun reflected in the water), and for this reason one observes hardly anything but a vulgar rolling of the eyes, either sideways or upwards, toward the galleries, so that nothing but the white of the eye shows. perhaps the same cause may account for the tedious blinking of which especially the actresses are guilty. and when anybody on the stage wants to use his eyes to speak with, no other way is left him but the poor one of staring straight at the public, with whom he or she then gets into direct communication outside of the frame provided by the setting. this vicious habit has, rightly or wrongly, been named "to meet friends." would it not be possible by means of strong side-lights (obtained by the employment of reflectors, for instance) to add to the resources already possessed by the actor? could not his mimicry be still further strengthened by use of the greatest asset possessed by the face: the play of the eyes? of course, i have no illusions about getting the actors to play _for_ the public and not _at_ it, although such a change would be highly desirable. i dare not even dream of beholding the actor's back throughout an important scene, but i wish with all my heart that crucial scenes might not be played in the centre of the proscenium, like duets meant to bring forth applause. instead, i should like to have them laid in the place indicated by the situation. thus i ask for no revolutions, but only for a few minor modifications. to make a real room of the stage, with the fourth wall missing, and a part of the furniture placed back toward the audience, would probably produce a disturbing effect at present. in wishing to speak of the facial make-up, i have no hope that the ladies will listen to me, as they would rather look beautiful than lifelike. but the actor might consider whether it be to his advantage to paint his face so that it shows some abstract type which covers it like a mask. suppose that a man puts a markedly choleric line between the eyes, and imagine further that some remark demands a smile of this face fixed in a state of continuous wrath. what a horrible grimace will be the result? and how can the wrathful old man produce a frown on his false forehead, which is smooth as a billiard ball? in modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest movements of the soul are to be reflected on the face rather than by gestures and noise, it would probably be well to experiment with strong side-light on a small stage, and with unpainted faces, or at least with a minimum of make-up. if, in additon, we might escape the visible orchestra, with its disturbing lamps and its faces turned toward the public; if we could have the seats on the main floor (the orchestra or the pit) raised so that the eyes of the spectators would be above the knees of the actors; if we could get rid of the boxes with their tittering parties of diners; if we could also have the auditorium completely darkened during the performance; and if, first and last, we could have a small stage and a small house: then a new dramatic art might rise, and the theatre might at least become an institution for the entertainment of people with culture. while waiting for this kind of theatre, i suppose we shall have to write for the "ice-box," and thus prepare the repertory that is to come. i have made an attempt. if it prove a failure, there is plenty of time to try over again. miss julia a naturalistic tragedy 1888 persons miss julia, aged twenty-five jean, a valet, aged thirty christine, a cook, aged thirty-five the action takes place on midsummer eve, in the kitchen of the count's country house. miss julia scene (a large kitchen: the ceiling and the side walls are hidden by draperies and hangings. the rear wall runs diagonally across the stage, from the left side and away from the spectators. on this wall, to the left, there are two shelves full of utensils made of copper, iron, and tin. the shelves are trimmed with scalloped paper.) (a little to the right may be seen three fourths of the big arched doorway leading to the outside. it has double glass doors, through which are seen a fountain with a cupid, lilac shrubs in bloom, and the tops of some lombardy poplars.) (on the left side of the stage is seen the corner of a big cook stove built of glazed bricks; also a part of the smoke-hood above it.) (from the right protrudes one end of the servants' dining-table of white pine, with a few chairs about it.) (the stove is dressed with bundled branches of birch. twigs of juniper are scattered on the floor.) (on the table end stands a big japanese spice pot full of lilac blossoms.) (an icebox, a kitchen-table, and a wash-stand.) (above the door hangs a big old-fashioned bell on a steel spring, and the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube appears at the left of the door.) (christine is standing by the stove, frying something in a pan. she has on a dress of light-coloured cotton, which she has covered up with a big kitchen apron.) (jean enters, dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurred riding boots, which he places on the floor in such manner that they remain visible to the spectators.) jean. to-night miss julia is crazy again; absolutely crazy. christine. so you're back again? jean. i took the count to the station, and when i came back by the barn, i went in and had a dance, and there i saw the young lady leading the dance with the gamekeeper. but when she caught sight of me, she rushed right up to me and asked me to dance the ladies' waltz with her. and ever since she's been waltzing like--well, i never saw the like of it. she's crazy! christine. and has always been, but never the way it's been this last fortnight, since her engagement was broken. jean. well, what kind of a story was that anyhow? he's a fine fellow, isn't he, although he isn't rich? ugh, but they're so full of notions. [sits down at the end of the table] it's peculiar anyhow, that a young lady--hm!--would rather stay at home with the servants--don't you think?--than go with her father to their relatives! christine. oh, i guess she feels sort of embarrassed by that rumpus with her fellow. jean. quite likely. but there was some backbone to that man just the same. do you know how it happened, christine? i saw it, although i didn't care to let on. christine. no, did you? jean. sure, i did. they were in the stable-yard one evening, and the young lady was training him, as she called it. do you know what that meant? she made him leap over her horse-whip the way you teach a dog to jump. twice he jumped and got a cut each time. the third time he took the whip out of her hand and broke it into a thousand bits. and then he got out. christine. so that's the way it happened! you don't say! jean. yes, that's how that thing happened. well, christine, what have you got that's tasty? christine. [serves from the pan and puts the plate before jean] oh, just some kidney which i cut out of the veal roast. jean. [smelling the food] fine! that's my great _délice_. [feeling the plate] but you might have warmed the plate. christine. well, if you ain't harder to please than the count himself! [pulls his hair playfully.] jean. [irritated] don't pull my hair! you know how sensitive i am. christine. well, well, it was nothing but a love pull, you know. [jean eats.] [christine opens a bottle of beer.] jean. beer-on midsummer eve? no, thank you! then i have something better myself. [opens a table-drawer and takes out a bottle of claret with yellow cap] yellow seal, mind you! give me a glass�-and you use those with stems when you drink it _pure_. christine. [returns to the stove and puts a small pan on the fire] heaven preserve her that gets you for a husband, mr. finicky! jean. oh, rot! you'd be glad enough to get a smart fellow like me. and i guess it hasn't hurt you that they call me your beau. [tasting the wine] good! pretty good! just a tiny bit too cold. [he warms the glass with his hand.] we got this at dijon. it cost us four francs per litre, not counting the bottle. and there was the duty besides. what is it you're cooking--with that infernal smell? christine. oh, it's some deviltry the young lady is going to give diana. jean. you should choose your words with more care, christine. but why should you be cooking for a bitch on a holiday eve like this? is she sick? christine. ye-es, she is sick. she's been running around with the gate-keeper's pug--and now's there's trouble--and the young lady just won't hear of it. jean. the young lady is too stuck up in some ways and not proud enough in others--just as was the countess while she lived. she was most at home in the kitchen and among the cows, but she would never drive with only one horse. she wore her cuffs till they were dirty, but she had to have cuff buttons with a coronet on them. and speaking of the young lady, she doesn't take proper care of herself and her person. i might even say that she's lacking in refinement. just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she pulled the gamekeeper away from anna and asked him herself to come and dance with her. we wouldn't act in that way. but that's just how it is: when upper-class people want to demean themselves, then they grow�mean! but she's splendid! magnificent! oh, such shoulders! and--and so on! christine. oh, well, don't brag too much! i've heard clara talking, who tends to her dressing. jean. pooh, clara! you're always jealous of each other. i, who have been out riding with her--and then the way she dances! christine. say, jean, won't you dance with me when i'm done? jean. of course i will. christine. do you promise? jean. promise? when i say so, i'll do it. well, here's thanks for the good food. it tasted fine! [puts the cork back into the bottle.] julia. [appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on the outside] i'll be back in a minute. you go right on in the meantime. [jean slips the bottle into the table-drawer and rises respectfully.] julia.[enters and goes over to christine by the wash-stand] well, is it done yet? [christine signs to her that jean is present.] jean. [gallantly] the ladies are having secrets, i believe. julia. [strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] that's for you, mr. pry! jean. oh, what a delicious odor that violet has! julia. [with coquetry] impudent! so you know something about perfumes also? and know pretty well how to dance--now don't peep! go away! jean. [with polite impudence] is it some kind of witches' broth the ladies are cooking on midsummer eve--something to tell fortunes by and bring out the lucky star in which one's future love is seen? julia. [sharply] if you can see that, you'll have good eyes, indeed! [to christine] put it in a pint bottle and cork it well. come and dance a _schottische_ with me now, jean. jean. [hesitatingly] i don't want to be impolite, but i had promised to dance with christine this time�julia. well, she can get somebody else--can't you, christine? won't you let me borrow jean from you? christine. that isn't for me to say. when miss julia is so gracious, it isn't for him to say no. you just go along, and be thankful for the honour, too! jean. frankly speaking, but not wishing to offend in any way, i cannot help wondering if it's wise for miss julia to dance twice in succession with the same partner, especially as the people here are not slow in throwing out hints-julia. [flaring up] what is that? what kind of hints? what do you mean? jean. [submissively] as you don't want to understand, i have to speak more plainly. it don't look well to prefer one servant to all the rest who are expecting to be honoured in the same unusual way-julia. prefer! what ideas! i'm surprised! i, the mistress of the house, deign to honour this dance with my presence, and when it so happens that i actually want to dance, i want to dance with one who knows how to lead, so that i am not made ridiculous. jean. as you command, miss julia! i am at your service! julia. [softened] don't take it as a command. to-night we should enjoy ourselves as a lot of happy people, and all rank should be forgotten. now give me your arm. don't be afraid, christine! i'll return your beau to you! [jean offers his arm to miss julia and leads her out.] *** pantomime must be acted as if the actress were really alone in the place. when necessary she turns her back to the public. she should not look in the direction of the spectators, and she should not hurry as if fearful that they might become impatient. christine is alone. a _schottische_ tune played on a violin is heard faintly in the distance. while humming the tune, christine clears o$ the table after jean, washes the plate at the kitchen table, wipes it, and puts it away in a cupboard. then she takes of her apron, pulls out a small mirror from one of the table-drawers and leans it against the flower jar on the table; lights a tallow candle and heats a hairpin, which she uses to curl her front hair. then she goes to the door and stands there listening. returns to the table. discovers the handkerchief which miss julia has left behind, picks it up, and smells it, spreads it out absent-mindedly and begins to stretch it, smooth it, fold it up, and so forth. *** jean. [enters alone] crazy, that's what she is! the way she dances! and the people stand behind the doors and grill at her. what do you think of it, christine? christine. oh, she has her time now, and then she is always a little queer like that. but are you going to dance with me now? jean. you are not mad at me because i disappointed you? christine. no!--not for a little thing like that, you know! and also, i know my place-jean. [putting his arm around her waist] you are a, sensible girl, christine, and i think you'll make a good wife-julia. [enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with forced gayety] yes, you are a fine partner--running away from your lady! jean. on the contrary, miss julia. i have, as you see, looked up the one i deserted. julia. [changing tone] do you know, there is nobody that dances like you!--but why do you wear your livery on an evening like this? take it off at once! jean. then i must ask you to step outside for a moment, as my black coat is hanging right here. [points toward the right and goes in that direction.] julia. are you bashful on my account? just to change a coat? why don't you go into your own room and come back again? or, you can stay right here, and i'll turn my back on you. jean. with your permission, miss julia. [goes further over to the right; one of his arms can be seen as he changes his coat.] julia [to christine] are you and jean engaged, that he's so familiar with you? christine. engaged? well, in a way. we call it that. julia. call it? christine. well, miss julia, you have had a fellow of your own, and-julia. we were really engaged-christine. but it didn't come to anything just the same-[jean enters, dressed in black frock coat and black derby.] julia. _très gentil, monsieur jean! très gentil!_ jean. _vous voulez plaisanter, madame!_ julia. _et vous voulez parler français!_ where did you learn it? jean. in switzerland, while i worked as _sommelier_ in one of the big hotels at lucerne. julia. but you look like a real gentleman in your frock coat! charming! [sits down at the table.] jean. oh, you flatter me. julia. [offended] flatter--you! jean. my natural modesty does not allow me to believe that you could be paying genuine compliments to one like me, and so i dare to assume that you are exaggerating, or, as we call it, flattering. julia. where did you learn to use your words like that? you must have been to the theatre a great deal? jean. that, too. i have been to a lot of places. julia. but you were born in this neighbourhood? jean. my father was a cotter on the county attorney's property right by here, and i can recall seeing you as a child, although you, of course, didn't notice me. julia. no, really! jean. yes, and i remember one time in particular--but of that i can't speak. julia. oh, yes, do! why--just for once. jean. no, really, i cannot do it now. another time, perhaps. julia. another time is no time. is it as bad as that? jean. it isn't bad, but it comes a little hard. look at that one! [points to christine, who has fallen asleep on a chair by the stove.] julia. she'll make a pleasant wife. and perhaps she snores, too. jean. no, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep. julia. [cynically] how do you know? jean. [insolently] i have heard it. [pause during which they study each other.] julia. why don't you sit down? jean. it wouldn't be proper in your presence. julia. but if i order you to do it? jean. then i obey. julia. sit down, then!--but wait a moment! can you give me something to drink first? jean. i don't know what we have got in the icebox. i fear it is nothing but beer. julia. and you call that nothing? my taste is so simple that i prefer it to wine. jean. [takes a bottle of beer from the icebox and opens it; gets a glass and a plate from the cupboard, and serves the beer] allow me! julia. thank you. don't you want some yourself? jean. i don't care very much for beer, but if it is a command, of course-julia. command?--i should think a polite gentleman might keep his lady company. jean. yes, that's the way it should be. [opens another bottle and takes out a glass.] julia. drink my health now! [jean hesitates.] julia. are you bashful--a big, grown-up man? jean. [kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] to the health of my liege lady! julia. bravo!--and now you must also kiss my shoe in order to get it just right. [jean hesitates a moment; then he takes hold of her foot and touches it lightly with his lips.] julia. excellent! you should have been on the stage. jean. [rising to his feet] this won't do any longer, miss julia. somebody might see us. julia. what would that matter? jean. oh, it would set the people talking--that's all! and if you only knew how their tongues were wagging up there a while ago�julia. what did they have to say? tell me--sit down now! jean. [sits down] i don't want to hurt you, but they were using expressions--which cast reflections of a kind that--oh, you know it yourself! you are not a child, and when a lady is seen alone with a man, drinking--no matter if he's only a servant--and at night-�then-julia. then what? and besides, we are not alone. isn't christine with us? jean. yes--asleep! julia. then i'll wake her. [rising] christine, are you asleep? christine. [in her sleep] blub-blub-blub-blub! julia. christine!--did you ever see such a sleeper. christine. [in her sleep] the count's boots are polished--put on the coffee--yes, yes, yes--my-my--pooh! julia. [pinches her nose] can't you wake up? jean. [sternly] you shouldn't bother those that sleep. julia. [sharply] what's that? jean. one who has stood by the stove all day has a right to be tired at night. and sleep should be respected. julia. [changing tone] it is fine to think like that, and it does you honour--i thank you for it. [gives jean her hand] come now and pick some lilacs for me. [during the following scene christine wakes up. she moves as if still asleep and goes out to the right in order to go to bed.] jean. with you, miss julia? julia. with me! jean. but it won't do! absolutely not! julia. i can't understand what you are thinking of. you couldn't possibly imagine-jean. no, not i, but the people. julia. what? that i am fond of the valet? jean. i am not at all conceited, but such things have happened--and to the people nothing is sacred. julia. you are an aristocrat, i think. jean. yes, i am. julia. and i am stepping down-jean. take my advice, miss julia, don't step down. nobody will believe you did it on purpose. the people will always say that you fell down. julia. i think better of the people than you do. come and see if i am not right. come along! [she ogles him.] jean. you're mighty queer, do you know! julia. perhaps. but so are you. and for that matter, everything is queer. life, men, everything--just a mush that floats on top of the water until it sinks, sinks down! i have a dream that comes back to me ever so often. and just now i am reminded of it. i have climbed to the top of a column and sit there without being able to tell how to get down again. i get dizzy when i look down, and i must get down, but i haven't the courage to jump off. i cannot hold on, and i am longing to fall, and yet i don't fall. but there will be no rest for me until i get down, no rest until i get down, down on the ground. and if i did reach the ground, i should want to get still further down, into the ground itself--have you ever felt like that? jean. no, my dream is that i am lying under a tall tree in a dark wood. i want to get up, up to the top, so that i can look out over the smiling landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that i can rob the nest in which lie the golden eggs. and i climb and climb, but the trunk is so thick and smooth, and it is so far to the first branch. but i know that if i could only reach that first branch, then i should go right on to the top as on a ladder. i have not reached it yet, but i am going to, if it only be in my dreams. julia. here i am chattering to you about dreams! come along! only into the park! [she offers her arm to him, and they go toward the door.] jean. we must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night, miss julia�then our dreams will come true. [they turn around in the doorway, and jean puts one hand up to his eyes.] julia. let me see what you have got in your eye. jean. oh, nothing--just some dirt--it will soon be gone. julia. it was my sleeve that rubbed against it. sit down and let me help you. [takes him by the arm and makes him sit down; takes hold of his head and bends it backwards; tries to get out the dirt with a corner of her handkerchief] sit still now, absolutely still! [slaps him on the hand] well, can't you do as i say? i think you are shaking�-a big, strong fellow like you! [feels his biceps] and with such arms! jean. [ominously] miss julia! julia. yes, monsieur jean. jean. _attention! je ne suis qu'un homme._ julia. can't you sit still!--there now! now it's gone. kiss my hand now, and thank me. jean. [rising] miss julia, listen to me. christine has gone to bed now--won't you listen to me? julia. kiss my hand first. jean. listen to me! julia. kiss my hand first! jean. all right, but blame nobody but yourself! julia. for what? jean. for what? are you still a mere child at twenty-five? don't you know that it is dangerous to play with fire? julia. not for me. i am insured. jean. [boldly] no, you are not. and even if you were, there are inflammable surroundings to be counted with. julia. that's you, i suppose? jean. yes. not because i am i, but because i am a young man-julia. of handsome appearance--what an incredible conceit! a don juan, perhaps. or a joseph? on my soul, i think you are a joseph! jean. do you? julia. i fear it almost. [jean goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist in order to kiss her.] julia. [gives him a cuff on the ear] shame! jean. was that in play or in earnest? julia. in earnest. jean. then you were in earnest a moment ago also. your playing is too serious, and that's the dangerous thing about it. now i am tired of playing, and i ask to be excused in order to resume my work. the count wants his boots to be ready for him, and it is after midnight already. julia. put away the boots. jean. no, it's my work, which i am bound to do. but i have not undertaken to be your playmate. it's something i can never become�i hold myself too good for it. julia. you're proud! jean. in some ways, and not in others. julia. have you ever been in love? jean. we don't use that word. but i have been fond of a lot of girls, and once i was taken sick because i couldn't have the one i wanted: sick, you know, like those princes in the arabian nights who cannot eat or drink for sheer love. julia. who was it? [jean remains silent.] julia. who was it? jean. you cannot make me tell you. julia. if i ask you as an equal, ask you as--a friend: who was it? jean. it was you. julia. [sits down] how funny! jean. yes, as you say--it was ludicrous. that was the story, you see, which i didn't want to tell you a while ago. but now i am going to tell it. do you know how the world looks from below--no, you don't. no more than do hawks and falcons, of whom we never see the back because they are always floating about high up in the sky. i lived in the cotter's hovel, together with seven other children, and a pig--out there on the grey plain, where there isn't a single tree. but from our windows i could see the wall around the count's park, and apple-trees above it. that was the garden of eden, and many fierce angels were guarding it with flaming swords. nevertheless i and some other boys found our way to the tree of life--now you despise me? julia. oh, stealing apples is something all boys do. jean. you may say so now, but you despise me nevertheless. however�once i got into the garden of eden with my mother to weed the onion beds. near by stood a turkish pavillion, shaded by trees and covered with honeysuckle. i didn't know what it was used for, but i had never seen a more beautiful building. people went in and came out again, and one day the door was left wide open. i stole up and saw the walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and the windows were hung with red, fringed curtains--now you know what i mean. i--[breaks off a lilac sprig and holds it under miss julia's nose]--i had never been inside the manor, and i had never seen anything but the church--and this was much finer. no matter where my thoughts ran, they returned always--to that place. and gradually a longing arose within me to taste the full pleasure of--_enfin_! i sneaked in, looked and admired. then i heard somebody coming. there was only one way out for fine people, but for me there was another, and i could do nothing else but choose it. [julia, who has taken the lilac sprig, lets it drop on the table.] jean. then i started to run, plunged through a hedge of raspberry bushes, chased right across a strawberry plantation, and came out on the terrace where the roses grow. there i caught sight of a pink dress and pair of white stockings--that was you! i crawled under a pile of weeds--right into it, you know--into stinging thistles and wet, ill-smelling dirt. and i saw you walking among the roses, and i thought: if it be possible for a robber to get into heaven and dwell with the angels, then it is strange that a cotter's child, here on god's own earth, cannot get into the park and play with the count's daughter. julia. [sentimentally] do you think all poor children have the same thoughts as you had in this case? jean. [hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] if _all_ poor�yes�-of course. of course! julia. it must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor. jean. [in a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated emphasis] oh, miss julia! oh!--a dog may lie on her ladyship's sofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the young lady's hand, but a servant--[changing his tone]--oh well, here and there you meet one made of different stuff, and he makes a way for himself in the world, but how often does it happen?--however, do you know what i did? i jumped into the mill brook with my clothes on, and was pulled out, and got a licking. but the next sunday, when my father and the rest of the people were going over to my grandmother's, i fixed it so that i could stay at home. and then i washed myself with soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and went to church, where i could see you. i did see you, and went home determined to die. but i wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, without any pain. and then i recalled that it was dangerous to sleep under an elder bush. we had a big one that was in full bloom. i robbed it of all its flowers, and then i put them in the big box where the oats were kept and lay down in them. did you ever notice the smoothness of oats? soft to the touch as the skin of the human body! however, i pulled down the lid and closed my eyes--fell asleep and was waked up a very sick boy. but i didn't die, as you can see. what i wanted--that's more than i can tell. of course, there was not the least hope of winning you�-but you symbolised the hopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which i was born. julia. you narrate splendidly, do you know! did you ever go to school? jean. a little. but i have read a lot of novels and gone to the theatre a good deal. and besides, i have listened to the talk of better-class people, and from that i have learned most of all. julia. do you stand around and listen to what we are saying? jean. of course! and i have heard a lot, too, when i was on the box of the carriage, or rowing the boat. once i heard you, miss julia, and one of your girl friends-julia. oh!--what was it you heard then? jean. well, it wouldn't be easy to repeat. but i was rather surprised, and i couldn't understand where you had learned all those words. perhaps, at bottom, there isn't quite so much difference as they think between one kind of people and another. julia. you ought to be ashamed of yourself! we don't live as you do when we are engaged. jean. [looking hard at her] is it so certain?--well, miss julia, it won't pay to make yourself out so very innocent to me�julia. the man on whom i bestowed my love was a scoundrel. jean. that's what you always say--afterwards. julia. always? jean. always, i believe, for i have heard the same words used several times before, on similar occasions. julia. what occasions? jean. like the one of which we were speaking. the last time-julia. [rising] stop! i don't want to hear any more! jean. nor did _she_--curiously enough! well, then i ask permission to go to bed. julia. [gently] go to bed on midsummer eve? jean. yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really no attraction for me. julia. get the key to the boat and take me out on the lake--i want to watch the sunrise. jean. would that be wise? julia. it sounds as if you were afraid of your reputation. jean. why not? i don't care to be made ridiculous, and i don't care to be discharged without a recommendation, for i am trying to get on in the world. and then i feel myself under a certain obligation to christine. julia. so it's christine now jean. yes, but it's you also--take my advice and go to bed! julia. am i to obey you? jean. for once--and for your own sake! the night is far gone. sleepiness makes us drunk, and the head grows hot. go to bed! and besides--if i am not mistaken�-i can hear the crowd coming this way to look for me. and if we are found together here, you are lost! chorus. [is heard approaching]: through the fields come two ladies a-walking, treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. and one has her shoes full of water, treederee-derallah-lah. they're talking of hundreds of dollars, treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. but have not between them a dollar treederee-derallah-lah. this wreath i give you gladly, treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. but love another madly, treederee-derallah-lah. julia. i know the people, and i love them, just as they love me. let them come, and you'll see. jean. no, miss julia, they don't love you. they take your food and spit at your back. believe me. listen to me--can't you hear what they are singing?--no, don't pay any attention to it! julia. [listening] what is it they are singing? jean. oh, something scurrilous. about you and me. julia. how infamous! they ought to be ashamed! and the treachery of it! jean. the mob is always cowardly. and in such a fight as this there is nothing to do but to run away. julia. run away? where to? we cannot get out. and we cannot go into christine's room. jean. oh, we cannot? well, into my room, then! necessity knows no law. and you can trust me, for i am your true and frank and respectful friend. julia. but think only-think if they should look for you in there! jean. i shall bolt the door. and if they try to break it i open, i'll shoot!--come! [kneeling before her] come! julia. [meaningly] and you promise me--? jean. i swear! [miss julia goes quickly out to the right. jean follows her eagerly.] *** ballet the peasants enter. they are decked out in their best and carry flowers in their hats. a fiddler leads them. on the table they place a barrel of small-beer and a keg of "brännvin," or white swedish whiskey, both of them decorated with wreathes woven out of leaves. first they drink. then they form in ring and sing and dance to the melody heard before: "through the fields come two ladies a-walking." the dance finished, they leave singing. *** julia. [enters alone. on seeing the disorder in the kitchen, she claps her hands together. then she takes out a powder-puff and begins to powder her face.] jean. [enters in a state of exaltation] there you see! and you heard, didn't you? do you think it possible to stay here? julia. no, i don't think so. but what are we to do? jean. run away, travel, far away from here. julia. travel? yes-but where? jean. to switzerland, the italian lakes--you have never been there? julia. no. is the country beautiful? jean. oh! eternal summer! orange trees! laurels! oh! julia. but then-what are we to do down there? jean. i'll start a hotel, everything first class, including the customers? julia. hotel? jean. that's the life, i tell you! constantly new faces and new languages. never a minute free for nerves or brooding. no trouble about what to do--for the work is calling to be done: night and day, bells that ring, trains that whistle, 'busses that come and go; and gold pieces raining on the counter all the time. that's the life for you! julia. yes, that is life. and i? jean. the mistress of everything, the chief ornament of the house. with your looks--and your manners--oh, success will be assured! enormous! you'll sit like a queen in the office and keep the slaves going by the touch of an electric button. the guests will pass in review before your throne and timidly deposit their treasures on your table. you cannot imagine how people tremble when a bill is presented to them--i'll salt the items, and you'll sugar them with your sweetest smiles. oh, let us get away from here--[pulling a time-table from his pocket]--at once, with the next train! we'll be in malmö at 6.30; in hamburg at 8.40 to-morrow morning; in frankfort and basel a day later. and to reach como by way of the st. gotthard it will take us--let me see--three days. three days! julia. all that is all right. but you must give me some courage� jean. tell me that you love me. come and take me in your arms. jean. [reluctantly] i should like to--but i don't dare. not in this house again. i love you--beyond doubt--or, can you doubt it, miss julia? julia. [with modesty and true womanly feeling] miss? call me julia. between us there can be no barriers here after. call me julia! jean. [disturbed] i cannot! there will be barriers between us as long as we stay in this house--there is the past, and there is the count-�and i have never met another person for whom i felt such respect. if i only catch sight of his gloves on a chair i feel small. if i only hear that bell up there, i jump like a shy horse. and even now, when i see his boots standing there so stiff and perky, it is as if something made my back bend. [kicking at the boots] it's nothing but superstition and tradition hammered into us from childhood--but it can be as easily forgotten again. let us only get to another country, where they have a republic, and you'll see them bend their backs double before my liveried porter. you see, backs have to be bent, but not mine. i wasn't born to that kind of thing. there's better stuff in me--character--and if i only get hold of the first branch, you'll see me do some climbing. to-day i am a valet, but next year i'll be a hotel owner. in ten years i can live on the money i have made, and then i'll go to roumania and get myself an order. and i may--note well that i say _may_--end my days as a count. julia. splendid, splendid! jean. yes, in roumania the title of count can be had for cash, and so you'll be a countess after all. my countess! julia. what do i care about all i now cast behind me! tell me that you love me: otherwise--yes, what am i otherwise? jean. i will tell you so a thousand times--later. but not here. and above all, no sentimentality, or everything will be lost. we must look at the matter in cold blood, like sensible people. [takes out a cigar, cuts of the point, and lights it] sit down there now, and i'll sit here, and then we'll talk as if nothing had happened. julia. [in despair] good lord! have you then no feelings at all? jean. i? no one is more full of feeling than i am. but i know how to control myself. julia. a while ago you kissed my shoe--and now! jean. [severely] yes, that was then. now we have other things to think of. julia. don't speak harshly to me! jean. no, but sensibly. one folly has been committed--don't let us commit any more! the count may be here at any moment, and before he comes our fate must be settled. what do you think of my plans for the future? do you approve of them? julia. they seem acceptable, on the whole. but there is one question: a big undertaking of that kind will require a big capital have you got it? jean. [chewing his cigar] i? of course! i have my expert knowledge, my vast experience, my familiarity with several languages. that's the very best kind of capital, i should say. julia. but it won't buy you a railroad ticket even. jean. that's true enough. and that is just why i am looking for a backer to advance the needful cash. julia. where could you get one all of a sudden? jean. it's for you to find him if you want to become my partner. julia. i cannot do it, and i have nothing myself. [pause.] jean. well, then that's off-julia. and�jean. everything remains as before. julia. do you think i am going to stay under this roof as your concubine? do you think i'll let the people point their fingers at me? do you think i can look my father in the face after this? no, take me away from here, from all this humiliation and disgrace!� oh, what have i done? my god, my god! [breaks into tears.] jean. so we have got around to that tune now!--what you have done? nothing but what many others have done before you. julia. [crying hysterically] and now you're despising me!--i'm falling, i'm falling! jean. fall down to me, and i'll lift you up again afterwards. julia. what horrible power drew me to you? was it the attraction which the strong exercises on the weak--the one who is rising on one who is falling? or was it love? this love! do you know what love is? jean. i? well, i should say so! don't you think i have been there before? julia. oh, the language you use, and the thoughts you think! jean. well, that's the way i was brought up, and that's the way i am. don't get nerves now and play the exquisite, for now one of us is just as good as the other. look here, my girl, let me treat you to a glass of something superfine. [he opens the table-drawer, takes out the wine bottle and fills up two glasses that have already been used.] julia. where did you get that wine? jean. in the cellar. julia. my father's burgundy! jean. well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law? julia. and i am drinking beer--i! jean. it shows merely that i have better taste than you. julia. thief! jean. do you mean to tell on me? julia. oh, oh! the accomplice of a house thief! have i been drunk, or have i been dreaming all this night? midsummer eve! the feast of innocent games�jean. innocent--hm! julia. [walking back and forth] can there be another human being on earth so unhappy as i am at this moment' jean. but why should you be? after such a conquest? think of christine in there. don't you think she has feelings also? julia. i thought so a while ago, but i don't think so any longer. no, a menial is a menial-jean. and a whore a whore! julia. [on her knees, with folded hands] o god in heaven, make an end of this wretched life! take me out of the filth into which i am sinking! save me! save me! jean. i cannot deny that i feel sorry for you. when i was lying among the onions and saw you up there among the roses--i'll tell you now--i had the same nasty thoughts that all boys have. julia. and you who wanted to die for my sake! jean. among the oats. that was nothing but talk. julia. lies in other words! jean. [beginning to feel sleepy] just about. i think i read the story in a paper, and it was about a chimney-sweep who crawled into a wood-box full of lilacs because a girl had brought suit against him for not supporting her kid�julia. so that's the sort you are-jean. well, i had to think of something--for it's the high-faluting stuff that the women bite on. julia. scoundrel! jean. rot! julia. and now you have seen the back of the hawk-jean. well, i don't know-julia. and i was to be the first branch-jean. but the branch was rotten-julia. i was to be the sign in front of the hotel-jean. and i the hotel-julia. sit at your counter, and lure your customers, and doctor your bills-jean. no, that i should have done myself-julia. that a human soul can be so steeped in dirt! jean. well, wash it off! julia. you lackey, you menial, stand up when i talk to you! jean. you lackey-love, you mistress of a menial--shut up and get out of here! you're the right one to come and tell me that i am vulgar. people of my kind would never in their lives act as vulgarly as you have acted to-night. do you think any servant girl would go for a man as you did? did you ever see a girl of my class throw herself at anybody in that way? i have never seen the like of it except among beasts and prostitutes. julia. [crushed] that's right: strike me, step on me--i haven't deserved any better! i am a wretched creature. but help me! help me out of this, if there be any way to do so! jean. [in a milder tone] i don't want to lower myself by a denial of my share in the honour of seducing. but do you think a person in my place would have dared to raise his eyes to you, if the invitation to do so had not come from yourself? i am still sitting here in a state of utter surprise-julia. and pride-jean. yes, why not? although i must confess that the victory was too easy to bring with it any real intoxication. julia. strike me some more! jean. [rising] no! forgive me instead what i have been saying. i don't want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. on one hand i cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover that what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the hawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on the tender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polished nails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smells of perfume. but on the other hand it hurts me to have discovered that what i was striving to reach is neither better nor more genuine. it hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far beneath your own cook--it hurts me as it hurts to see the fall flowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud. julia. you speak as if you were already above me? jean. well, so i am. don't you see: i could have made a countess of you, but you could never make me a count. julia. but i am born of a count, and that's more than you can ever achieve. jean. that's true. but i might be the father of counts�if-julia. but you are a thief--and i am not. jean. thief is not the worst. there are other kinds still farther down. and then, when i serve in a house, i regard myself in a sense as a member of the family, as a child of the house, and you don't call it theft when children pick a few of the berries that load down the vines. [his passion is aroused once more] miss julia, you are a magnificent woman, and far too good for one like me. you were swept along by a spell of intoxication, and now you want to cover up your mistake by making yourself believe that you are in love with me. well, you are not, unless possibly my looks might tempt you-�in which case your love is no better than mine. i could never rest satisfied with having you care for nothing in me but the mere animal, and your love i can never win. julia. are you so sure of that? jean. you mean to say that it might be possible? that i might love you: yes, without doubt--for you are beautiful, refined, [goes up to her and takes hold of her hand] educated, charming when you want to be so, and it is not likely that the flame will ever burn out in a man who has once been set of fire by you. [puts his arm around her waist] you are like burnt wine with strong spices in it, and one of your kisses-[he tries to lead her away, but she frees herself gently from his hold.] julia. leave me alone! in that way you cannot win me. jean. how then?--not in that way! not by caresses and sweet words! not by thought for the future, by escape from disgrace! how then? julia. how? how? i don't know--not at all! i hate you as i hate rats, but i cannot escape from you! jean. escape with me! julia. [straightening up] escape? yes, we must escape!--but i am so tired. give me a glass of wine. [jean pours out wine.] julia. [looks at her watch] but we must have a talk first. we have still some time left. [empties her glass and holds it out for more.] jean. don't drink so much. it will go to your head. julia. what difference would that make? jean. what difference would it make? it's vulgar to get drunk--what was it you wanted to tell me? julia. we must get away. but first we must have a talk--that is, i must talk, for so far you have done all the talking. you have told me about your life. now i must tell you about mine, so that we know each other right to the bottom before we begin the journey together. jean. one moment, pardon me! think first, so that you don't regret it afterwards, when you have already given up the secrets of your life. julia. are you not my friend? jean. yes, at times--but don't rely on me. julia. you only talk like that--and besides, my secrets are known to everybody. you see, my mother was not of noble birth, but came of quite plain people. she was brought up in the ideas of her time about equality, and woman's independence, and that kind of thing. and she had a decided aversion to marriage. therefore, when my father proposed to her, she said she wouldn't marry him--and then she did it just the same. i came into the world--against my mother's wish, i have come to think. then my mother wanted to bring me up in a perfectly natural state, and at the same time i was to learn everything that a boy is taught, so that i might prove that a woman is just as good as a man. i was dressed as a boy, and was taught how to handle a horse, but could have nothing to do with the cows. i had to groom and harness and go hunting on horseback. i was even forced to learn something about agriculture. and all over the estate men were set to do women's work, and women to do men's--with the result that everything went to pieces and we became the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. at last my father must have recovered from the spell cast over him, for he rebelled, and everything was changed to suit his own ideas. my mother was taken sick--what kind of sickness it was i don't know, but she fell often into convulsions, and she used to hide herself in the garret or in the garden, and sometimes she stayed out all night. then came the big fire, of which you have heard. the house, the stable, and the barn were burned down, and this under circumstances which made it look as if the fire had been set on purpose. for the disaster occurred the day after our insurance expired, and the money sent for renewal of the policy had been delayed by the messenger's carelessness, so that it came too late. [she fills her glass again and drinks.] jean. don't drink any more. julia. oh, what does it matter!--we were without a roof over our heads and had to sleep in the carriages. my father didn't know where to get money for the rebuilding of the house. then my mother suggested that he try to borrow from a childhood friend of hers, a brick manufacturer living not far from here. my father got the loan, but was not permitted to pay any interest, which astonished him. and so the house was built up again. [drinks again] do you know who set fire to the house? jean. her ladyship, your mother! julia. do you know who the brick manufacturer was? jean. your mother's lover? julia. do you know to whom the money belonged? jean. wait a minute--no, that i don't know. julia. to my mother. jean. in other words, to the count, if there was no settlement. julia. there was no settlement. my mother possessed a small fortune of her own which she did not want to leave in my father's control, so she invested it with--her friend. jean. who copped it. julia. exactly! he kept it. all this came to my father's knowledge. he couldn't bring suit; he couldn't pay his wife's lover; he couldn't prove that it was his wife's money. that was my mother's revenge because he had made himself master in his own house. at that time he came near shooting himself--it was even rumoured that he had tried and failed. but he took a new lease of life, and my mother had to pay for what she had done. i can tell you that those were five years i'll never forget! my sympathies were with my father, but i took my mother's side because i was not aware of the true circumstances. from her i learned to suspect and hate men--for she hated the whole sex, as you have probably heard--and i promised her on my oath that i would never become a man's slave. jean. and so you became engaged to the county attorney. julia. yes, in order that he should be my slave. jean. and he didn't want to? julia. oh, he wanted, but i wouldn't let him. i got tired of him. jean. yes, i saw it--in the stable-yard. julia. what did you see? jean. just that--how he broke the engagement. julia. that's a lie! it was i who broke it. did he say he did it, the scoundrel? jean. oh, he was no scoundrel, i guess. so you hate men, miss julia? julia. yes! most of the time. but now and then--when the weakness comes over me--oh, what shame! jean. and you hate me too? julia. beyond measure! i should like to kill you like a wild beast-jean. as you make haste to shoot a mad dog. is that right? julia. that's right! jean. but now there is nothing to shoot with--and there is no dog. what are we to do then? julia. go abroad. jean. in order to plague each other to death? julia. no-in order to enjoy ourselves: a couple of days, a week, as long as enjoyment is possible. and then--die! jean. die? how silly! then i think it's much better to start a hotel. julia. [without listening to jean]--at lake como, where the sun is always shining, and the laurels stand green at christmas, and the oranges are glowing. jean. lake como is a rainy hole, and i could see no oranges except in the groceries. but it is a good place for tourists, as it has a lot of villas that can be rented to loving couples, and that's a profitable business--do you know why? because they take a lease for six months--and then they leave after three weeks. julia. [naïvely] why after three weeks? jean. because they quarrel, of course. but the rent has to be paid just the same. and then you can rent the house again. and that way it goes on all the time, for there is plenty of love--even if it doesn't last long. julia. you don't want to die with me? jean. i don't want to die at all. both because i am fond of living, and because i regard suicide as a crime against the providence which has bestowed life on us. julia. do you mean to say that you believe in god? jean. of course, i do. and i go to church every other sunday. frankly speaking, now i am tired of all this, and now i am going to bed. julia. so! and you think that will be enough for me? do you know what you owe a woman that you have spoiled? jean. [takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table] you're welcome! i don't want to be in anybody's debt. julia. [pretending not to notice the insult] do you know what the law provides-jean. unfortunately the law provides no punishment for a woman who seduces a man. julia. [as before] can you think of any escape except by our going abroad and getting married, and then getting a divorce? jean. suppose i refuse to enter into this _mésaillance_? julia. _mésaillance_-jean. yes, for me. you see, i have better ancestry than you, for nobody in my family was ever guilty of arson. julia. how do you know? jean. well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep no pedigrees--except in the police bureau. but i have read about your pedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. do you know who was your first ancestor? a miller who let his wife sleep with the king one night during the war with denmark. i have no such ancestry. i have none at all, but i can become an ancestor myself. julia. that's what i get for unburdening my heart to one not worthy of it; for sacrificing my family's honour-jean. dishonour! well, what was it i told you? you shouldn't drink, for then you talk. and you must not talk! julia. oh, how i regret what i have done! how i regret it! if at least you loved me! jean. for the last time: what do you mean? am i to weep? am i to jump over your whip? am i to kiss you, and lure you down to lake como for three weeks, and so on? what am i to do? what do you expect? this is getting to be rather painful! but that's what comes from getting mixed up with women. miss julia! i see that you are unhappy; i know that you are suffering; but i cannot understand you. we never carry on like that. there is never any hatred between us. love is to us a play, and we play at it when our work leaves us time to do so. but we have not the time to do so all day and all night, as you have. i believe you are sick--i am sure you are sick. julia. you should be good to me--and now you speak like a human being. jean. all right, but be human yourself. you spit on me, and then you won't let me wipe myself--on you! julia. help me, help me! tell me only what i am to do--where i am to turn? jean. o lord, if i only knew that myself! julia. i have been exasperated, i have been mad, but there ought to be some way of saving myself. jean. stay right here and keep quiet. nobody knows anything. julia. impossible! the people know, and christine knows. jean. they don't know, and they would never believe it possible. julia. [hesitating] but-it might happen again. jean. that's true. julia. and the results? jean. [frightened] the results! where was my head when i didn't think of that! well, then there is only one thing to do--you must leave. at once! i can't go with you, for then everything would be lost, so you must go alone--abroad--anywhere! julia. alone? where?--i can't do it. jean. you must! and before the count gets back. if you stay, then you know what will happen. once on the wrong path, one wants to keep on, as the harm is done anyhow. then one grows more and more reckless--and at last it all comes out. so you must get away! then you can write to the count and tell him everything, except that it was me. and he would never guess it. nor do i think he would be very anxious to find out. julia. i'll go if you come with me. jean. are you stark mad, woman? miss julia to run away with her valet! it would be in the papers in another day, and the count could never survive it. julia. i can't leave! i can't stay! help me! i am so tired, so fearfully tired. give me orders! set me going, for i can no longer think, no longer act�jean. do you see now what good-for-nothings you are! why do you strut and turn up your noses as if you were the lords of creation? well, i am going to give you orders. go up and dress. get some travelling money, and then come back again. julia: [in an undertone] come up with me! jean. to your room? now you're crazy again! [hesitates a moment] no, you must go at once! [takes her by the hand and leads her out.] julia. [on her way out] can't you speak kindly to me, jean? jean. an order must always sound unkind. now you can find out how it feels! [julia goes out.] [jean, alone, draws a sigh of relief; sits down at the table; takes out a note-book and a pencil; figures aloud from time to time; dumb play until christine enters dressed for church; she has a false shirt front and a white tie in one of her hands.] christine. goodness gracious, how the place looks! what have you been up to anyhow? jean. oh, it was miss julia who dragged in the people. have you been sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything at all? christine. i have been sleeping like a log. jean. and dressed for church already? christine. yes, didn't you promise to come with me to communion to-day? jean. oh, yes, i remember now. and there you've got the finery. well, come on with it. [sits down; christine helps him to put on the shirt front and the white tie.] [pause.] jean. [sleepily] what's the text to-day? christine. oh, about john the baptist beheaded, i guess. jean. that's going to be a long story, i'm sure. my, but you choke me! oh, i'm so sleepy, so sleepy! christine. well, what has been keeping you up all night? why, man, you're just green in the face! jean. i have been sitting here talking with miss julia. christine. she hasn't an idea of what's proper, that creature! [pause.] jean. say, christine. christine. well? jean. isn't it funny anyhow, when you come to think of it? her! christine. what is it that's funny? jean. everything! [pause.] christine. [seeing the glasses on the table that are only half-emptied] so you've been drinking together also? jean. yes. christine. shame on you! look me in the eye! jean. yes. christine. is it possible? is it possible? jean. [after a moment's thought] yes, it is! christine. ugh! that's worse than i could ever have believed. it's awful! jean. you are not jealous of her, are you? christine. no, not of her. had it been clara or sophie, then i'd have scratched your eyes out. yes, that's the way i feel about it, and i can't tell why. oh my, but that was nasty! jean. are you mad at her then? christine. no, but at you! it was wrong of you, very wrong! poor girl! no, i tell you, i don't want to stay in this house any longer, with people for whom it is impossible to have any respect. jean. why should you have any respect for them? christine. and you who are such a smarty can't tell that! you wouldn't serve people who don't act decently, would you? it's to lower oneself, i think. jean. yes, but it ought to be a consolation to us that they are not a bit better than we. christine. no, i don't think so. for if they're no better, then it's no use trying to get up to them. and just think of the count! think of him who has had so much sorrow in his day! no, i don't want to stay any longer in this house--and with a fellow like you, too. if it had been the county attorney--if it had only been some one of her own sort-jean. now look here! christine. yes, yes! you're all right in your way, but there's after all some difference between one kind of people and another�no, but this is something i'll never get over!--and the young lady who was so proud, and so tart to the men, that you couldn't believe she would ever let one come near her--and such a one at that! and she who wanted to have poor diana shot because she had been running around with the gate-keeper's pug!--well, i declare!--but i won't stay here any longer, and next october i get out of here. jean. and then? christine. well, as we've come to talk of that now, perhaps it would be just as well if you looked for something, seeing that we're going to get married after all. jean. well, what could i look for? as a married man i couldn't get a place like this. christine. no, i understand that. but you could get a job as a janitor, or maybe as a messenger in some government bureau. of course, the public loaf is always short in weight, but it comes steady, and then there is a pension for the widow and the children-jean. [making a face] that's good and well, but it isn't my style to think of dying all at once for the sake of wife and children. i must say that my plans have been looking toward something better than that kind of thing. christine. your plans, yes--but you've got obligations also, and those you had better keep in mind! jean. now don't you get my dander up by talking of obligations! i know what i've got to do anyhow. [listening for some sound on the outside] however, we've plenty of time to think of all this. go in now and get ready, and then we'll go to church. christine. who is walking around up there? jean. i don't know, unless it be clara. christine. [going out] it can't be the count, do you think, who's come home without anybody hearing him? jean. [scared] the count? no, that isn't possible, for then he would have rung for me. christine. [as she goes out] well, god help us all! never have i seen the like of it! [the sun has risen and is shining on the tree tops in the park. the light changes gradually until it comes slantingly in through the windows. jean goes to the door and gives a signal.] julia. [enters in travelling dress and carrying a small birdcage covered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] now i am ready. jean. hush! christine is awake. julia. [showing extreme nervousness during the following scene] did she suspect anything? jean. she knows nothing at all. but, my heavens, how you look! julia. how do i look? jean. you're as pale as a corpse, and--pardon me, but your face is dirty. julia. let me wash it then--now! [she goes over to the washstand and washes her face and hands] give me a towel--oh!--that's the sun rising! jean. and then the ogre bursts. julia. yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night!�but listen, jean. come with me, for now i have the money. jean. [doubtfully] enough? julia. enough to start with. come with me, for i cannot travel alone to-day. think of it--midsummer day, on a stuffy train, jammed with people who stare at you--and standing still at stations when you want to fly. no, i cannot! i cannot! and then the memories will come: childhood memories of midsummer days, when the inside of the church was turned into a green forest--birches and lilacs; the dinner at the festive table with relatives and friends; the afternoon in the park, with dancing and music, flowers and games! oh, you may run and run, but your memories are in the baggage-car, and with them remorse and repentance! jean. i'll go with you-but at once, before it's too late. this very moment! julia. well, get dressed then. [picks up the cage.] jean. but no baggage! that would only give us away. julia. no, nothing at all! only what we can take with us in the car. jean. [has taken down his hat] what have you got there? what is it? julia. it's only my finch. i can't leave it behind. jean. did you ever! dragging a bird-cage along with us! you must be raving mad! drop the cage! julia. the only thing i take with me from my home! the only living creature that loves me since diana deserted me! don't be cruel! let me take it along! jean. drop the cage, i tell you! and don't talk so loud--christine can hear us. julia. no, i won't let it fall into strange hands. i'd rather have you kill it! jean. well, give it to me, and i'll wring its neck. julia. yes, but don't hurt it. don't--no, i cannot! jean. let me--i can! julia. [takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] oh, my little birdie, must it die and go away from its mistress! jean. don't make a scene, please. don't you know it's a question of your life, of your future? come, quick! [snatches the bird away from her, carries it to the chopping block and picks up an axe. miss julia turns away.] jean. you should have learned how to kill chickens instead of shooting with a revolver--[brings down the axe]--then you wouldn't have fainted for a drop of blood. julia. [screaming] kill me too! kill me! you who can take the life of an innocent creature without turning a hair! oh, i hate and despise you! there is blood between us! cursed be the hour when i first met you! cursed be the hour when i came to life in my mother's womb! jean. well, what's the use of all that cursing? come on! julia. [approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it against her will] no, i don't want to go yet. i cannot�-i must see--hush! there's a carriage coming up the road. [listening without taking her eyes of the block and the axe] you think i cannot stand the sight of blood. you think i am as weak as that--oh, i should like to see your blood, your brains, on that block there. i should like to see your whole sex swimming in blood like that thing there. i think i could drink out of your skull, and bathe my feet in your open breast, and eat your heart from the spit!--you think i am weak; you think i love you because the fruit of my womb was yearning for your seed; you think i want to carry your offspring under my heart and nourish it with my blood--bear your children and take your name! tell me, you, what are you called anyhow? i have never heard your family name�-and maybe you haven't any. i should become mrs. "hovel," or mrs. "backyard"--you dog there, that's wearing my collar; you lackey with my coat of arms on your buttons-and i should share with my cook, and be the rival of my own servant. oh! oh! oh!--you think i am a coward and want to run away! no, now i'll stay--and let the lightning strike! my father will come home--will find his chiffonier opened--the money gone! then he'll ring--twice for the valet--and then he'll send for the sheriff--and then i shall tell everything! everything! oh, but it will be good to get an end to it--if it only be the end! and then his heart will break, and he dies!--so there will be an end to all of us--and all will be quiet�peace--eternal rest!--and then the coat of arms will be shattered on the coffin--and the count's line will be wiped out--but the lackey's line goes on in the orphan asylum--wins laurels in the gutter, and ends in jail. jean. there spoke the royal blood! bravo, miss julia! now you put the miller back in his sack! [christine enters dressed for church and carrying n hymn-book in her hand.] julia. [hurries up to her and throws herself into her arms ax if seeking protection] help me, christine! help me against this man! christine. [unmoved and cold] what kind of performance is this on the sabbath morning? [catches sight of the chopping-block] my, what a mess you have made!--what's the meaning of all this? and the way you shout and carry on! julia. you are a woman, christine, and you are my friend. beware of that scoundrel! jean. [a little shy and embarrassed] while the ladies are discussing i'll get myself a shave. [slinks out to the right.] julia. you must understand me, and you must listen to me. christine. no, really, i don't understand this kind of trolloping. where are you going in your travelling-dress--and he with his hat on--what?--what? julia. listen, christine, listen, and i'll tell you everything-christine. i don't want to know anything-julia. you must listen to me-christine. what is it about? is it about this nonsense with jean? well, i don't care about it at all, for it's none of my business. but if you're planning to get him away with you, we'll put a stop to that! julia. [extremely nervous] please try to be quiet, christine, and listen to me. i cannot stay here, and jean cannot stay here--and so we must leave�christine. hm, hm! julia. [brightening. up] but now i have got an idea, you know. suppose all three of us should leave--go abroad--go to switzerland and start a hotel together--i have money, you know--and jean and i could run the whole thing--and you, i thought, could take charge of the kitchen--wouldn't that be fine!--say yes, now! and come along with us! then everything is fixed!--oh, say yes! [she puts her arms around christine and pats her.] christine. [coldly and thoughtfully] hm, hm! julia. [presto tempo] you have never travelled, christine--you must get out and have a look at the world. you cannot imagine what fun it is to travel on a train--constantly new people--new countries�and then we get to hamburg and take in the zoological gardens in passing--that's what you like--and then we go to the theatres and to the opera--and when we get to munich, there, you know, we have a lot of museums, where they keep rubens and raphael and all those big painters, you know--haven't you heard of munich, where king louis used to live--the king, you know, that went mad--and then we'll have a look at his castle--he has still some castles that are furnished just as in a fairy tale--and from there it isn't very far to switzerland--and the alps, you know--just think of the alps, with snow on top of them in the middle of the summer--and there you have orange trees and laurels that are green all the year around-[jean is seen in the right wing, sharpening his razor on a strop which he holds between his teeth and his left hand; he listens to the talk with a pleased mien and nods approval now and then.] julia. [tempo prestissimo] and then we get a hotel--and i sit in the office, while jean is outside receiving tourists--and goes out marketing--and writes letters--that's a life for you--then the train whistles, and the 'bus drives up, and it rings upstairs, and it rings in the restaurant--and then i make out the bills--and i am going to salt them, too--you can never imagine how timid tourists are when they come to pay their bills! and you--you will sit like a queen in the kitchen. of course, you are not going to stand at the stove yourself. and you'll have to dress neatly and nicely in order to show yourself to people--and with your looks--yes, i am not flattering you--you'll catch a husband some fine day--some rich englishman, you know-�for those fellows are so easy [slowing down] to catch--and then we grow rich--and we build us a villa at lake como--of course, it is raining a little in that place now and then�but [limply] the sun must be shining sometimes--although it looks dark--and--then--or else we can go home again--and come back--here�or some other place-christine. tell me, miss julia, do you believe in all that yourself? julia. [crushed] do i believe in it myself? christine. yes. julia. [exhausted] i don't know: i believe no longer in anything. [she sinks down on the bench and drops her head between her arms on the table] nothing! nothing at all! christine. [turns to the right, where jean is standing] so you were going to run away! jean. [abashed, puts the razor on the table] run away? well, that's putting it rather strong. you have heard what the young lady proposes, and though she is tired out now by being up all night, it's a proposition that can be put through all right. christine. now you tell me: did you mean me to act as cook for that one there--? jean. [sharply] will you please use decent language in speaking to your mistress! do you understand? christine. mistress! jean. yes! christine. well, well! listen to him! jean. yes, it would be better for you to listen a little more and talk a little less. miss julia is your mistress, and what makes you disrespectful to her now should snake you feel the same way about yourself. christine. oh, i have always had enough respect for myself-jean. to have none for others! christine. --not to go below my own station. you can't say that the count's cook has had anything to do with the groom or the swineherd. you can't say anything of the kind! jean. yes, it's your luck that you have had to do with a gentleman. christine. yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the count's stable! jean. what's that to you who get a commission on the groceries and bribes from the butcher? christine. what's that? jean. and so you can't respect your master and mistress any longer! you--you! christine. are you coming with me to church? i think you need a good sermon on top of such a deed. jean. no, i am not going to church to-day. you can go by yourself and confess your own deeds. christine. yes, i'll do that, and i'll bring back enough forgiveness to cover you also. the saviour suffered and died on the cross for all our sins, and if we go to him with a believing heart and a repentant mind, he'll take all our guilt on himself. julia. do you believe that, christine? christine. it is my living belief, as sure as i stand here, and the faith of my childhood which i have kept since i was young, miss julia. and where sin abounds, grace abounds too. julia. oh, if i had your faith! oh, if�christine. yes, but you don't get it without the special grace of god, and that is not bestowed on everybody-julia. on whom is it bestowed then? christine. that's just the great secret of the work of grace, miss julia, and the lord has no regard for persons, but there those that are last shall be the foremost-julia. yes, but that means he has regard for those that are last. christine. [going right on] --and it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye than for a rich man to get into heaven. that's the way it is, miss julia. now i am going, however-�alone�and as i pass by, i'll tell the stableman not to let out the horses if anybody should like to get away before the count comes home. good-bye! [goes out.] jean. well, ain't she a devil!--and all this for the sake of a finch! julia. [apathetically] never mind the finch!--can you see any way out of this, any way to end it? jean. [ponders] no! julia. what would you do in my place? jean. in your place? let me see. as one of gentle birth, as a woman, as one who has--fallen. i don't know--yes, i do know! julia. [picking up the razor with a significant gesture] like this? jean. yes!--but please observe that i myself wouldn't do it, for there is a difference between us. julia. because you are a man and i a woman? what is the difference? jean. it is the same--as--that between man and woman. julia. [with the razor in her hand] i want to, but i cannot!--my father couldn't either, that time he should have done it. jean. no, he should not have done it, for he had to get his revenge first. julia. and now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself again, through me. jean. have you not loved your father, miss julia? julia. yes, immensely, but i must have hated him, too. i think i must have been doing so without being aware of it. but he was the one who reared me in contempt for my own sex--half woman and half man! whose fault is it, this that has happened? my father's--my mother's--my own? my own? why, i have nothing that is my own. i haven't a thought that didn't come from my father; not a passion that didn't come from my mother; and now this last--this about all human creatures being equal--i got that from him, my fiancé--whom i call a scoundrel for that reason! how can it be my own fault? to put the blame on jesus, as christine does--no, i am too proud for that, and know too much--thanks to my father's teachings--and that about a rich person not getting into heaven, it's just a lie, and christine, who has money in the savings-bank, wouldn't get in anyhow. whose is the fault?--what does it matter whose it is? for just the same i am the one who must bear the guilt and the results-jean. yes, but-[two sharp strokes are rung on the bell. miss julia leaps to her feet. jean changes his coat.] jean. the count is back. think if christine-[goes to the speaking-tube, knocks on it, and listens.] julia. now he has been to the chiffonier! jean. it is jean, your lordship! [listening again, the spectators being unable to hear what the count says] yes, your lordship! [listening] yes, your lordship! at once! [listening] in a minute, your lordship! [listening] yes, yes! in half an hour! julia. [with intense concern] what did he say? lord jesus, what did he say? jean. he called for his boots and wanted his coffee in half an hour. julia. in half an hour then! oh, i am so tired. i can't do anything; can't repent, can't run away, can't stay, can't live�can't die! help me now! command me, and i'll obey you like a dog! do me this last favour--save my honour, and save his name! you know what my will ought to do, and what it cannot do--now give me your will, and make me do it! jean. i don't know why--but now i can't either--i don't understand�it is just as if this coat here made a--i cannot command you--and now, since i've heard the count's voice--now--i can't quite explain it-�but--oh, that damned menial is back in my spine again. i believe if the count should come down here, and if he should tell me to cut my own throat--i'd do it on the spot! julia. make believe that you are he, and that i am you! you did some fine acting when you were on your knees before me--then you were the nobleman--or--have you ever been to a show and seen one who could hypnotize people? [jean makes a sign of assent.] julia. he says to his subject: get the broom. and the man gets it. he says: sweep. and the man sweeps. jean. but then the other person must be asleep. julia. [ecstatically] i am asleep already--there is nothing in the whole room but a lot of smoke--and you look like a stove--that looks like a man in black clothes and a high hat--and your eyes glow like coals when the fire is going out--and your face is a lump of white ashes. [the sunlight has reached the floor and is now falling on jean] how warm and nice it is! [she rubs her hands as if warming them before a fire.] and so light--and so peaceful! jean. [takes the razor and puts it in her hand] there's the broom! go now, while it is light--to the barn--and-[whispers something in her ear.] julia. [awake] thank you! now i shall have rest! but tell me first�that the foremost also receive the gift of grace. say it, even if you don't believe it. jean. the foremost? no, i can't do that!--but wait--miss julia--i know! you are no longer among the foremost--now when you are among the--last! julia. that's right. i am among the last of all: i am the very last. oh!--but now i cannot go--tell me once more that i must go! jean. no, now i can't do it either. i cannot! julia. and those that are foremost shall be the last. jean. don't think, don't think! why, you are taking away my strength, too, so that i become a coward--what? i thought i saw the bell moving!--to be that scared of a bell! yes, but it isn't only the bell--there is somebody behind it--a hand that makes it move�and something else that makes the hand move-but if you cover up your ears--just cover up your ears! then it rings worse than ever! rings and rings, until you answer it--and then it's too late--then comes the sheriff--and then-[two quick rings from the bell.] jean. [shrinks together; then he straightens himself up] it's horrid! but there's no other end to it!--go! [julia goes firmly out through the door.] (curtain.) the stronger introduction of strindberg's dramatic works the briefest is "the stronger." he called it a "scene." it is a mere incident--what is called a "sketch" on our vaudeville stage, and what the french so aptly have named a "quart d'heure." and one of the two figures in the cast remains silent throughout the action, thus turning the little play practically into a monologue. yet it has all the dramatic intensity which we have come to look upon as one of the main characteristics of strindberg's work for the stage. it is quivering with mental conflict, and because of this conflict human destinies may be seen to change while we are watching. three life stories are laid bare during the few minutes we are listening to the seemingly aimless, yet so ominous, chatter of _mrs. x._--and when she sallies forth at last, triumphant in her sense of possession, we know as much about her, her husband, and her rival, as if we had been reading a three-volume novel about them. small as it is, the part of _mrs. x._ would befit a "star," but an actress of genius and discernment might prefer the dumb part of _miss y_. one thing is certain: that the latter character has few equals in its demand on the performer's tact and skill and imagination. this wordless opponent of _mrs. x._ is another of those vampire characters which strindberg was so fond of drawing, and it is on her the limelight is directed with merciless persistency. "the stronger" was first published in 1890, as part of the collection of miscellaneous writings which their author named "things printed and unprinted." the present english version was made by me some years ago--in the summer of 1906--when i first began to plan a strindberg edition for this country. at that time it appeared in the literary supplement of the _new york evening post_. the stronger a scene 1890 persons mrs. x., an actress, married. miss y., an actress, unmarried. the stronger scene [a corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron, a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs.] [mrs. x. enters dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a pretty japanese basket on her arm.] [miss y. has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she is reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then she exchanges it for a new one.] mrs. x. well, how do, millie! here you are sitting on christmas eve as lonely as a poor bachelor. [miss y. looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumes her reading.] mrs. x. really, i feel sorry to find you like this--alone--alone in a restaurant, and on christmas eve of all times. it makes me as sad as when i saw a wedding party at paris once in a restaurant--the bride was reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiards with the witnesses. ugh, when it begins that way, i thought, how will it end? think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day! yes, and you're going to say that she was reading a comic paper-that's a different case, my dear. [a waitress brings a cup of chocolate, places it before mrs. x., and disappears again.] mrs. x. [sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays a number of christmas presents] see what i've bought for my tots. [picks up a doll] what do you think of this? lisa is to have it. she can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you see? fine, is it not? and here's a cork pistol for carl. [loads the pistol and pops it at miss y.] [miss y. starts as if frightened.] mrs. x. did i scare you? why, you didn't fear i was going to shoot you, did you? really, i didn't think you could believe that of me. if you were to shoot _me_--well, that wouldn't surprise me the least. i've got in your way once, and i know you'll never forget it--but i couldn't help it. you still think i intrigued you away from the royal theatre, and i didn't do anything of the kind-although you think so. but it doesn't matter what i say, of course-you believe it was i just the same. [pulls out a pair of embroidered slippers] well, these are for my hubby-�tulips--i've embroidered them myself. hm, i hate tulips--and he must have them on everything. [miss y. looks up from the paper with an expression of mingled sarcasm and curiosity.] mrs. x. [puts a hand in each slipper] just see what small feet bob has. see? and you should see him walk--elegant! of course, you've never seen him in slippers. [miss y. laughs aloud.] mrs. x. look here--here he comes. [makes the slippers walk across the table.] [miss y. laughs again.] mrs. x. then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this: "blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee." or: "the idiot--now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again." then there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold: "gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even know enough to keep the house warm." [she rubs the sole of one slipper against the instep of the other.] [miss y. breaks into prolonged laughter.] mrs. x. and then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers-mary has pushed them under the bureau. well, perhaps it is not right to be making fun of one's own husband. he's pretty good for all that--a real dear little hubby, that's what he is. you should have such a husband--what are you laughing at? can't you tell? then, you see, i know he is faithful. yes, i know, for he has told me himself--what in the world makes you giggle like that? that nasty betty tried to get him away from me while i was on the road�can you think of anything more infamous? [pause] but i'd have scratched the eyes out of her face, that's what i'd have done if i had been at home when she tried it. [pause] i'm glad bob told me all about it, so i didn't have to hear it first from somebody else. [pause] and just think of it, betty was not the only one! i don't know why it is, but all women seem to be crazy after my husband. it must be because they imagine his government position gives him something to say about the engagements. perhaps you've tried it yourself--you may have set your traps for him, too? yes, i don't trust you very far--but i know he never cared for you--and then i have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him. [pause. they look at each other in an embarrassed manner.] mrs. x. amèlia, spend the evening with us, won't you? just to show that you are not angry--not with me, at least. i cannot tell exactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you--you for an enemy. perhaps because i got in your way that time [rallentando] or--i don't know--really, i don't know at all-[pause. miss y. gazes searchingly at mrs. x.] mrs. x. [thoughtfully] it was so peculiar, the way our acquaintance-why, i was afraid of you when i first met you; so afraid that i did not dare to let you out of sight. it didn't matter where i tried to go--i always found myself near you. i didn't have the courage to be your enemy--and so i became your friend. but there was always something discordant in the air when you called at our home, for i saw that my husband didn't like you--and it annoyed me just as it does when a dress won't fit. i tried my very best to make him appear friendly to you at least, but i couldn't move him--not until you were engaged. then you two became such fast friends that it almost looked as if you had not dared to show your real feelings before, when it was not safe--and later--let me see, now! i didn't get jealous--strange, was it not? and i remember the baptism--you were acting as godmother, and i made him kiss you--and he did, but both of you looked terribly embarrassed--that is, i didn't think of it then--or afterwards, even--i never thought of it�-till--_now_! [rises impulsively] why don't you say something? you have not uttered a single word all this time. you've just let me go on talking. you've been sitting there staring at me only, and your eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying in me like silk in a cocoon--thoughts--bad thoughts maybe--let me think. why did you break your engagement? why have you never called on us afterward? why don't you want to be with us to-night? [miss y. makes a motion as if intending to speak.] mrs. x. no, you don't need to say anything at all. all is clear to me now. so, that's the reason of it all. yes, yes! everything fits together now. shame on you! i don't want to sit at the same table with you. [moves her things to another table] that's why i must put those hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them. [throws the slippers on the floor] that's why we have to spend the summer in the mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell of the ocean; that's why my boy had to be called eskil--because that was your father's name; that's why i had to wear your colour, and read your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink your drinks--this chocolate, for instance; that's why--great heavens!-it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! everything was forced on me by you�-even your passions. your soul bored itself into mine as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate, and burrowed and burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a little black dust. i wanted to run away from you, but i couldn't. you were always on hand like a snake with your black eyes to charm me--i felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--i was in the water, with my feet tied together, and the harder i worked with my arms, the further down i went--down, down, till i sank to the bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with your claws--and now i'm there! shame on you! how i hate you, hate you, hate you! but you, you just sit there, silent and calm and indifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it's christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy. you are incapable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. as a cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there!--you can't drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait it. here you sit in this corner--do you know they've nicknamed it "the mouse-trap" on your account? here you read the papers to see if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged from the theatre. here you watch your victims and calculate your chances and take your tributes. poor amèlia! do you know, i pity you all the same, for i know you are unhappy--unhappy as one who has been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. i ought to be angry with you, but really i can't--you are so small after all-and as to bob, why that does not bother me in the least. what does it matter to me anyhow? if you or somebody else taught me to drink chocolate--what of that? [takes a spoonful of chocolate; then sententiously] they say chocolate is very wholesome. and if i have learned from you how to dress--_tant mieux_!--it has only given me a stronger hold on my husband--and you have lost where i have gained. yes, judging by several signs, i think you have lost him already. of course, you meant me to break with him--as you did, and as you are now regretting--but, you see, _i_ never would do that. it won't do to be narrow-minded, you know. and why should i take only what nobody else wants? perhaps, after all, i am the stronger now. you never got anything from me; you merely gave--and thus happened to me what happened to the thief--i had what you missed when you woke up. how explain in any other way that, in your hand, everything proved worthless and useless? you were never able to keep a man's love, in spite of your tulips and your passions--and i could; you could never learn the art of living from the books--as i learned it; you bore no little eskil, although that was your father's name. and why do you keep silent always and everywhere-silent, ever silent? i used to think it was because you were so strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had anything to say--because you were unable to-think! [rises and picks up the slippers] i'm going home now--i'll take the tulips with me�-your tulips. you couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't bend and so you broke like a dry stem--and i didn't. thank you, amèlia, for all your instructions. i thank you that you have taught me how to love my husband. now i'm going home--to him! [exit.] (curtain.) creditors introduction this is one of the three plays which strindberg placed at the head of his dramatic production during the middle ultra-naturalistic period, the other two being "the father" and "miss julia." it is, in many ways, one of the strongest he ever produced. its rarely excelled unity of construction, its tremendous dramatic tension, and its wonderful psychological analysis combine to make it a masterpiece. in swedish its name is "fordringsägare." this indefinite form may be either singular or plural, but it is rarely used except as a plural. and the play itself makes it perfectly clear that the proper translation of its title is "creditors," for under this aspect appear both the former and the present husband of _tekla_. one of the main objects of the play is to reveal her indebtedness first to one and then to the other of these men, while all the time she is posing as a person of original gifts. i have little doubt that strindberg, at the time he wrote this play--and bear in mind that this happened only a year before he finally decided to free himself from an impossible marriage by an appeal to the law--believed _tekla_ to be fairly representative of womanhood in general. the utter unreasonableness of such a view need hardly be pointed out, and i shall waste no time on it. a question more worthy of discussion is whether the figure of _tekla_ be true to life merely as the picture of a personality--as one out of numerous imaginable variations on a type decided not by sex but by faculties and qualities. and the same question may well be raised in regard to the two men, both of whom are evidently intended to win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate stronger than himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse and humiliating circumstances. personally, i am inclined to doubt whether a _tekla_ can be found in the flesh--and even if found, she might seem too exceptional to gain acceptance as a real individuality. it must be remembered, however, that, in spite of his avowed realism, strindberg did not draw his men and women in the spirit generally designated as impressionistic; that is, with the idea that they might step straight from his pages into life and there win recognition as human beings of familiar aspect. his realism is always mixed with idealism; his figures are always "doctored," so to speak. and they have been thus treated in order to enable their creator to drive home the particular truth he is just then concerned with. consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what may be designated as "pure cultures" of certain human qualities. but these he took great pains to arrange in their proper psychological settings, for mental and moral qualities, like everything else, run in groups that are more or less harmonious, if not exactly homogeneous. the man with a single quality, like molière's _harpagon_, was much too primitive and crude for strindberg's art, as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "miss julia." when he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did it by setting it in the midst of related qualities of a kind most likely to be attracted by it. _tekla_ is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally correlated mental and moral qualities and functions and tendencies--of a personality built up logically around a dominant central note. there are within all of us many personalities, some of which remain for ever potentialities. but it is conceivable that any one of them, under circumstances different from those in which we have been living, might have developed into its severely logical consequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would be held abnormal if actually encountered. this is exactly what strindberg seems to have done time and again, both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as in his plays. in all of us a _tekla_, an _adolph_, a _gustav_--or a _jean_ and a _miss julia_--lie more or less dormant. and if we search our souls unsparingly, i fear the result can only be an admission that--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we might have come unpleasantly close to one of those strindbergian creatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman. here we have the secret of what i believe to be the great swedish dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. how could it otherwise happen that so many critics, of such widely differing temperaments, have recorded identical feelings as springing from a study of his work: on one side an active resentment, a keen unwillingness to be interested; on the other, an attraction that would not be denied in spite of resolute resistance to it! for strindberg _does_ hold us, even when we regret his power of doing so. and no one familiar with the conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such a paradox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelings provide us with something that our minds instinctively recognise as true to life in some way, and for that reason valuable to the art of living. there are so many ways of presenting truth. strindberg's is only one of them--and not the one commonly employed nowadays. its main fault lies perhaps in being too intellectual, too abstract. for while strindberg was intensely emotional, and while this fact colours all his writings, he could only express himself through his reason. an emotion that would move another man to murder would precipitate strindberg into merciless analysis of his own or somebody else's mental and moral make-up. at any rate, i do not proclaim his way of presenting truth as the best one of all available. but i suspect that this decidedly strange way of strindberg's--resulting in such repulsively superior beings as _gustav_, or in such grievously inferior ones as _adolph_--may come nearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways of much more plausible writers. this does not need to imply that the future will imitate strindberg. but it may ascertain what he aimed at doing, and then do it with a degree of perfection which he, the pioneer, could never hope to attain. creditors a tragicomedy 1889 persons tekla adolph, her husband, a painter gustav, her divorced husband, a high-school teacher (who is travelling under an assumed name) scene (a parlor in a summer hotel on the sea-shore. the rear wall has a door opening on a veranda, beyond which is seen a landscape. to the right of the door stands a table with newspapers on it. there is a chair on the left side of the stage. to the right of the table stands a sofa. a door on the right leads to an adjoining room.) (adolph and gustav, the latter seated on the sofa by the table to the right.) adolph. [at work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling stand; his crutches are placed beside him]--and for all this i have to thank you! gustav. [smoking a cigar] oh, nonsense! adolph. why, certainly! during the first days after my wife had gone, i lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but long for her. it was as if she had taken away my crutches with her, so that i couldn't move from the spot. when i had slept a couple of days, i seemed to come to, and began to pull myself together. my head calmed down after having been working feverishly. old thoughts from days gone by bobbed up again. the desire to work and the instinct for creation came back. my eyes recovered their faculty of quick and straight vision--and then you showed up. gustav. i admit you were in a miserable condition when i first met you, and you had to use your crutches when you walked, but this is not to say that my presence has been the cause of your recovery. you needed a rest, and you had a craving for masculine company. adolph. oh, that's true enough, like everything you say. once i used to have men for friends, but i thought them superfluous after i married, and i felt quite satisfied with the one i had chosen. later i was drawn into new circles and made a lot of acquaintances, but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keep me to herself: worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends to herself. and so i was left alone with my own jealousy. gustav. yes, you have a strong tendency toward that kind of disease. adolph. i was afraid of losing her--and i tried to prevent it. there is nothing strange in that. but i was never afraid that she might be deceiving me-gustav. no, that's what married men are never afraid of. adolph. yes, isn't it queer? what i really feared was that her friends would get such an influence over her that they would begin to exercise some kind of indirect power over me--and _that_ is something i couldn't bear. gustav. so your ideas don't agree--yours and your wife's? adolph. seeing that you have heard so much already, i may as well tell you everything. my wife has an independent nature--what are you smiling at? gustav. go on! she has an independent nature-adolph. which cannot accept anything from me-gustav. but from everybody else. adolph. [after a pause] yes.--and it looked as if she especially hated my ideas because they were mine, and not because there was anything wrong about them. for it used to happen quite often that she advanced ideas that had once been mine, and that she stood up for them as her own. yes, it even happened that friends of mine gave her ideas which they had taken directly from me, and then they seemed all right. everything was all right except what came from me. gustav. which means that you are not entirely happy? adolph. oh yes, i am happy. i have the one i wanted, and i have never wanted anybody else. gustav. and you have never wanted to be free? adolph. no, i can't say that i have. oh, well, sometimes i have imagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. but the moment she leaves me, i begin to long for her--long for her as for my own arms and legs. it is queer that sometimes i have a feeling that she is nothing in herself, but only a part of myself--an organ that can take away with it my will, my very desire to live. it seems almost as if i had deposited with her that centre of vitality of which the anatomical books tell us. gustav. perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is just what has happened. adolph. how could it be so? is she not an independent being, with thoughts of her own? and when i met her i was nothing--a child of an artist whom she undertook to educate. gustav. but later you developed her thoughts and educated her, didn't you? adolph. no, she stopped growing and i pushed on. gustav. yes, isn't it strange that her "authoring" seemed to fall off after her first book--or that it failed to improve, at least? but that first time she had a subject which wrote itself--for i understand she used her former husband for a model. you never knew him, did you? they say he was an idiot. adolph. i never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time. but he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture of him. [pause] and you may feel sure that the picture was correct. gustav. i do!--but why did she ever take him? adolph. because she didn't know him well enough. of course, you never _do_ get acquainted until afterward! gustav. and for that reason one ought not to marry until-afterward.--and he was a tyrant, of course? adolph. of course? gustav. why, so are all married men. [feeling his way] and you not the least. adolph. i? who let my wife come and go as she pleases-gustav. well, that's nothing. you couldn't lock her up, could you? but do you like her to stay away whole nights? adolph. no, really, i don't. gustav. there, you see! [with a change of tactics] and to tell the truth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it. adolph. ridiculous? can a man be ridiculous because he trusts his wife? gustav. of course he can. and it's just what you are already--and thoroughly at that! adolph. [convulsively] i! it's what i dread most of all--and there's going to be a change. gustav. don't get excited now--or you'll have another attack. adolph. but why isn't she ridiculous when i stay out all night? gustav. yes, why? well, it's nothing that concerns you, but that's the way it is. and while you are trying to figure out why, the mishap has already occurred. adolph. what mishap? gustav. however, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took him only to get her freedom. you see, a girl cannot have freedom except by providing herself with a chaperon--or what we call a husband. adolph. of course not. gustav. and now you are the chaperon. adolph. i? gustav. since you are her husband. (adolph keeps a preoccupied silence.) gustav. am i not right? adolph. [uneasily] i don't know. you live with a woman for years, and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, and then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--gustav, you are my friend. the only male friend i have. during this last week you have given me courage to live again. it is as if your own magnetism had been poured into me. like a watchmaker, you have fixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again. can't you hear, yourself, how i think more clearly and speak more to the point? and to myself at least it seems as if my voice had recovered its ring. gustav. so it seems to me also. and why is that? adolph. i shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower your voice in talking to women. i know at least that tekla always used to accuse me of shouting. gustav. and so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule of the slipper? adolph. that isn't quite the way to put it. [after some reflection] i think it is even worse than that. but let us talk of something else!--what was i saying?--yes, you came here, and you enabled me to see my art in its true light. of course, for some time i had noticed my growing lack of interest in painting, as it didn't seem to offer me the proper medium for the expression of what i wanted to bring out. but when you explained all this to me, and made it clear why painting must fail as a timely outlet for the creative instinct, then i saw the light at last--and i realised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to express myself by means of colour only. gustav. are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting-that you may not have a relapse? adolph. perfectly sure! for i have tested myself. when i went to bed that night after our talk, i rehearsed your argument point by point, and i knew you had it right. but when i woke up from a good night's sleep and my head was clear again, then it came over me in a flash that you might be mistaken after all. and i jumped out of bed and got hold of my brushes and paints--but it was no use! every trace of illusion was gone--it was nothing but smears of paint, and i quaked at the thought of having believed, and having made others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but a painted canvas. the veil had fallen from my eyes, and it was just as impossible for me to paint any more as it was to become a child again. gustav. and then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, its craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find its proper form in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in all three dimensions-adolph. [vaguely] the three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word! gustav. and then you became a sculptor yourself. or rather, you have been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothing was needed but a guide to put you on the right road--tell me, do you experience supreme joy now when you are at work? adolph. now i am living! gustav. may i see what you are doing? adolph. a female figure. gustav. without a model? and so lifelike at that! adolph. [apathetically] yes, but it resembles somebody. it is remarkable that this woman seems to have become a part of my body as i of hers. gustav. well, that's not so very remarkable. do you know what transfusion is? adolph. of blood? yes. gustav. and you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. when i look at the figure here i comprehend several things which i merely guessed before. you have loved her tremendously! adolph. yes, to such an extent that i couldn't tell whether she was i or i she. when she is smiling, i smile also. when she is weeping, i weep. and when she--can you imagine anything like it?-when she was giving life to our child--i felt the birth pangs within myself. gustav. do you know, my dear friend--i hate to speak of it, but you are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy. adolph. [agitated] i! how can you tell? gustav. because i have watched the symptoms in a younger brother of mine who had been worshipping venus a little too excessively. adolph. how--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of? [during the following passage gustav speaks with great animation, and adolph listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitates many of gustav's gestures.] gustav. it was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strong enough i won't inflict a description of it on you. adolph. [nervously] yes, go right on--just go on! gustav. well, the boy happened to marry an innocent little creature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face of a child and the pure soul of an angel. but nevertheless she managed to usurp the male prerogative-adolph. what is that? gustav. initiative, of course. and with the result that the angel nearly carried him off to heaven. but first he had to be put on the cross and made to feel the nails in his flesh. it was horrible! adolph. [breathlessly] well, what happened? gustav. [lingering on each word] we might be sitting together talking, he and i--and when i had been speaking for a while his face would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs would grow stiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the palms of his hands--like this. [he illustrates the movement and it is imitated by adolph] then his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to chew-like this. [he chews, and again adolph imitates him] the saliva was rattling in his throat. his chest was squeezed together as if it had been closed in a vice. the pupils of his eyes flickered like gas-jets. his tongue beat the saliva into a lather, and he sank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he were drowning. and then-adolph. [in a whisper] stop now! gustav. and then--are you not feeling well? adolph. no. gustav. [gets a glass of water for him] there: drink now. and we'll talk of something else. adolph. [feebly] thank you! please go on! gustav. well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything at all. he had simply lost consciousness. has that ever happened to you? adolph. yes, i have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but my physician says it's only anaemia. gustav. well, that's the beginning of it, you know. but, believe me, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself. adolph. what can i do? gustav. to begin with, you will have to observe complete abstinence. adolph. for how long? gustav. for half a year at least. adolph. i cannot do it. that would upset our married life. gustav. good-bye to you then! adolph. [covers up the wax figure] i cannot do it! gustav. can you not save your own life?--but tell me, as you have already given me so much of your confidence--is there no other canker, no secret wound, that troubles you? for it is very rare to find only one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety and so fruitful in chances for false relationships. is there not a corpse in your cargo that you are trying to hide from yourself?-for instance, you said a minute ago that you have a child which has been left in other people's care. why don't you keep it with you? adolph. my wife doesn't want us to do so. gustav. and her reason? speak up now! adolph. because, when it was about three years old, it began to look like him, her former husband. gustav. well? have you seen her former husband? adolph. no, never. i have only had a casual glance at a very poor portrait of him, and then i couldn't detect the slightest resemblance. gustav. oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, he might have changed considerably since it was made. however, i hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you? adolph. not at all. the child was born a year after our marriage, and the husband was abroad when i first met tekla--it happened right here, in this very house even, and that's why we come here every summer. gustav. no, then there can be no cause for suspicion. and you wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the children of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to her dead husband. it is annoying, of course, and that's why they used to burn all widows in india, as you know.--but tell me: have you ever felt jealous of him--of his memory? would it not sicken you to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your tekla, use the word "we" instead of "i"?--we! adolph. i cannot deny that i have been pursued by that very thought. gustav. there now!--and you'll never get rid of it. there are discords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. for this reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. if you work, and grow old, and pile masses of new impressions on the hatches, then the corpse will stay quiet in the hold. adolph. pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful how you resemble tekla now and then while you are talking. you have a way of blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, and your eyes have the same influence on me as hers have at times. gustav. no, really? adolph. and now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferent way that she does. she also has the habit of saying "no, really" quite often. gustav. perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all human beings are said to be of one family. at any rate, it will be interesting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if what you say is true. adolph. and do you know, she never takes an expression from me. she seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and i have never caught her using any of my gestures. and yet people as a rule develop what is called "marital resemblance." gustav. and do you know why this has not happened in your case?-that woman has never loved you. adolph. what do you mean? gustav. i hope you will excuse what i am saying--but woman's love consists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takes nothing does not have her love. she has never loved you! adolph. don't you think her capable of loving more than once? gustav. no, for we cannot be deceived more than once. then our eyes are opened once for all. you have never been deceived, and so you had better beware of those that have. they are dangerous, i tell you. adolph. your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and i fool as if something were being severed within me, but i cannot help it. and this cutting brings a certain relief, too. for it means the pricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen.--she has never loved me!--why, then, did she ever take me? gustav. tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it was you who took her or she who took you? adolph. heaven only knows if i can tell at all!--how did it happen? well, it didn't come about in one day. gustav. would you like to have me tell you how it did happen? adolph. that's more than you can do. gustav. oh, by using the information about yourself and your wife that you have given me, i think i can reconstruct the whole event. listen now, and you'll hear. [in a dispassionate tone, almost humorously] the husband had gone abroad to study, and she was alone. at first her freedom seemed rather pleasant. then came a sense of vacancy, for i presume she was pretty empty when she had lived by herself for a fortnight. then _he_ appeared, and by and by the vacancy was filled up. by comparison the absent one seemed to fade out, and for the simple reason that he was at a distance--you know the law about the square of the distance? but when they felt their passions stirring, then came fear--of themselves, of their consciences, of him. for protection they played brother and sister. and the more their feelings smacked of the flesh, the more they tried to make their relationship appear spiritual. adolph. brother and sister? how could you know that? gustav. i guessed it. children are in the habit of playing papa and mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--in order to hide what should be hidden!--and then they took the vow of chastity--and then they played hide-and-seek--until they got in a dark corner where they were sure of not being seen by anybody. [with mock severity] but they felt that there was _one_ whose eye reached them in the darkness--and they grew frightened-and their fright raised the spectre of the absent one--his figure began to assume immense proportions--it became metamorphosed: turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous slumbers; a creditor who knocked at all doors. then they saw his black hand between their own as these sneaked toward each other across the table; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness of the night that should have been broken only by the beating of their own pulses. he did not prevent them from possessing each other but he spoiled their happiness. and when they became aware of his invisible interference with their happiness; when they took flight at last--a vain flight from the memories that pursued them, from the liability they had left behind, from the public opinion they could not face--and when they found themselves without the strength needed to carry their own guilt, then they had to send out into the fields for a scapegoat to be sacrificed. they were free-thinkers, but they did not have the courage to step forward and speak openly to him the words: "we love each other!" to sum it up, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. is that right? adolph. yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled my head with new thoughts-gustav. i have not forgotten it. but tell me: why could she not educate the other man also--into a free-thinker? adolph. oh, he was an idiot! gustav. oh, of course--he was an idiot! but that's rather an ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems mainly to have consisted in failure to understand her. pardon me a question: but is your wife so very profound after all? i have discovered nothing profound in her writings. adolph. neither have i.--but then i have also to confess a certain difficulty in understanding her. it is as if the cogs of our brain wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went to pieces in my head when i try to comprehend her. gustav. maybe you are an idiot, too? adolph. i don't _think_ so! and it seems to me all the time as if she were in the wrong--would you care to read this letter, for instance, which i got today? [takes out a letter from his pocket-book.] gustav. [glancing through the letter] hm! the handwriting seems strangely familiar. adolph. rather masculine, don't you think? gustav. well, i know at least _one_ man who writes that kind of hand--she addresses you as "brother." are you still playing comedy to each other? and do you never permit yourselves any greater familiarity in speaking to each other? adolph. no, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that way. gustav. and is it to make you respect her that she calls herself your sister? adolph. i want to respect her more than myself. i want her to be the better part of my own self. gustav. why don't you be that better part yourself? would it be less convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? do you want to place yourself beneath your wife? adolph. yes, i do. i take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to her. i have taught her to swim, for example, and now i enjoy hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. to begin with, i merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order to raise her courage. and so it ended with my actually being her inferior, more of a coward than she. it almost seemed to me as if she had actually taken my courage away from me. gustav. have you taught her anything else? adolph. yes--but it must stay between us--i have taught her how to spell, which she didn't know before. but now, listen: when she took charge of our domestic correspondence, i grew out of the habit of writing. and think of it: as the years passed on, lack of practice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar. but do you think she recalls that i was the one who taught her at the start? no--and so i am "the idiot," of course. gustav. so you _are_ an idiot already? adolph. oh, it's just a joke, of course! gustav. of course! but this is clear cannibalism, i think. do you know what's behind that sort of practice? the savages eat their enemies in order to acquire their useful qualities. and this woman has been eating your soul, your courage, your knowledge-adolph. and my faith! it was i who urged her to write her first book-gustav. [making a face] oh-h-h! adolph. it was i who praised her, even when i found her stuff rather poor. it was i who brought her into literary circles where she could gather honey from our most ornamental literary flowers. it was i who used my personal influence to keep the critics from her throat. it was i who blew her faith in herself into flame; blew on it until i lost my own breath. i gave, gave, gave--until i had nothing left for myself. do you know--i'll tell you everything now--do you know i really believe--and the human soul is so peculiarly constituted--i believe that when my artistic successes seemed about to put her in the shadow--as well as her reputation-then i tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and by making my own art seem inferior to hers. i talked so long about the insignificant part played by painting on the whole--talked so long about it, and invented so many reasons to prove what i said, that one fine day i found myself convinced of its futility. so all you had to do was to breathe on a house of cards. gustav. pardon me for recalling what you said at the beginning of our talk--that she had never taken anything from you. adolph. she doesn't nowadays. because there is nothing more to take. gustav. the snake being full, it vomits now. adolph. perhaps she has been taking a good deal more from me than i have been aware of? gustav. you can be sure of that. she took when you were not looking, and that is called theft. adolph. perhaps she never did educate me? gustav. but you her? in all likelihood! but it was her trick to make it appear the other way to you. may i ask how she set about educating you? adolph. oh, first of all--hm! gustav. well? adolph. well, i-gustav. no, we were speaking of her. adolph. really, i cannot tell now. gustav. do you see! adolph. however--she devoured my faith also, and so i sank further and further down, until you came along and gave me a new faith. gustav. [smiling] in sculpture? adolph. [doubtfully] yes. gustav. and have you really faith in it? in this abstract, antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of civilisation? do you believe that you can obtain your effect by pure form--by the three dimensions--tell me? that you can reach the practical mind of our own day, and convey an illusion to it, without the use of colour--without colour, mind you--do you really believe that? adolph. [crushed] no! gustav. well, i don't either. adolph. why, then, did you say you did? gustav. because i pitied you. adolph. yes, i am to be pitied! for now i am bankrupt! finished!-and worst of all: not even she is left to me! gustav. well, what could you do with her? adolph. oh, she would be to me what god was before i became an atheist: an object that might help me to exercise my sense of veneration. gustav. bury your sense of veneration and let something else grow on top of it. a little wholesome scorn, for instance. adolph. i cannot live without having something to respect-gustav. slave! adolph.--without a woman to respect and worship! gustav. oh, hell! then you had better take back your god--if you needs must have something to kow-tow to! you're a fine atheist, with all that superstition about woman still in you! you're a fine free-thinker, who dare not think freely about the dear ladies! do you know what that incomprehensible, sphinx-like, profound something in your wife really is? it is sheer stupidity!--look here: she cannot even distinguish between th and t. and that, you know, means there is something wrong with the mechanism. when you look at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the works inside are those of an ordinary cheap watch.--nothing but the skirts-that's all! put trousers on her, give her a pair of moustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober look at her, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find the instrument has another sound to it. a phonograph, and nothing else--giving yon back your own words, or those of other people-and always in diluted form. have you ever looked at a naked woman-oh yes, yes, of course! a youth with over-developed breasts; an under-developed man; a child that has shot up to full height and then stopped growing in other respects; one who is chronically anaemic: what can you expect of such a creature? adolph. supposing all that to be true--how can it be possible that i still think her my equal? gustav. hallucination--the hypnotising power of skirts! or--the two of you may actually have become equals. the levelling process has been finished. her capillarity has brought the water in both tubes to the same height.--tell me [taking out his watch]: our talk has now lasted six hours, and your wife ought soon to be here. don't you think we had better stop, so that you can get a rest? adolph. no, don't leave me! i don't dare to be alone! gustav. oh, for a little while only--and then the lady will come. adolph. yes, she is coming!--it's all so queer! i long for her, but i am afraid of her. she pets me, she is tender to me, but there is suffocation in her kisses--something that pulls and numbs. and i feel like a circus child that is being pinched by the clown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when it appears before the public. gustav. i feel very sorry for you, my friend. without being a physician, i can tell that you are a dying man. it is enough to look at your latest pictures in order to see that. adolph. you think so? how can you see it? gustav. your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that the cadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. and it impresses me as if your own hollow, putty-coloured checks were showing beneath-adolph. oh, stop, stop! gustav. well, this is not only my personal opinion. have you read to-day's paper? adolph. [shrinking] no! gustav. it's on the table here. adolph. [reaching for the paper without daring to take hold of it] do they speak of it there? gustav. read it--or do you want me to read it to you? adolph. no! gustav. i'll leave you, if you want me to. adolph. no, no, no!--i don't know--it seems as if i were beginning to hate you, and yet i cannot let you go.--you drag me out of the hole into which i have fallen, but no sooner do you get me on firm ice, than you knock me on the head and shove me into the water again. as long as my secrets were my own, i had still something left within me, but now i am quite empty. there is a canvas by an italian master, showing a scene of torture--a saint whose intestines are being torn out of him and rolled on the axle of a windlass. the martyr is watching himself grow thinner and thinner, while the roll on the axle grows thicker.--now it seems to me as if you had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when you leave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing but an empty shell behind. gustav. how you do let your fancy run away with you!--and besides, your wife is bringing back your heart. adolph. no, not since you have burned her to ashes. everything is in ashes where you have passed along: my art, my love, my hope, my faith! gustav. all of it was pretty nearly finished before i came along. adolph. yes, but it might have been saved. now it's too late-incendiary! gustav. we have cleared some ground only. now we'll sow in the ashes. adolph. i hate you! i curse you! gustav. good symptoms! there is still some strength left in you. and now i'll pull you up on the ice again. listen now! do you want to listen to me, and do you want to obey me? adolph. do with me what you will--i'll obey you! gustav. [rising] look at me! adolph. [looking at gustav] now you are looking at me again with that other pair of eyes which attracts me. gustav. and listen to me! adolph. yes, but speak of yourself. don't talk of me any longer: i am like an open wound and cannot bear being touched. gustav. no, there is nothing to say about me. i am a teacher of dead languages, and a widower--that's all! take my hand. adolph. what terrible power there must be in you! it feels as if i were touching an electrical generator. gustav. and bear in mind that i have been as weak as you are now.-stand up! adolph. [rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throwing his arms around the neck of gustav] i am like a boneless baby, and my brain seems to lie bare. gustav. take a turn across the floor! adolph. i cannot! gustav. do what i say, or i'll strike you! adolph. [straightening himself up] what are you saying? gustav. i'll strike you, i said. adolph. [leaping backward in a rage] you! gustav. that's it! now you have got the blood into your head, and your self-assurance is awake. and now i'll give you some electriticy: where is your wife? adolph. where is she? gustav. yes. adolph. she is--at--a meeting. gustav. sure? adolph. absolutely! gustav. what kind of meeting? adolph. oh, something relating to an orphan asylum. gustav. did you part as friends? adolph. [with some hesitation] not as friends. gustav. as enemies then!--what did you say that provoked her? adolph. you are terrible. i am afraid of you. how could you know? gustav. it's very simple: i possess three known factors, and with their help i figure out the unknown one. what did you say to her? adolph. i said--two words only, but they were dreadful, and i regret them--regret them very much. gustav. don't do it! tell me now? adolph. i said: "old flirt!" gustav. what more did you say? adolph. nothing at all. gustav. yes, you did, but you have forgotten it--perhaps because you don't dare remember it. you have put it away in a secret drawer, but you have got to open it now! adolph. i can't remember! gustav. but i know. this is what you said: "you ought to be ashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any more lovers!" adolph. did i say that? i must have said it!--but how can you know that i did? gustav. i heard her tell the story on board the boat as i came here. adolph. to whom? gustav. to four young men who formed her company. she is already developing a taste for chaste young men, just like-adolph. but there is nothing wrong in that? gustav. no more than in playing brother and sister when you are papa and mamma. adolph. so you have seen her then? gustav. yes, i have. but you have never seen her when you didn't-i mean, when you were not present. and there's the reason, you see, why a husband can never really know his wife. have you a portrait of her? (adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. there is a look of aroused curiosity on his face.) gustav. you were not present when this was taken? adolph. no. gustav. look at it. does it bear much resemblance to the portrait you painted of her? hardly any! the features are the same, but the expression is quite different. but you don't see this, because your own picture of her creeps in between your eyes and this one. look at it now as a painter, without giving a thought to the original. what does it represent? nothing, so far as i can see, but an affected coquette inviting somebody to come and play with her. do you notice this cynical line around the mouth which you are never allowed to see? can you see that her eyes are seeking out some man who is not you? do you observe that her dress is cut low at the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, that her sleeve has managed to slip back from her arm? can you see? adolph. yes--now i see. gustav. look out, my boy! adolph. for what? gustav. for her revenge! bear in mind that when you said she could not attract a man, you struck at what to her is most sacred--the one thing above all others. if you had told her that she wrote nothing but nonsense, she would have laughed at your poor taste. but as it is--believe me, it will not be her fault if her desire for revenge has not already been satisfied. adolph. i must know if it is so! gustav. find out! adolph. find out? gustav. watch--i'll assist you, if you want me to. adolph. as i am to die anyhow--it may as well come first as last! what am i to do? gustav. first of all a piece of information: has your wife any vulnerable point? adolph. hardly! i think she must have nine lives, like a cat. gustav. there--that was the boat whistling at the landing--now she'll soon be here. adolph. then i must go down and meet her. gustav. no, you are to stay here. you have to be impolite. if her conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your ears tingle. if she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you. adolph. are you so sure of that? gustav. not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn and run in loops, but i'll follow. my room is nest to this. [he points to the door on the right] there i shall take up my position and watch you while you are playing the game in here. but when you are done, we'll change parts: i'll enter the cage and do tricks with the snake while you stick to the key-hole. then we meet in the park to compare notes. but keep your back stiff. and if you feel yourself weakening, knock twice on the floor with a chair. adolph. all right!--but don't go away. i must be sure that you are in the next room. gustav. you can be quite sure of that. but don't get scared afterward, when you watch me dissecting a human soul and laying out its various parts on the table. they say it is rather hard on a beginner, but once you have seen it done, you never want to miss it.--and be sure to remember one thing: not a word about having met me, or having made any new acquaintance whatever while she was away. not one word! and i'll discover her weak point by myself. hush, she has arrived--she is in her room now. she's humming to herself. that means she is in a rage!--now, straight in the back, please! and sit down on that chair over there, so that she has to sit here--then i can watch both of you at the same time. adolph. it's only fifteen minutes to dinner--and no new guests have arrived--for i haven't heard the bell ring. that means we shall be by ourselves--worse luck! gustav. are you weak? adolph. i am nothing at all!--yes, i am afraid of what is now coming! but i cannot keep it from coming! the stone has been set rolling--and it was not the first drop of water that started it-nor wad it the last one--but all of them together. gustav. let it roll then--for peace will come in no other way. good-bye for a while now! [goes out] (adolph nods back at him. until then he has been standing with the photograph in his hand. now he tears it up and flings the pieces under the table. then he sits down on a chair, pulls nervously at his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, crumples his coat lapel, and so on.) tekla. [enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss; her manner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] hello, little brother! how is he getting on? adolph. [almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if in jest] what mischief have you been up to now that makes you come and kiss me? tekla. i'll tell you: i've spent an awful lot of money. adolph. you have had a good time then? tekla. very! but not exactly at that crèche meeting. that was plain piffle, to tell the truth.--but what has little brother found to divert himself with while his pussy was away? (her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking for somebody or sniffing something.) adolph. i've simply been bored. tekla. and no company at all? adolph. quite by myself. tekla. [watching him; she sits down on the sofa] who has been sitting here? adolph. over there? nobody. tekla. that's funny! the seat is still warm, and there is a hollow here that looks as if it had been made by an elbow. have you had lady callers? adolph. i? you don't believe it, do you? tekla. but you blush. i think little brother is not telling the truth. come and tell pussy now what he has on his conscience. (draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his head resting in her lap.) adolph. you're a little devil--do you know that? tekla. no, i don't know anything at all about myself. adolph. you never think about yourself, do you? tekla. [sniffing and taking notes] i think of nothing but myself-i am a dreadful egoist. but what has made you turn so philosophical all at once? adolph. put your hand on my forehead. tekla. [prattling as if to a baby] has he got ants in his head again? does he want me to take them away, does he? [kisses him on the forehead] there now! is it all right now? adolph. now it's all right. [pause] tekla. well, tell me now what you have been doing to make the time go? have you painted anything? adolph. no, i am done with painting. tekla. what? done with painting? adolph. yes, but don't scold me for it. how can i help it that i can't paint any longer! tekla. what do you mean to do then? adolph. i'll become a sculptor. tekla. what a lot of brand new ideas again! adolph. yes, but please don't scold! look at that figure over there. tekla. [uncovering the wax figure] well, i declare!--who is that meant for? adolph. guess! tekla. is it pussy? has he got no shame at all? adolph. is it like? tekla. how can i tell when there is no face? adolph. yes, but there is so much else--that's beautiful! tekla. [taps him playfully on the cheek] now he must keep still or i'll have to kiss him. adolph. [holding her back] now, now!--somebody might come! tekla. well, what do i care? can't i kiss my own husband, perhaps? oh yes, that's my lawful right. adolph. yes, but don't you know--in the hotel here, they don't believe we are married, because we are kissing each other such a lot. and it makes no difference that we quarrel now and then, for lovers are said to do that also. tekla. well, but what's the use of quarrelling? why can't he always be as nice as he is now? tell me now? can't he try? doesn't he want us to be happy? adolph. do i want it? yes, but-tekla. there we are again! who has put it into his head that he is not to paint any longer? adolph. who? you are always looking for somebody else behind me and my thoughts. are you jealous? tekla. yes, i am. i'm afraid somebody might take him away from me. adolph. are you really afraid of that? you who know that no other woman can take your place, and that i cannot live without you! tekla. well, i am not afraid of the women--it's your friends that fill your head with all sorts of notions. adolph. [watching her] you are afraid then? of what are you afraid? tekla. [getting up] somebody has been here. who has been here? adolph. don't you wish me to look at you? tekla. not in that way: it's not the way you are accustomed to look at me. adolph. how was i looking at you then? tekla. way up under my eyelids. adolph. under your eyelids--yes, i wanted to see what is behind them. tekla. see all you can! there is nothing that needs to be hidden. but--you talk differently, too--you use expressions--[studying him] you philosophise--that's what you do! [approaches him threateningly] who has been here? adolph. nobody but my physician. tekla. your physician? who is he? adolph. that doctor from strömstad. tekla. what's his name? adolph. sjöberg. tekla. what did he have to say? adolph. he said--well--among other things he said--that i am on the verge of epilepsy-tekla. among other things? what more did he say? adolph. something very unpleasant. tekla. tell me! adolph. he forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. tekla. oh, that's it! didn't i just guess it! they want to separate us! that's what i have understood a long time! adolph. you can't have understood, because there was nothing to understand. tekla. oh yes, i have! adolph. how can you see what doesn't exist, unless your fear of something has stirred up your fancy into seeing what has never existed? what is it you fear? that i might borrow somebody else's eyes in order to see you as you are, and not as you seem to be? tekla. keep your imagination in check, adolph! it is the beast that dwells in man's soul. adolph. where did you learn that? from those chaste young men on the boat--did you? tekla. [not at all abashed] yes, there is something to be learned from youth also. adolph. i think you are already beginning to have a taste for youth? tekla. i have always liked youth. that's why i love you. do you object? adolph. no, but i should prefer to have no partners. tekla. [prattling roguishly] my heart is so big, little brother, that there is room in it for many more than him. adolph. but little brother doesn't want any more brothers. tekla. come here to pussy now and get his hair pulled because he is jealous--no, envious is the right word for it! (two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining room, where gustav is.) adolph. no, i don't want to play now. i want to talk seriously. tekla. [prattling] mercy me, does he want to talk seriously? dreadful, how serious he's become! [takes hold of his head and kisses him] smile a little--there now! adolph. [smiling against his will] oh, you're the--i might almost think you knew how to use magic! tekla. well, can't he see now? that's why he shouldn't start any trouble--or i might use my magic to make him invisible! adolph. [gets up] will you sit for me a moment, tekla? with the side of your face this way, so that i can put a face on my figure. tekla. of course, i will. [turns her head so he can see her in profile.] adolph. [gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the figure] don't think of me now--but of somebody else. tekla. i'll think of my latest conquest. adolph. that chaste young man? tekla. exactly! he had a pair of the prettiest, sweetest moustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach--it was so soft and rosy that you just wanted to bite it. adolph. [darkening] please keep that expression about the mouth. tekla. what expression? adolph. a cynical, brazen one that i have never seen before. tekla. [making a face] this one? adolph. just that one! [getting up] do you know how bret harte pictures an adulteress? tekla. [smiling] no, i have never read bret something. adolph. as a pale creature that cannot blush. tekla. not at all? but when she meets her lover, then she must blush, i am sure, although her husband or mr. bret may not be allowed to see it. adolph. are you so sure of that? tekla. [as before] of course, as the husband is not capable of bringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold the charming spectacle. adolph. [enraged] tekla! tekla. oh, you little ninny! adolph. tekla! tekla. he should call her pussy--then i might get up a pretty little blush for his sake. does he want me to? adolph. [disarmed] you minx, i'm so angry with you, that i could bite you! tekla. [playfully] come and bite me then!--come! [opens her arms to him.] adolph. [puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] yes, i'll bite you to death! tekla. [teasingly] look out--somebody might come! adolph. well, what do i care! i care for nothing else in the world if i can only have you! tekla. and when, you don't have me any longer? adolph. then i shall die! tekla. but you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as i am too old to be wanted by anybody else? adolph. you have not forgotten my words yet, tekla! i take it all back now! tekla. can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so cock-sure? adolph. no, i cannot explain anything at all. but it's possible that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still be gnawing within me. at times it appears to me as if our love were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion kept up as a matter of honor--and i can't think of anything that would give me more pain than to have _him_ know that i am unhappy. oh, i have never seen him--but the mere thought that a person exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when i perish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, fascinates me, paralyses me! tekla. do you think i would let him have that joy? do you think i would make his prophecy come true? adolph. no, i cannot think you would. tekla. why don't you keep calm then? adolph. no, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. why do you play that kind of game? tekla. it is no game. i want to be admired--that's all! adolph. yes, but only by men! tekla. of course! for a woman is never admired by other women. adolph. tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently? tekla. not in the last sis months. adolph. do you ever think of him? tekla. no!--since the child died we have broken off our correspondence. adolph. and you have never seen him at all? tekla. no, i understand he is living somewhere down on the west coast. but why is all this coming into your head just now? adolph. i don't know. but during the last few days, while i was alone, i kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he was left alone that time. tekla. are you having an attack of bad conscience? adolph. i am. tekla. you feel like a thief, do you? adolph. almost! tekla. isn't that lovely! women can be stolen as you steal children or chickens? and you regard me as his chattel or personal property. i am very much obliged to you! adolph. no, i regard you as his wife. and that's a good deal more than property--for there can be no substitute. tekla. oh, yes! if you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish notions would leave you.--have you not taken his place with me? adolph. well, have i?--and did you ever love him? tekla. of course, i did! adolph. and then-tekla. i grew tired of him! adolph. and if you should tire of me also? tekla. but i won't! adolph. if somebody else should turn up--one who had all the qualities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then you would leave me? tekla. no. adolph. if he captivated you? so that you couldn't live without him? then you would leave me, of course? tekla. no, that doesn't follow. adolph. but you couldn't love two at the same time, could you? tekla. yes! why not? adolph. that's something i cannot understand. tekla. but things exist although you do not understand them. all persons are not made in the same way, you know. adolph. i begin to see now! tekla. no, really! adolph. no, really? [a pause follows, during which he seems to struggle with some--memory that will not come back] do you know, tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful? tekla. and yet it used to be my foremost virtue in your mind, and one that you taught me. adolph. yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something behind that frankness of yours. tekla. that's the new tactics, you know. adolph. i don't know why, but this place has suddenly become offensive to me. if you feel like it, we might return home--this evening! tekla. what kind of notion is that? i have barely arrived and i don't feel like starting on another trip. adolph. but i want to. tekla. well, what's that to me?--you can go! adolph. but i demand that you take the next boat with me! tekla. demand?--what arc you talking about? adolph. do you realise that you are my wife? tekla. do you realise that you are my husband? adolph. well, there's a difference between those two things. tekla. oh, that's the way you are talking now!--you have never loved me! adolph. haven't i? tekla. no, for to love is to give. adolph. to love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to take.--and i have given, given, given! tekla. pooh! what have you given? adolph. everything! tekla. that's a lot! and if it be true, then i must have taken it. are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? and if i have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. a woman cannot receive anything except from her lover. adolph. her lover, yes! there you spoke the truth! i have been your lover, but never your husband. tekla. well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playing chaperon? but if you are not satisfied with your position, i'll send you packing, for i don't want a husband. adolph. no, that's what i have noticed. for a while ago, when you began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my plumes and display my gems, then i felt, like reminding you of your debt. and at once i became a troublesome creditor whom you wanted to get rid of. you wanted to repudiate your own notes, and in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my safe and began to try those of other people instead. without having done anything myself, i became to you merely the husband. and now i am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, as i am not allowed to be your lover any longer, tekla. [playfully] now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet little idiot! adolph. look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but oneself! tekla. but that's what everybody thinks. adolph. and i am beginning to suspect that he--your former husband--was not so much of an idiot after all. tekla. heavens! are you beginning to sympathise with--him? adolph. yes, not far from it, tekla. well, well! perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance and pour out your overflowing heart to him? what a striking picture! but i am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as i am growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. for he was at least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me. adolph. there, you see! but you had better not talk so loud--we might be overheard. tekla. what would it matter if they took us for married people? adolph. so now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at the same time you have a taste for chaste young men? tekla. there are no limits to what i can like, as you may see. my heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--i love the whole world. adolph. do you know what that means? tekla. no, i don't know anything at all. i just _feel_. adolph. it means that old age is near. tekla. there you are again! take care! adolph. take care yourself! tekla. of what? adolph. of the knife! tekla. [prattling] little brother had better not play with such dangerous things. adolph. i have quit playing. tekla. oh, it's earnest, is it? dead earnest! then i'll show you that--you are mistaken. that is to say--you'll never see it, never know it, but all the rest of the world will know it. and you'll suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another moment's peace. you'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. for that's what married men never get. adolph. you hate me then? tekla. no, i don't. and i don't think i shall either. but that's probably because you are nothing to me but a child. adolph. at this moment, yes. but do you remember how it was while the storm swept over us? then you lay there like an infant in arms and just cried. then you had to sit on my lap, and i had to kiss your eyes to sleep. then i had to be your nurse; had to see that you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. i had to sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of public opinion. i had to talk courage into you until my mouth was dry and my head ached. i had to make myself believe that i was strong. i had to force myself into believing in the future. and so i brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. then you admired me. then i was the man--not that kind of athlete you had just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty brain with a new store of electricity. and then i gave you back your reputation. i brought you new friends, furnished you with a little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let themselves be lured into admiring you. i set you to rule me and my house. then i painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then where i didn't hold a place of honour. sometimes you were st. cecilia, and sometimes mary stuart--or little karin, whom king eric loved. and i turned public attention in your direction. i compelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuated vision. i plagued them with your personality, forced you literally down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything possible became yours at last--and you could stand on your own feet. when you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and i collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, i had pushed myself down. i was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you-and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your rise. your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, and for lack of better i accustomed myself to the new part of little brother. your tenderness for me remained, and even increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had in it a good deal of contempt. and this changed into open scorn as my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. but in some mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry up when i could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wanted to show its independence of me. and at last both of us began to lose ground. and then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. a new victim! for you are weak, and you can never carry your own burdens of guilt and debt. and so you picked me for a scapegoat and doomed me to slaughter. but when you cut my thews, you didn't realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time our years of common life had made twins of us. you were a shoot sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you couldn't grow by yourself. and my stem could not spare its main branch--and so stem and branch must die together. tekla. what you mean with all this, of course, is that you have written my books. adolph. no, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me out a liar. i don't use such crude expressions as you do, and i spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ has only a single note in it. tekla. yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have written my books. adolph. no, there is no summary. you cannot reduce a chord into a single note. you cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one figure. i have made no blunt statements like that of having written your books. tekla. but that's what you meant! adolph. [beyond himself] i did not mean it. tekla. but the sum of it-adolph. [wildly] there can be no sum without an addition. you get an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does not work out evenly. i have not added anything. tekla. but i can do the adding myself. adolph. i believe it, but then i am not doing it. tekla. no. but that's what you wanted to do. adolph. [exhausted, closing his eyes] no, no, no--don't speak to me--you'll drive me into convulsions. keep silent! leave me alone! you mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your claws into my thoughts and tear them to pieces! (he seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.) tekla. [tenderly] what is it? are you sick? (adolph motions her away.) tekla. adolph! (adolph shakes his head at her.) tekla. adolph. adolph. yes. tekla. do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago? adolph. yes, yes, yes, yes, i admit! tekla. and do you ask my pardon? adolph. yes, yes, yes, i ask your pardon--if you only won't speak to me! tekla. kiss my hand then! adolph. [kissing her hand] i'll kiss your hand--if you only don't speak to me! tekla. and now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air before dinner. adolph. yes, i think i need it. and then we'll pack and leave. tekla. no! adolph. [on his feet] why? there must be a reason. tekla. the reason is that i have promised to be at the concert tonight. adolph. oh, that's it! tekla. yes, that's it. i have promised to attend-adolph. promised? probably you said only that you might go, and that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go. tekla. no, i am not like you: i keep my word. adolph. of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to live up to every little word we happen to drop. perhaps there is somebody who has made you promise to go. tekla. yes. adolph. then you can ask to be released from your promise because your husband is sick. tekla, no, i don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to be kept from going with me. adolph. why do you always want to drag me along? do you feel safer then? tekla. i don't know what you mean. adolph. that's what you always say when you know i mean something that--doesn't please you. tekla. so-o! what is it now that doesn't please me? adolph. oh, i beg you, don't begin over again--good-bye for a while! (goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the right.) (tekla is left alone. a moment later gustav enters and goes straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. he pretends not to see tekla.) tekla. [shows agitation, but manages to control herself] oh, is it you? gustav. yes, it's me--i beg your pardon! tekla. which way did you come? gustav. by land. but--i am not going to stay, as-tekla. oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.--well, it was some time ago-gustav. yes, some time. tekla. you have changed a great deal. gustav. and you are as charming as ever, a little younger, if anything. excuse me, however--i am not going to spoil your happiness by my presence. and if i had known you were here, i should never-tekla. if you don't think it improper, i should like you to stay. gustav. on my part there could be no objection, but i fear--well, whatever i say, i am sure to offend you. tekla. sit down a moment. you don't offend me, for you possess that rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness. gustav. it's very kind of you. but one could hardly expect--that your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light as you. tekla. on the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very sympathetic terms. gustav. oh!--well, everything becomes covered up by time, like names cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itself permanently in our minds. tekla. he has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. and as for me, i have always cherished a dream--that of seeing you come together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for once in my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go your different ways again. gustav. it has also been my secret longing to see her whom i used to love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in good hands. and although i have heard nothing but good of him, and am familiar with all his work, i should nevertheless have liked, before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take good care of the treasure providence has placed in his possession. in that way i hoped also to lay the hatred that must have developed instinctively between us; i wished to bring some peace and humility into my soul, so that i might manage to live through the rest of my sorrowful days. tekla. you have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood me. i thank you for it! gustav. oh, i am a man of small account, and have always been too insignificant to keep you in the shadow. my monotonous way of living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could not satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. i admit it. but you understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it cost me to make such a confession to myself. tekla. it is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own shortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [sighs] but yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable nature--one that i had to respect--but-gustav. not always--not at that time! but suffering purifies, sorrow ennobles, and--i have suffered! tekla. poor gustav! can you forgive me? tell me, can you? gustav. forgive? what? i am the one who must ask you to forgive. tekla. [changing tone] i believe we are crying, both of us--we who are old enough to know better! gustav. [feeling his way] old? yes, i am old. but you--you grow younger every day. (he has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the left and sits down on it, whereupon tekla sits down on the sofa.) tekla. do you think so? gustav. and then you know how to dress. tekla. i learned that from you. don't you remember how you figured out what colors would be most becoming to me? gustav. no. tekla. yes, don't you remember--hm!--i can even recall how you used to be angry with me whenever i failed to have at least a touch of crimson about my dress. gustav. no, not angry! i was never angry with you. tekla. oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do you remember? for that was something i couldn't do at all. gustav. of course, you could. it's something every human being does. and you have become quite keen at it--at least when you write. tekla. [unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] well, my dear gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a peaceful way like this. gustav. well, i can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a pretty peaceful time with me. tekla. perhaps too much so. gustav. oh! but you see, i thought you wanted me that way. it was at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged. tekla. do you think one really knows what one wants at that time? and then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course. gustav. well, now you must be having all the excitement you can wish. they say that life among artists is rather swift, and i don't think your husband can be called a sluggard. tekla. you can get too much of a good thing. gustav. [trying a new tack] what! i do believe you are still wearing the ear-rings i gave you? tekla. [embarrassed] why not? there was never any quarrel between us--and then i thought i might wear them as a token--and a reminder--that we were not enemies. and then, you know, it is impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [takes off one of her ear-rings.] gustav. oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of it? tekla. why should i mind what he says? gustav. don't you mind that?--but you may be doing him an injury. it is likely to make him ridiculous. tekla. [brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] he was that before! gustav. [rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the ear-ring] may i help you, perhaps? tekla. oh--thank you! gustav. [pinching her ear] that tiny ear!--think only if your husband could see us now! tekla. wouldn't he howl, though! gustav. is he jealous also? tekla. is he? i should say so! [a noise is heard from the room on the right.] gustav. who lives in that room? tekla. i don't know.--but tell me how you are getting along and what you are doing? gustav. tell me rather how you are getting along? (tekla is visibly confused, and without realising what she is doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.) gustav. hello! what's that?--well!--it must be you! tekla. i don't believe so. gustav. but it is very like you. tekla. [cynically] do you think so? gustav. that reminds me of the story--you know it--"how could your majesty see that?" tekla, [laughing aloud] you are impossible!--do you know any new stories? gustav. no, but you ought to have some. tekla. oh, i never hear anything funny nowadays. gustav. is he modest also? tekla. oh--well-gustav. not an everything? tekla. he isn't well just now. gustav. well, why should little brother put his nose into other people's hives? tekla. [laughing] you crazy thing! gustav. poor chap!--do you remember once when we were just married--we lived in this very room. it was furnished differently in those days. there was a chest of drawers against that wall there--and over there stood the big bed. tekla. now you stop! gustav. look at me! tekla. well, why shouldn't i? [they look hard at each other.] gustav. do you think a person can ever forget anything that has made a very deep impression on him? tekla. no! and our memories have a tremendous power. particularly the memories of our youth. gustav. do you remember when i first met you? then you were a pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had made a few scrawls that i had to wipe out. and then i filled it with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the slate could hold nothing more. that's the reason, you know, why i shouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's his business! but it's also the reason why i take pleasure in meeting you again. our thoughts fit together exactly. and as i sit here and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own bottling. yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in flavour! and now, when i am about to marry again, i have purposely picked out a young girl whom i can educate to suit myself. for the woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy. tekla. are you going to marry again? gustav. yes, i want to try my luck once more, but this time i am going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a spill. tekla. is she good looking? gustav. yes, to me. but perhaps i am too old. it's queer--now when chance has brought me together with you again--i am beginning to doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again. tekla. how do you mean? gustav. i can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old wounds are beginning to break open. you are a dangerous woman, tekla! tekla. am i? and my young husband says that i can make no more conquests. gustav. that means he has ceased to love you. tekla. well, i can't quite make out what love means to him. gustav. you have been playing hide and seek so long that at last you cannot find each other at all. such things do happen. you have had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his courage. there _are_ some drawbacks to a change, i tell you--there are drawbacks to it, indeed. tekla. do you mean to reproach-gustav. not at all! whatever happens is to a certain extent necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would--but now it did happen, and so it had to happen. tekla. _you_ are a man of discernment. and i have never met anybody with whom i liked so much to exchange ideas. you are so utterly free from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little of people, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. do you know, i am jealous of your intended wife! gustav. and do you realise that i am jealous of your husband? tekla. [rising] and now we must part! forever! gustav. yes, we must part! but not without a farewell--or what do you say? tekla. [agitated] no! gustav. [following after her] yes!--let us have a farewell! let us drown our memories--you know, there are intoxications so deep that when you wake up all memories are gone. [putting his arm around her waist] you have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who is infecting you with his own anaemia. i'll breathe new life into you. i'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, like a remontant rose. i'll--(two ladies in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading to the veranda. they look surprised. then they point at those within, laugh, and disappear.) tekla. [freeing herself] who was that? gustav. [indifferently] some tourists. tekla. leave me alone! i am afraid of you! gustav. why? tekla. you take my soul away from me! gustav. and give you my own in its place! and you have no soul for that matter--it's nothing but a delusion. tekla. you have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody can be angry with you. gustav. it's because you feel that i hold the first mortgage on you--tell me now, when--and--where? tekla. no, it wouldn't be right to him. i think he is still in love with me, and i don't want to do any more harm. gustav. he does not love you! do you want proofs? tekla, where can you get them? gustav. [picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor] here! see for yourself! tekla. oh, that's an outrage! gustav. do you see? now then, when? and where? tekla. the false-hearted wretch! gustav. when? tekla. he leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat. gustav. and then-tekla. at nine! [a noise is heard from the adjoining room] who can be living in there that makes such a racket? gustav. let's see! [goes over and looks through the keyhole] there's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe-that's all! i shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up in there.--at nine o'clock then? tekla. all right! and let him answer for it himself.--what a depth of deceit! and he who has always preached about truthfulness, and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--but wait a little�how was it now? he received me with something like hostility--didn't meet me at the landing--and then--and then he made some remark about young men on board the boat, which i pretended not to hear�but how could he know? wait--and then he began to philosophise about women--and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting him--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art of the time--exactly in accordance with your old speculations! gustav. no, really! tekla. no, really?--oh, now i understand! now i begin to see what a hideous creature you are! you have been here before and stabbed him to death! it was you who had been sitting there on the sofa; it was you who made him think himself an epileptic--that he had to live in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against his wife; yes, it was you!--how long have you been here? gustav. i have been here a week. tekla. it was you, then, i saw on board the boat? gustav. it was. tekla. and now you were thinking you could trap me? gustav. it has been done. tekla. not yet! gustav. yes! tekla. like a wolf you went after my lamb. you came here with a villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying it out, when my eyes were opened, and i foiled you. gustav. not quite that way, if you please. this is how it happened in reality. of course, it has been my secret hope that disaster might overtake you. but i felt practically certain that no interference on my part was required. and besides, i have been far too busy to have any time left for intriguing. but when i happened to be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those young men on board the boat, then i guessed the time had come for me to take a look at the situation. i came here, and your lamb threw itself into the arms of the wolf. i won his affection by some sort of reminiscent impression which i shall not be tactless enough to explain to you. at first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemed to be in the same fix as i was once. but then he happened to touch old wounds--that book, you know, and "the idiot"--and i was seized with a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these so thoroughly that they couldn't be put together again--and i succeeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done the work of preparation. then i had to deal with you. for you were the spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be taken apart--and what a buzzing followed!--when i came in here, i didn't know exactly what to say. like a chess-player, i had laid a number of tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on your moves. one thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, and finally i had you where i wanted you.--now you are caught! tekla. no! gustav. yes, you are! what you least wanted has happened. the world at large, represented by two lady tourists--whom i had not sent for, as i am not an intriguer--the world has seen how you became reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked back repentantly into his faithful arms. isn't that enough? tekla. it ought to be enough for your revenge--but tell me, how can you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded--how is it possible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, and that all our actions are determined in advance-gustav. [correcting her] to a certain extent determined. tekla. that's the same thing! gustav. no! tekla. [disregarding him] how is it possible that you, who hold me guiltless, as i was driven by my nature and the circumstances into acting as i did--how can you think yourself entitled to revenge--? gustav. for that very reason--for the reason that my nature and the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. isn't that giving both sides a square deal? but do you know why you two had to get the worst of it in this struggle? (tekla looks scornful.) gustav. and why you were doomed to be fooled? because i am stronger than you, and wiser also. you have been the idiot--and he! and now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiot because he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. it might be well for you to bear this in mind. tekla. are you then entirely without feelings? gustav. entirely! and for that very reason, you know, i am capable of thinking--in which you have had no experience whatever-and of acting--in which you have just had some slight experience. tekla. and all this merely because i have hurt your vanity? gustav. don't call that merely! you had better not go around hurting other people's vanity. they have no more sensitive spot than that. tekla. vindictive wretch--shame on you! gustav. dissolute wretch--shame on you! tekla. oh, that's my character, is it? gustav. oh, that's my character, is it?--you ought to learn something about human nature in others before you give your own nature free rein. otherwise you may get hurt, and then there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. tekla. you can never forgive:-gustav. yes, i have forgiven you! tekla. you! gustav. of course! have i raised a hand against you during all these years? no! and now i came here only to have a look at you, and it was enough to burst your bubble. have i uttered a single reproach? have i moralised or preached sermons? no! i played a joke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed to finish him.--but there is no reason why i, the complainant, should be defending myself as i am now--tekla! have you nothing at all to reproach yourself with? tekla. nothing at all! christians say that our actions are governed by providence; others call it fate; in either case, are we not free from all liability? gustav. in a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow margin left unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. and sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. guiltless, but accountable! guiltless in regard to one who is no more; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings. tekla. so you came here to dun me? gustav. i came to take back what you had stolen, not what you had received as a gift. you had stolen my honour, and i could recover it only by taking yours. this, i think, was my right--or was it not? tekla. honour? hm! and now you feel satisfied? gustav. now i feel satisfied. [rings for a waiter.] tekla. and now you are going home to your fiancee? gustav. i have no fiancee! nor am i ever going to have one. i am not going home, for i have no home, and don't want one. (a waiter comes in.) gustav. get me my bill--i am leaving by the eight o'clock boat. (the waiter bows and goes out.) tekla. without making up? gustav. making up? you use such a lot of words that have lost their--meaning. why should we make up? perhaps you want all three of us to live together? you, if anybody, ought to make up by making good what you took away, but this you cannot do. you just took, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothing left to restore.--will it satisfy you if i say like this: forgive me that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced me; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils through every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that i set you free from parental restraints, that i released you from the tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that i set you to rule my house, that i gave you position and friends, that i made a woman out of the child you were before? forgive me as i forgive you!-now i have torn up your note! now you can go and settle your account with the other one! tekla. what have you done with him? i am beginning to suspect-something terrible! gustav. with him? do you still love him? tekla. yes! gustav. and a moment ago it was me! was that also true? tekla. it was true. gustav. do you know what you are then? tekla. you despise me? gustav. i pity you. it is a trait--i don't call it a fault--just a trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. poor tekla! i don't know--but it seems almost as if i were feeling a certain regret, although i am as free from any guilt--as you! but perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what i felt that time.-do you know where your husband is? tekla. i think i know now--he is in that room in there! and he has heard everything! and seen everything! and the man who sees his own wraith dies! (adolph appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. his face is white as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. his eyes are staring and void of all expression. his lips are covered with froth.) gustav. [shrinking back] no, there he is!--now you can settle with him and see if he proves as generous as i have been.--good-bye! (he goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door.) tekla. [goes to meet adolph with open arms] adolph! (adolph leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to the floor.) tekla. [throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressing him] adolph! my own child! are you still alive--oh, speak, speak!-please forgive your nasty tekla! forgive me, forgive me, forgive me!--little brother must say something, i tell him!--no, good god, he doesn't hear! he is dead! o god in heaven! o my god! help! gustav. why, she really must have loved _him_, too!--poor creature! (curtain.) pariah introduction both "creditors" and "pariah" were written in the winter of 188889 at holte, near copenhagen, where strindberg, assisted by his first wife, was then engaged in starting what he called a "scandinavian experimental theatre." in march, 1889, the two plays were given by students from the university of copenhagen, and with mrs. von essen strindberg as _tekla_. a couple of weeks later the performance was repeated across the sound, in the swedish city of malmö, on which occasion the writer of this introduction, then a young actor, assisted in the stage management. one of the actors was gustav wied, a danish playwright and novelist, whose exquisite art since then has won him european fame. in the audience was ola hansson, a swedish novelist and poet who had just published a short story from which strindberg, according to his own acknowledgment on playbill and title-page, had taken the name and the theme of "pariah." mr. hansson has printed a number of letters (_tilskueren_, copenhagen, july, 1912) written to him by strindberg about that time, as well as some very informative comments of his own. concerning the performance of malmö he writes: "it gave me a very unpleasant sensation. what did it mean? why had strindberg turned my simple theme upsidedown so that it became unrecognisable? not a vestige of the 'theme from ola hansson' remained. yet he had even suggested that he and i act the play together, i not knowing that it was to be a duel between two criminals. and he had at first planned to call it 'aryan and pariah'--which meant, of course, that the strong aryan, strindberg, was to crush the weak pariah, hansson, _coram populo_." in regard to his own story mr. hansson informs us that it dealt with "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about it, doing both in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby everything is left vague and undefined." at that moment "raskolnikov" was in the air, so to speak. and without wanting in any way to suggest imitation, i feel sure that the groundnote of the story was distinctly dostoievskian. strindberg himself had been reading nietzsche and was--largely under the pressure of a reaction against the popular disapproval of his anti-feministic attitude--being driven more and more into a superman philosophy which reached its climax in the two novels "chandalah" (1889) and "at the edge of the sea" (1890). the nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two plays contained in the present volume. but these plays are strongly colored by something else--by something that is neither hansson-dostoievski nor strindbergnietzsche. the solution of the problem is found in the letters published by mr. hansson. these show that while strindberg was still planning "creditors," and before he had begun "pariah," he had borrowed from hansson a volume of tales by edgar allan poe. it was his first acquaintance with the work of poe, though not with american literature--for among his first printed work was a series of translations from american humourists; and not long ago a swedish critic (gunnar castrén in _samtiden_, christiania, june, 1912) wrote of strindberg's literary beginnings that "he had learned much from swedish literature, but probably more from mark twain and dickens." the impression poe made on strindberg was overwhelming. he returns to it in one letter after another. everything that suits his mood of the moment is "poesque" or "e. p-esque." the story that seems to have made the deepest impression of all was "the gold bug," though his thought seems to have distilled more useful material out of certain other stories illustrating poe's theories about mental suggestion. under the direct influence of these theories, strindberg, according to his own statements to hansson, wrote the powerful one-act play "simoom," and made _gustav_ in "creditors" actually _call forth_ the latent epileptic tendencies in _adolph_. and on the same authority we must trace the method of: psychological detection practised by _mr. x._ in "pariah" directly to "the gold bug." here we have the reason why mr. hansson could find so little of his story in the play. and here we have the origin of a theme which, while not quite new to him, was ever afterward to remain a favourite one with strindberg: that of a duel between intellect and cunning. it forms the basis of such novels as "chandalah" and "at the edge of the sea," but it recurs in subtler form in works of much later date. to readers of the present day, _mr. x._--that striking antithesis of everything a scientist used to stand for in poetry--is much less interesting as a superman _in spe_ than as an illustration of what a morally and mentally normal man can do with the tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways and human motives. and in giving us a play that holds our interest as firmly as the best "love plot" ever devised, although the stage shows us only two men engaged in an intellectual wrestling match, strindberg took another great step toward ridding the drama of its old, shackling conventions. the name of this play has sometimes been translated as "the outcast," whereby it becomes confused with "the outlaw," a much earlier play on a theme from the old sagas. i think it better, too, that the hindu allusion in the swedish title be not lost, for the best of men may become an outcast, but the baseness of the pariah is not supposed to spring only from lack of social position. pariah an act 1889 persons mr. x., an archaeologist, middle-aged man. mr. y., an american traveller, middle-aged man. scene (a simply furnished room in a farmhouse. the door and the windows in the background open on a landscape. in the middle of the room stands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books, writing materials, and antiquities; at the other end, by a microscope, insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol.) (on the left side hangs a bookshelf. otherwise the furniture is that of a well-to-do farmer.) (mr. y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net and a botany-can. he goes straight up to the bookshelf and takes down a book, which he begins to read on the spot.) (the landscape outside and the room itself are steeped in sunlight. the ringing of church bells indicates that the morning services are just over. now and then the cackling of hens is heard from the outside.) (mr. x. enters, also in his shirt-sleeves.) (mr. y. starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf upside-down, and pretends to be looking for another volume.) mr. x. this heat is horrible. i guess we are going to have a thunderstorm. mr. y. what makes you think so? mr. x. the bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies are sticky, and the hens cackle. i meant to go fishing, but i couldn't find any worms. don't you feel nervous? mr. y. [cautiously] i?--a little. mr. x. well, for that matter, you always look as if you were expecting thunderstorms. mr. y. [with a start] do i? mr. x. now, you are going away tomorrow, of course, so it is not to be wondered at that you are a little "journey-proud."-anything new?--oh, there's the mail! [picks up some letters from the table] my, i have palpitation of the heart every time i open a letter! nothing but debts, debts, debts! have you ever had any debts? mr. y. [after some reflection] n-no. mr. x. well, then you don't know what it means to receive a lot of overdue bills. [reads one of the letters] the rent unpaid--the landlord acting nasty--my wife in despair. and here am i sitting waist-high in gold! [he opens an iron-banded box that stands on the table; then both sit down at the table, facing each other] just look--here i have six thousand crowns' worth of gold which i have dug up in the last fortnight. this bracelet alone would bring me the three hundred and fifty crowns i need. and with all of it i might make a fine career for myself. then i could get the illustrations made for my treatise at once; i could get my work printed, and--i could travel! why don't i do it, do you suppose? mr. y. i suppose you are afraid to be found out. mr. x. that, too, perhaps. but don't you think an intelligent fellow like myself might fix matters so that he was never found out? i am alone all the time--with nobody watching me--while i am digging out there in the fields. it wouldn't be strange if i put something in my own pockets now and then. mr. y. yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the stuff. mr. x. pooh! i'd melt it down, of course--every bit of it--and then i'd turn it into coins--with just as much gold in them as genuine ones, of course-mr. y. of course! mr. x. well, you can easily see why. for if i wanted to dabble in counterfeits, then i need not go digging for gold first. [pause] it is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody else did what i cannot make myself do, then i'd be willing to acquit him--but i couldn't possibly acquit myself. i might even make a brilliant speech in defence of the thief, proving that this gold was _res nullius_, or nobody's, as it had been deposited at a time when property rights did not yet exist; that even under existing rights it could belong only to the first finder of it, as the ground-owner has never included it in the valuation of his property; and so on. mr. y. and probably it would be much easier for you to do this if the--hm!--the thief had not been prompted by actual need, but by a mania for collecting, for instance--or by scientific aspirations-by the ambition to keep a discovery to himself. don't you think so? mr. x. you mean that i could not acquit him if actual need had been the motive? yes, for that's the only motive which the law will not accept in extenuation. that motive makes a plain theft of it. mr. y. and this you couldn't excuse? mr. x. oh, excuse--no, i guess not, as the law wouldn't. on the other hand, i must admit that it would be hard for me to charge a collector with theft merely because he had appropriated some specimen not yet represented in his own collection. mr. y. so that vanity or ambition might excuse what could not be excused by need? mr. x. and yet need ought to be the more telling excuse--the only one, in fact? but i feel as i have said. and i can no more change this feeling than i can change my own determination not to steal under any circumstances whatever. mr. y. and i suppose you count it a great merit that you cannot-hm!--steal? mr. x. no, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible as the inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. so it cannot be called a merit. i cannot do it, and the other one cannot refrain!--but you understand, of course, that i am not without a desire to own this gold. why don't i take it then? because i cannot! it's an inability--and the lack of something cannot be called a merit. there! [closes the box with a slam. stray clouds have cast their shadows on the landscape and darkened the room now and then. now it grows quite dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching.] mr. x. how close the air is! i guess the storm is coming all right. [mr. y. gets up and shuts the door and all the windows.] mr. x. are you afraid of thunder? mr. y. it's just as well to be careful. (they resume their seats at the table.) mr. x. you're a curious chap! here you come dropping down like a bomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as a swedish-american who is collecting flies for a small museum-mr. y. oh, never mind me now! mr. x. that's what you always say when i grow tired of talking about myself and want to turn my attention to you. perhaps that was the reason why i took to you as i did--because you let me talk about myself? all at once we seemed like old friends. there were no angles about you against which i could bump myself, no pins that pricked. there was something soft about your whole person, and you overflowed with that tact which only well-educated people know how to show. you never made a noise when you came home late at night or got up early in the morning. you were patient in small things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemed threatening. in a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion! but you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering about you in the long run--and you are too timid, too easily frightened. it seems almost as if you were made up of two different personalities. why, as i sit here looking at your back in the mirror over there--it is as if i were looking at somebody else. (mr. y. turns around and stares at the mirror.) mr. x. no, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back, man!--in front you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one meeting his fate with bared breast, but from behind--really, i don't want to be impolite, but--you look as if you were carrying a burden, or as if you were crouching to escape a raised stick. and when i look at that red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, it looks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a packing-box-mr. y. i feel as if i'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon-mr. x. it's coming--don't you worry!--and your neck! it looks as if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face quite different in type from yours. and your ears come so close together behind that sometimes i wonder what race you belong to. [a flash of lightning lights up the room] why, it looked as if that might have struck the sheriff's house! mr. y. [alarmed] the sheriff's! mr. x. oh, it just looked that way. but i don't think we'll get much of this storm. sit down now and let us have a talk, as you are going away to-morrow. one thing i find strange is that you, with whom i have become so intimate in this short time--that yon are one of those whose image i cannot call up when i am away from them. when you are not here, and i happen to think of you, i always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common. mr. y. who is he? mr. x. i don't want to name him, but--i used for several years to take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, i met a little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. he had a wonderful faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling anybody or being jostled himself. and from his customary place down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. he seemed always happy just to be in company. but when he met anybody he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human face for years. when anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if eager to apologise for being in the way. for two years i watched him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character. but i never asked who he was; i didn't want to know, you see, for then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. that man had just your quality of being indefinite. at different times i made him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a noncommissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective-and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the front of him never quite fitted the back. one day i happened to read in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-known government official. then i learned that my indefinite gentleman had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name was strawman. later on i learned that the aforesaid strawman used to run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter of a big daily. how in the world could i hope to establish a connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man's peculiar manners? it was beyond me; and when i asked a friend whether strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend couldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [pause.] mr. y. well, had he ever been--punished? mr. x. no, he had not. [pause.] mr. y. and that was the reason, you think, why the police had such an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending people? mr. x. exactly! mr. y. and did you become acquainted with him afterward? mr. x. no, i didn't want to. [pause.] mr. y. would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he had been--punished? mr. x. perfectly! (mr. y. rises and walks back and forth several times.) mr. x. sit still! why can't you sit still? mr. y. how did you get your liberal view of human conditions? are you a christian? mr. x. oh, can't you see that i am not? (mr. y. makes a face.) mr. x. the christians require forgiveness. but i require punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, be restored. and you, who have served a term, ought to know the difference. mr. y. [stands motionless and stares at mr. x., first with wild, hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] how--could--you-know--that? mr. x. why, i could see it. mr. y. how? how could you see it? mr. x, oh, with a little practice. it is an art, like many others. but don't let us talk of it any more. [he looks at his watch, arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and hands it to mr. y.] i must be thinking of my tangled affairs. won't you please witness my signature on this note here? i am going to turn it in to the bank at malmo tomorrow, when i go to the city with you. mr. y. i am not going by way of malmo. mr. x. oh, you are not? mr. y. no. mr. x. but that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature. mr. y. n-no!--i never write my name on papers of that kind-mr. x.--any longer! this is the fifth time you have refused to write your own name. the first time nothing more serious was involved than the receipt for a registered letter. then i began to watch you. and since then i have noticed that you have a morbid fear of a pen filled with ink. you have not written a single letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. you understand now that i have figured out the exact nature of your slip? furthermore! this is something like the seventh time you have refused to come with me to malmo, which place you have not visited at all during all this time. and yet you came the whole way from america merely to have a look at malmo! and every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of malmo in the distance. and when you stand over there at the right-hand window and look out through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, yon can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney of the county jail.--and now i hope you see that it's your own stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everything clear to me. mr. y. this means that you despise me? mr. x. oh, no! mr. y. yes, you do--you cannot but do it! mr. x. no--here's my hand. (mr. y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.) mr. x. [drawing back his hand] don't lick hands like a dog! mr. y. pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let me touch his hand after learning-mr. x. and now you call me "sir!"--what scares me about you is that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the old level, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered your punishment. do you care to tell me how it happened? would you? mr. y. [twisting uneasily] yes, but you won't believe what i say. but i'll tell you. then you can see for yourself that i am no ordinary criminal. you'll become convinced, i think, that there are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again] which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without being willed by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible-may i open the door a little now, since the storm seems to have passed over? mr. x. suit yourself. mr. y. [opens the door; then he sits down at the table and begins to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures, and a good deal of false emphasis] yes, i'll tell you! i was a student in the university at lund, and i needed to get a loan from a bank. i had no pressing debts, and my father owned some property--not a great deal, of course. however, i had sent the note to the second man of the two who were to act as security, and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. for a while i was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a very unpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! the note was lying in front of me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. at first my eyes stared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is, not a death-doom, of course, for i could easily find other securities, as many as i wanted--but as i have already said, it was very annoying just the same. and as i was sitting there quite unconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the signature of the letter, which would have made my future secure if it had only appeared in the right place. it was an unusually wellwritten signature--and you know how sometimes one may absentmindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. i had a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] like this. and somehow it just began to run--i don't want to claim that there was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic nature back of it--for that kind of thing i don't believe in! it was a wholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of that beautiful autograph over and over again. when all the clean space on the letter was used up, i had learned to reproduce the signature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholder with a violent gesture] then i forgot all about it. that night i slept long and heavily. and when i woke up, i could feel that i had been dreaming, but i couldn't recall the dream itself. at times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then i seemed to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distant memory--and when i got out of bed, i was forced up to the table, just as if, after careful deliberation, i had formed an irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. all thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had disappeared� no hesitation remained--it was almost as if i was fulfilling some sacred duty--and so i wrote! [leaps to his feet] what could it be? was it some kind of outside influence, a case of mental suggestion, as they call it? but from whom could it come? i was sleeping alone in that room. could it possibly be my primitive self--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing-which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep-together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability to calculate the results of an action? tell me, what do you think of it? mr. x. [as if he had to force the words out of himself] frankly speaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it, but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details-and i have read something about criminal suggestion--or i think i have, at least--hm! but all that is neither here nor there! you have taken your medicine--and you have had the courage to acknowledge your fault. now we won't talk of it any more. mr. y. yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till i become sure of my innocence. mr. x. well, are you not? mr. y. no, i am not! mr. x. that's just what bothers me, i tell you. it's exactly what is bothering me!--don't you feel fairly sure that every human being hides a skeleton in his closet? have we not, all of us, stolen and lied as children? undoubtedly! well, now there are persons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannot control their unlawful desires. then comes the opportunity, and there you have your criminal.--but i cannot understand why you don't feel innocent. if the child is not held responsible, why should the criminal be regarded differently? it is the more strange because--well, perhaps i may come to repent it later. [pause] i, for my part, have killed a man, and i have never suffered any qualms on account of it. mr. y. [very much interested] have--you? mr. x, yes, i, and none else! perhaps you don't care to shake hands with a murderer? mr. y. [pleasantly] oh, what nonsense! mr. x. yes, but i have not been punished, me. y. [growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] so much the better for you!--how did you get out of it? mr. x. there was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses. this is the way it happened. one christmas i was invited to hunt with a fellow-student a little way out of upsala. he sent a besotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellow went to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upset the whole _equipage_ in a ditch. i am not going to pretend that my life was in danger. it was sheer impatience which made me hit him across the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--just to wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all, but collapsed then and there. mr. y. [craftily] and did you report it? mr. x. no, and these were my reasons for not doing so. the man left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life could be of the slightest use. he had already outlived his allotted period of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filled by somebody more in need of it. on the other hand, my life was necessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhaps also to the progress of my science. the outcome had once for all cured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and i didn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents for the sake of an abstract principle of justice. mr. y. oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life? mr. x. in the present case, yes. mr. y. but the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of? mr. x. i had no sense of guilt, as i had committed no crime. as a boy i had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, and the fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by my ignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderly person. mr. y. yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man is punished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactly what one gets for--writing names. mr. x. oh, you may be sure i have thought of it. and more than one night i have dreamt myself in prison. tell me now--is it really as bad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar? mr. y. you bet it is!--first of all they disfigure you by cutting off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, you are sure to do so afterward. and when you catch sight of yourself in a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit. mr. x. isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? which wouldn't be a bad idea, i should say. mr. y. yes, you can have your little jest about it!--and then they cut down your food, so that every day and every hour you become conscious of the border line between life and death. every vital function is more or less checked. you can feel yourself shrinking. and your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead put on a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlived ages. you are not permitted to read anything but what was written for the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. you hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and what actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. you are torn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, put beneath those who are really beneath yourself. then you get a sense of living in the bronze age. you come to feel as if you were dressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating out of a trough--ugh! mr. x. but there is reason back of all that. one who acts as if he belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don the proper costume. mr. y. [irately] yes, you sneer! you who have behaved like a man from the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the golden age. mr. x. [sharply, watching him closely] what do you mean with that last expression--the golden age? mr. y. [with a poorly suppressed snarl] nothing at all. mr. x. now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to say all you think. mr. y. am i a coward? you think so? but i was no coward when i dared to show myself around here, where i had had to suffer as i did.--but can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?-it is that the others are not in there too! mr. x. what others? mr. y. those that go unpunished. mr. x. are you thinking of me? mr. y. i am. mr. x. but i have committed no crime. mr. y. oh, haven't you? mr. x. no, a misfortune is no crime. mr. y. so, it's a misfortune to commit murder? mr. x. i have not committed murder. mr. y. is it not murder to kill a person? mr. x. not always. the law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killing in self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentional and unintentional killing. however--now you really frighten me, for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the most dangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid. mr. y. so you imagine that i am stupid? well, listen--would you like me to show you how clever i am? mr. x. come on! mr. y. i think you'll have to admit that there is both logic and wisdom in the argument i'm now going to give you. you have suffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years at hard labor. you have completely escaped the disgrace of being punished. and here you see before you a man--who has also suffered a misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who has had to stand two years of hard labor for it. only by some great scientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that has become attached to him without any fault of his own--but in order to arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot of money--and money this minute! don't you think that the other one, the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into these unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of a fine? don't you think so? mr. x. [calmly] yes. mr. y. then we understand each other.--hm! [pause] what do you think would be reasonable? mr. x. reasonable? the minimum fine in such a case is fixed by the law at fifty crowns. but this whole question is settled by the fact that the dead man left no relatives. mr. y. apparently you don't want to understand. then i'll have to speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine. mr. x. i have never heard that forgers have the right to collect fines imposed for manslaughter. and, besides, there is no prosecutor. mr. y. there isn't? well--how would i do? mr. x. oh, _now_ we are getting the matter cleared up! how much do you want for becoming my accomplice? mr. y. six thousand crowns. mr. x. that's too much. and where am i to get them? (mr. y. points to the box.) mr. x. no, i don't want to do that. i don't want to become a thief. mr. y. oh, don't put on any airs now! do you think i'll believe that you haven't helped yourself out of that box before? mr. x. [as if speaking to himself] think only, that i could let myself be fooled so completely. but that's the way with these soft natures. you like them, and then it's so easy to believe that they like you. and that's the reason why i have always been on my guard against people i take a liking to!--so you are firmly convinced that i have helped myself out of the box before? mr. y. certainly! mr. x. and you are going to report me if you don't get six thousand crowns? mr. y. most decidedly! you can't get out of it, so there's no use trying. mr. x. you think i am going to give my father a thief for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, my fellow-workers a thief for colleague? no, that will never happen!-now i am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself. mr. y. [jumps up and begins to pick up his things] wait a moment! mr. x. for what? mr. y. [stammering] oh, i thought--as i am no longer needed--it wouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and i might just as well leave. mr. x. no, you may not!--sit down there at the table, where you sat before, and we'll have another talk before you go. mr. y. [sits down after having put on a dark coat] what are you up to now? mr. x. [looking into the mirror back of mr. y.] oh, now i have it! oh-h-h! mr. y. [alarmed] what kind of wonderful things are you discovering now? mr. x. i see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinary thief! a moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, i could notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. i couldn't make out just what it was, for i had to listen to you and watch you. but as my antipathy increased, my vision became more acute. and now, with your black coat to furnish the needed color contrast for the red back of the book, which before couldn't be seen against the red of your suspenders--now i see that you have been reading about forgeries in bernheim's work on mental suggestion--for you turned the book upside-down in putting it back. so even that story of yours was stolen! for tins reason i think myself entitled to conclude that your crime must have been prompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure. mr. y. by need! if you only knew-mr. x. if _you_ only knew the extent of the need i have had to face and live through! but that's another story! let's proceed with your case. that you have been in prison--i take that for granted. but it happened in america, for it was american prison life you described. another thing may also be taken for granted, namely, that you have not borne your punishment on this side. mr. y. how can you imagine anything of the kind? mr. x. wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn all about it. (mr. y. gets up.) me. x. there you see! the first time i mentioned the sheriff, in connection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. and when a person has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an old mill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by the window--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. and that's why it was so hard to make you out. [pause.] mr. y. [completely beaten] may i go now? mr. x. now you can go. mr. y. [putting his things together] are you angry at me? mr. x. yes--would you prefer me to pity you? mr. y. [sulkily] pity? do you think you're any better than i? mr. x. of course i do, as i am better than you. i am wiser, and i am less of a menace to prevailing property rights. mr. y. you think you are clever, but perhaps i am as clever as you. for the moment you have me checked, but in the next move i can mate you--all the same! mr. x. [looking hard at mr. y.] so we have to have another bout! what kind of mischief are you up to now? mr. y. that's my secret. mr. x. just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymous letter giving away my secret! mr. y. well, how are you going to prevent it? you don't dare to have me arrested. so you'll have to let me go. and when i am gone, i can do what i please. mr. x. you devil! so you have found my vulnerable spot! do you want to make a real murderer out of me? mr. y. that's more than you'll ever become--coward! mr. x. there you see how different people are. you have a feeling that i cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. and that gives you the upper hand. but suppose you forced me to treat you as i treated that coachman? [he lifts his hand as if ready to hit mr. y.] mr. y. [staring mr. x. straight in the face] you can't! it's too much for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box over there. me. x. so you don't think i have taken anything out of the box? mr. y. you were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly to tell your wife that she had married a murderer. mr. x. you are a different man from what i took you to be--if stronger or weaker, i cannot tell--if more criminal or less, that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much is quite plain. for stupid you were when you wrote another person's name instead of begging--as i have had to do. stupid you were when you stole things out of my book--could you not guess that i might have read my own books? stupid you were when you thought yourself cleverer than me, and when you thought that i could be lured into becoming a thief. stupid you were when you thought balance could be restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. but most stupid of all you were when you thought i had failed to provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. go ahead and write my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husband having killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!-have you had enough now? mr. y. may i go? mr. x. now you _have_ to go! and at once! i'll send your things after you!--get out of here! (curtain.) (images generously made available by the internet archive.) plays by august strindberg [illustration--august strindberg] plays by august strindberg the dream play the link the dance of death, part i the dance of death, part ii translated with an introduction by edwin björkman new york charles scribner's sons 1912 note this translation is authorised by mr. strindberg, and he has also approved the selection of the plays included in this volume. contents introduction a chronological list of august strindberg's main works the dream play the link the dance of death, part i the dance of death, part ii introduction to the first volume of his remarkable series of autobiographical novels, august strindberg gave the name of "the bondwoman's son." the allusion was twofold--to his birth and to the position which fate, in his own eyes, seemed to have assigned him both as man and artist. if we pass on to the third part of his big trilogy, "to damascus," also an autobiographical work, but written nearly twenty years later, we find _the stranger_, who is none but the author, saying: "i was the bondwoman's son, concerning whom it was writ--cast out this bondwoman and her son; for the son of the bondwoman shall not be heir with the free woman's son.'" and _the lady_, back of whom we glimpse strindberg's second wife, replies: "do you know why ishmael was cast out? it is to be read a little further back--because he was a scoffer! and then it is also said: 'he will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and he shall dwell in opposition to all his brethren.'" these quotations should be read in conjunction with still another, taken from strindberg's latest play, "the great highway," which, while being a sort of symbolical summary of his life experience, yet pierces the magic circle of self-concern within which too often he has remained a captive. there _the hermit_ asks: "you do not love your fellow-men?" and strindberg, masquerading as _the hunter_, cries in answer: "yes, far too much, and fear them for that reason, too." august strindberg was born at stockholm, sweden, on january 22, 1849. his father was a small tradesman, who had lost his business just before august was born, but who had the energy and ability to start all over again as a steam-ship agent, making a decided success of his second venture. the success, however, was slow in coming, and the boy's earliest years were spent in the worst kind of poverty--that poverty which has to keep up outward appearances. the mother had been a barmaid in one of the numerous inns forming one of the swedish capital's most characteristic features. there the elder strindberg had met her and fallen deeply in love with her. august was their third child, born a couple of months after their relationship had become legalized in spite of bitter opposition from the husband's family. other children followed, many of them dying early, so that august could write in later years that one of his first concrete recollections was of the black-jacketed candy which used to be passed around at every swedish funeral. though the parents were always tired, and though the little home was hopelessly overcrowded--ten persons living in three rooms--yet the family life was not without its happiness. only august seemed to stand apart from the rest, having nothing in common with his parents or with the other children. in fact, a sort of warfare seems to have been raging incessantly between him and his elder brothers. thus a character naturally timid and reserved had those traits developed to a point where its whole existence seemed in danger of being warped. at school he was not much happier, and as a rule he regarded the tasks set him there as so much useless drudgery. always and everywhere he seemed in fear of having his personality violated, until at last that apprehension, years later, took on a form so morbid that it all but carried him across the limits of rationality. with this suspiciousness of his environment went, however, a keen desire to question and to understand. he has said of himself that the predominant traits of his character have been "doubt and sensitiveness to pressure." in these two traits much of his art will, indeed, find its explanation. at the age of thirteen he lost his mother, and less than a year later his father remarried--choosing for his second wife the former housekeeper. that occurrence made the boy's isolation at home complete. during the years that followed he threw himself with his usual passionate surrender into religious broodings and practices. this mood lasted until he left for the university at upsala. he was then eighteen. during his first term at the university he was so poor that he could buy no books. worse even--he could not buy the wood needed to heat the bare garret where he lived. returning to stockholm, he tried to teach in one of the public schools--the very school which he had attended during the unhappiest part of his childhood. from that time dates the theme of eternal repetition, of forced return to past experiences, which recurs constantly in his works. another recurring theme is that of unjust punishment, and it has also come out of his own life--from an occasion when, as a boy of eight, he was suspected of having drunk some wine that was missing, and when, in spite of his indignant protests, he was held guilty and finally compelled to acknowledge himself so in order to escape further punishment. but while still teaching school, he made certain acquaintances that set his mind groping for some sort of literary expression. he tried time and again to write verse, only to fail--until one day, in a sort of trance, he found himself shaping words into measured lines, and it suddenly dawned on him that he had accomplished the feat held beyond him. from the first the stage drew him, and his initial work was a little comedy, concerning which nothing is known now. then he wrote another one-act play with the danish sculptor thorvaldsen for central figure, and this was accepted by the royal theatre and actually played with some success. finally he produced a brief historical play in prose, "the outlaw," which was spurned by the critics and the public, but which brought him the personal good-will and financial support of king charles xv. thus favoured, he returned to the university with the thought of taking a degree. instead he read everything not required in the courses, quarrelled with every professor to whom he had to submit himself for examination, and spent the major part of his time with a set of youngsters whose sole ambition was to make literature. of that coterie, strindberg was the only one to reach the goal which all dreamt of. on the sudden death of the king, when his little stipend ceased, he went up to the capital again, bent on staying away for ever from the university. during the next couple of years, he studied medicine for a while, tried himself as an actor, conducted a trade journal, and failed rather than succeeded to make a living as a hack writer for various obscure newspapers. all this life he has pictured with biting humour in his first big novel, "the red room." at last, when he was twenty-three and had withdrawn in sheer desperation to one of the little islands between stockholm and the open sea, he conceived and completed a five-act historical play, named "master olof," after arch-bishop olaus petri, the luther of sweden. the three main figures of that play, _master olof, king gustavus vasa_, and _gert the printer_, were designed by the author to represent three phases of his own character. the _king_ was the opportunist, _olof_ the idealist, and _gert_ the "impossibilist." the title first chosen for the play was "the renegade." it was suggested by the cry with which _gert_ greets the surrender of _olof_ in the final scene. the indifference shown that first big work came near turning strindberg away from a literary career for ever. it took him several years to recover from the shock of disappointment--a shock the more severe because he felt so uncertain of his own gifts. but those years of seeming inactivity were not lost. he had obtained a position in the royal library, which gave him a living and free access to all the books he wanted. at first he sought forgetfulness in the most exotic studies, such as the chinese language. the honours of the savant tempted him, and he wrote a monograph which was accepted by the french institute. gradually, however, he was drawn back to his own time. and there was hardly a field of human thought to which he did not give some attention. already as a student at upsala, his conception of life had been largely determined by the study of the danish individualistic philosopher kierkegaard, the english determinist buckle, and the german pessimist eduard von hartmann. among novelists, hugo and dickens were his favourites. they together with the brothers de goncourt, and not zola, helped principally to shape his artistic form until he was strong enough to stand wholly on his own feet. at the age of twenty-six he met the woman who was to play the double part of muse and fate to him. she was already married. in the end she obtained a divorce and became strindberg's wife. to begin with they were very happy, and under the stimulus of this unfamiliar feeling strindberg began once more to write--but now in a manner such that recognition could no longer be denied him. the novel already mentioned was his first popular success. it drew bitter attacks from the conservative elements, but the flavour of real life pervading it conquered all opposition. to this day that first work of social criticism has not been forgiven strindberg by the official guardians of swedish literature. after a while strindberg threw himself with passion into the study of swedish history. one of the results was a daring work named "the swedish people," which is still, next to the bible, the most read book among the swedes in this country. he wrote also a series of short stories on historical themes which combined artistic value with a truly remarkable insight into the life of by-gone days. this series was named "swedish events and adventures." about the same time he administered some scathing strictures on social and political conditions in a volume of satirical essays entitled "the new kingdom." his plays from this period include "the secret of the guild" and "sir bengt's lady," both historical dramas of romantic nature. to these must be added his first fairy play, "the wanderings of lucky-per," concerning which he declared recently that it was meant for children only and must not be counted among his more serious efforts. but this play has from the start been a great favourite with the public, combining in its rapidly moving scenes something of a modern "everyman" and not a little of a swedish "peer gynt." after he had resigned from the royal library and retired to switzerland for the purpose of devoting all his time to writing, he produced the volume of short stories, "marriage," which led him up to the first turning point in his artistic career. it dealt with modern marital conditions in a manner meant to reveal the economic reefs on which so many unions are wrecked. his attitude toward women had already become critical in that work, but it was not yet hostile. the book was confiscated. criminal proceedings were brought against its publisher. the charge was that it spoke offensively of rites held sacred by the established religion of sweden. everybody knew that this was a mere pretext, and that the true grievance against the book lay in its outspoken utterances on questions of sex morality. urged by friends, strindberg hastened home and succeeded in assuming the part of defendant in place of the publisher. the jury freed him, and the youth of the country proclaimed him their leader and spokesman. but the impression left on strindberg's mind by that episode was very serious and distinctly unfavourable. as in his childhood, when he found himself disbelieved though telling the truth, so he felt now more keenly than anything else the questioning of his motives, which he knew to be pure. and the leaders of the feminist movement, then particularly strong in sweden, turned against him with a bitterness not surpassed by that which ibsen had to face from directly opposite quarters after the publication of "a doll's house." add finally that his marriage, which had begun so auspiciously, was rapidly changing into torture for both parties concerned in it. yet his growing embitterment did not make itself felt at once. in 1885 he published four short stories meant to em-body the onward trend of the modern spirit and the actual materialisation of some of its fondest dreams. collectively he named those stories "real utopias," and they went far toward winning him a reputation in germany, where he was then living. but with the appearance of the second part of "marriage" in 1886, it was plain that a change had come over him. its eighteen stories constituted an unmistakable protest against everything for which the feminist movement stood. the efforts of ibsen and björnson to abolish the so-called "double code of morality"--one for men and another one for women were openly challenged on the ground that different results made male and female "immorality" two widely different things. right here it should be pointed out, however, that strindberg always, and especially in his later years, has demanded as high a measure of moral purity from men as from women--the real distinction between him and the two great norwegians lying in the motives on which he based that demand. the second part of "marriage" shows a change not only in spirit but in form, and this change becomes more accentuated in every work published during the next few years. until then strindberg had shown strong evidence of the romantic origin of his art. from now on, and until the ending of the great mental crisis in the later nineties, he must be classed as an ultra-naturalist, with strong materialistic and sceptical leanings. at the same time he becomes more and more individualistic in his social outlook, spurning the mass which, as he then felt, had spurned him. and after a while the works of nietzsche came to complete what his personal experience had begun. his attitude toward woman, as finally developed during this period, may be summed up in an allegation not only of moral and mental but of biological inferiority. and though during his later life he has retracted much and softened more of what he said in those years of rampant masculine rebellion, he continues to this day to regard women as an intermediary biological form, standing between the man and the child. with the publication, in 1887, of "the father," a modern three-act tragedy, strindberg reached a double climax. that work has been hailed as one of his greatest, if not the greatest, as far as technical perfection is concerned. at the same time it presents that duel of the sexes--which to him had taken the place of love--in its most startling and hideous aspects. the gloom of the play is almost unsurpassed. the ingeniousness of its plot may well be called infernal. by throwing doubt on her husband's rights as father of the child held to be theirs in common, the woman in the play manages to undermine the reason of a strong and well-balanced man until he becomes transformed into a raving maniac. "the comrades," a modern four-act comedy, portrays the marriage of two artists and shows the woman as a mental parasite, drawing both her inspiration and her skill from the husband, whom she tries to shake off when she thinks him no longer needed for her success. then came the play of his which is perhaps the most widely known--i mean the realistic drama which, for want of a better english equivalent, must be named here "miss juliet." it embodied some startling experiments in form and has undoubtedly exercised a distinct influence on the subsequent development of dramatic technique. on the surface it appears to offer little more than another version of the sex duel, but back of the conflict between man and woman we discover another one, less deep-going perhaps, but rendered more acute by existing conditions. it is the conflict between the upper and partly outlived elements of society and its still unrefined, but vitally unimpaired, strata. and it is the stronger vitality, here represented by the man, which carries the day. the rest of strindberg's dramatic productions during this middle, naturalistic period, lasting from 1885 to 1894, included eight more one-act plays, several of which rank very high, and another fairy play, "the keys to heaven," which probably marks his nearest approach to a purely negative conception of life. paralleling the plays, we find a series of novels and short stories dealing with the people on those islands where strindberg fifteen years earlier had written his "master olof." two things make these works remarkable: first, the rare understanding shown in them of the life led by the tough race that exists, so to speak, between land and sea; and secondly, their genuine humour, which at times, as in the little story named "the tailor has a dance," rises into almost epic expression. the last of these novels, "at the edge of the sea," embodies strindberg's farthest advance into nietzschean dreams of supermanhood. but led by his incorruptible logic, he is forced to reduce those dreams to the absurdity which they are sure to involve whenever the superman feels himself standing apart from ordinary humanity. finally he wrote, during the earlier part of this marvellously prolific period, five autobiographical novels. one of these was not published until years later. three others were collectively known as "the bondwoman's son," and carried his revelations up to the time of his marriage. the first volume in the series is especially noteworthy because of its searching and sympathetic study of child psychology. but all the novels in this series are of high value because of the sharp light they throw on social conditions. strindberg's power as an acute and accurate observer has never been questioned, and it has rarely been more strikingly evidenced than in his autobiographical writings. a place by itself, though belonging to the same series, is held by "a fool's confession," wherein strindberg laid bare the tragedy of his first marriage. it is the book that has exposed him to more serious criticism than any other. he wrote it in french and consented to its publication only as a last means of escaping unendurable financial straits. against his vain protests, unauthorised translations were brought out in german and swedish. the dissolution of his marriage occurred in 1891. the circumstances surrounding that break were extremely painful to strindberg. both the facts of the legal procedure and the feelings it evoked within himself have been almost photographically portrayed in the one-act play, "the link," which forms part of this volume. the "link" which binds man and woman together even when their love is gone and the law has severed all external ties is the child--and it is always for the offspring that strindberg reserves his tenderest feelings and greatest concern. after the divorce strindberg left for germany, where his works in the meantime had been making steady headway. a couple of years later he was taken up in france, and there was a time during the first half of the nineties, when he had plays running simultaneously at half a dozen parisian theatres. while at berlin, he met a young woman writer of austrian birth who soon after became his second wife. their marriage lasted only a few years, and while it was not as unhappy as the first one, it helped to bring on the mental crisis for which strindberg had been heading ever since the prosecution of "marriage," in 1884. he ceased entirely to write and plunged instead into scientific speculation and experimentation. chemistry was the subject that had the greatest fascination for him, and his dream was to prove the transmutability of the elements. in the course of a prolonged stay at paris, where he shunned everybody and risked both health and life in his improvised laboratory, his mental state became more and more abnormal, without ever reaching a point where he ceased to realise just what was going on within himself. he began to have psychic experiences of a character that to him appeared distinctly supernatural. at the same time he was led by the reading of balzac to the discovery of swedenborg. by quick degrees, though not without much mental suffering, he rejected all that until then had to him represented life's highest truths. from being a materialistic sceptic, he became a believing mystic, to whom this world seemed a mere transitory state of punishment, a "hell" created by his own thoughts. the crisis took him in the end to a private sanitarium kept by an old friend in the southern part of sweden, but it would be far from safe to assume that he ever reached a state of actual insanity. his return to health began in 1896 and was completed in a year. in 1897 he resumed his work of artistic creation once more, and with a new spirit that startled those who had held him lost for ever. first of all a flood of personal experiences and impressions needed expression. this he accomplished by his two autobiographical novels, "inferno" and "legends," the former of which must be counted one of the most remarkable studies in abnormal psychology in the world's literature. next came "the link" and another one-act play. in 1898 he produced the first two parts of "to damascus," a play that--in strikingly original form, and with a depth of thought and feeling not before achieved--embodied his own soul's long pilgrimage in search of internal and external harmony. the last part of the trilogy was not added until 1904. then followed ten years of production so amazing that it surpassed his previous high-water mark during the middle eighties, both in quality and quantity. once for all the mood and mode of his creation had been settled. he was still a realist in so far as faithfulness to life was concerned, but the reality for which he had now begun to strive was spiritual rather than material. he can, during this final period, only be classed as a symbolist, but of the kind typified by ibsen in the series of masterpieces beginning with "rosmersholm" and ending with "little eyolf." more and more as he pushes on from one height to another, he manages to fuse the two offices of artist and moralist without injury to either of them. his view of life is still pessimistic, but back of man's earthly disappointments and humiliations and sufferings he glimpses a higher existence to which this one serves merely as a preparation. everything that happens to himself and to others seems to reveal the persistent influence of secret powers, pulling and pushing, rewarding and punishing, but always urging and leading man to some goal not yet bared to his conscious vision. resignation, humility, kindness become the main virtues of human existence. and the greatest tragedy of that existence he sees in man's--that is, his own--failure to make all his actions conform to those ideals. thus, in the closing line of his last play, "the great highway," he pleads for mercy as one who has suffered more than most "from the inability to be that which we will to be." among the earliest results of his autumnal renascence was a five-act historical drama named "gustavus vasa." it proved the first of a dozen big plays dealing with the main events in his country's history from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century. as a rule they were built about a monarch whose reign marked some national crisis. five stand out above the rest in artistic value: "gustavus vasa," "erie xiv," "gustavus adolphus," "charles xii," and "the last knight." at once intensely national and broadly human in their spirit, these plays won for strindberg a higher place in his countrymen's hearts than he had ever before held--though notes of discord were not missing on account of the freedom with which he exposed and demolished false idols and outlived national ideals. as they stand to-day, those dramas have in them so much of universal appeal that i feel sure they must sooner or later win the same attention in the english-speaking countries that they have already received in germany. while thus recalling the past to new life, he was also busy with another group of plays embodying what practically amounts to a new dramatic form. the literary tendency underlying them might be defined as realistic symbolism or impressionistic mysticism--you can take your choice! the characters in those plays are men and women very much belonging to our own day. they speak as you or i might do. and yet there is in them and about them a significance surpassing not only that of the ordinary individual, but also that of ordinary poetical portrayals of such individuals. "there are crimes and crimes," "christmas," "easter," and "midsummer" are the principal plays belonging to this group. with them must be classed the trio of fairy or "dream" plays written under the acknowledged influence of maeterlinck. in the first of these, the charming dramatic legend named "swanwhite," the impetus received from the belgian makes itself clearly felt. in the last of them, "the dream play," strindberg has worked out a form that is wholly new and wholly his own. as the play in question forms part of this volume, i shall not need to speak of it here in the manner it would otherwise deserve. related to the group just described, and yet not confinable within it, stands the double drama, "the dance of death," which also appears in this volume. numerous critics have declared it strindberg's greatest play, and there is much in the work to warrant such a judgment. its construction is masterly. its characters are almost shockingly real. and yet the play as a whole is saturated with that sense of larger relationships which we are wont to dispose of by calling it "mysticism." like all of strindberg's work belonging to this period, it constitutes a huge piece of symbolism--but the subject of its symbolical interpretation seems to be nothing less than the sum of human interrelationships. during the last three or four years of the decade we are now dealing with, strindberg was very much interested in the project of establishing a theatre at stockholm, where nothing but his own productions were to be staged. the plan was actually carried out and a building arranged that held only about two hundred people. it was called the intimate theatre. there strindberg made some highly interesting experiments in the simplification and standardising of scenery, until at last some of his plays were given with no other accessories than draperies. the effects thus obtained proved unexpectedly successful. for this stage strindberg wrote five dramas which he defined as "chamber plays." in form they harked back to "miss juliet," and they were meant to be played without interruptions. but in spirit they were marked by the same blend of mysticism and realism that forms such a striking feature of "the dream play," for instance. add to these another fairy play, "the slippers of abu casem," and a final autobiographical drama named "the great highway," and we get a total of twenty-nine dramatic works in ten years. for more critical treatment of strindberg's art i would refer the reader to my articles in _the forum_ of february and march, 1912. but at the same time strindberg's pen was no less active in other fields. there are two more autobiographical volumes, two novels displaying vast social canvasses, four collections of short stories, and one collection of poems; also three bulky volumes named collectively "the blue books" and containing the most wonderful medley of scientific speculations, philosophical pronouncements, personal polemics, and aphoristic embodiments of the author's rich store of wisdom; and finally a score of pamphlets--analytical studies of shakespeare plays, instructions to the members of the intimate theatre, satirical studies of contemporary social and literary conditions, propositions for a more complete democratisation of the government, and so on almost endlessly. and notwithstanding much supercilious criticism as well as some warranted regrets for the tone at times employed in these works, it is pretty generally admitted that strindberg never has approached any topic without saying something worth while about it. outwardly strindberg's life has been very quiet since he returned to his native country in 1897. a third marriage, contracted in 1901 and dissolved three years later, served only to reconcile him once for all to the solitude that has always surrounded him more or less, even in the midst of admiring or condemning multitudes. he is now sixty-three years old, and the last news indicates that, at last, his iron health is failing him. in the sheltered nook which he has established for himself at stockholm, he busies himself with philological studies, interrupted mainly by visits from his children, of which there are five from the three marriages. two of these--his eldest daughter, who is now happily married, and the youngest, a vivacious lass of nine to whom "the slippers of abu casem" was dedicated--are in the habit of calling daily. flowers and music are what he loves next to his children and his work. from that corner where he hears nothing but echoes of the storms that are still raging at times about his public utterances, he follows with keen eye whatever is happening in the world of deeds as well as in the world of letters. and in the meantime his fame is steadily spreading and growing. on the european continent his name is constantly mentioned together with those of ibsen and björnson. in the english-speaking countries it has hitherto remained merely a name. the time has surely come for a realisation of some of the things that name stands for, and it is my earnest hope that this volume may help to change a condition that reflects more on those who do not know than on him who is not known. in regard to the style of my translations, i wish to quote some words written before the task now finished had ever been suggested to me. they are from an article on "slaughtering strindberg," which appeared in "the drama," of august, 1911: "strindberg is the man who has raised modern swedish to its utmost potency of beauty and power. it may also be said, and with equal truth, that he has made the literary language of this country truly modern. this he has achieved not by polishing study-born mannerisms, but by watching and developing the living idiom that flows from the lips of men and women around him--observed at home and in the office, on the street and in the restaurant, while loving and dying, while chatting and quarrelling. never was a man more keen on catching the life breath of his own time, and never was a man more scornful of mere fads and fashions, born one moment and forgotten in the next. to transplant the work of such a man may be difficult, but it involves no impossibility, provided only that we observe his own practical attitude toward what constitutes 'good form' and 'bad form' in a pulsing and growing language. we, on this side of the ocean, ought to be able to read strindberg and receive impressions virtually identical with those received by a swedish reader at stockholm. and i believe that it will be easier to find equivalents for his clean-cut and flexible prose out of what is called english here than out of what bears that name in england." finally, i wish to mention that the prologue now attached to "the dream play" has never before been published in any language. it was written last year as an afterthought, and was by the author kindly placed at my disposal in manuscript. a chronological list of august strindberg's main works _plays_: "hermione," 1869; "the outlaw," 1871; "master olof," 1872; "the secret of the guild," 1880; "sir bengt's lady," 1882; "the wanderings of lucky-per," 1883; "the father," 1887; "the comrades," 1888; "miss juliet," 1888; "creditors," 1890; "pariah," 1890; "samum," 1890; "the stronger," 1890; "the keys of heaven," 1892; "the first warning," 1893; "debit and credit," 1893; "mother-love," 1893; "facing death," 1893; "playing with fire," 1897; "the link," 1897; "to damascus," i and ii, 1898; "there are crimes and crimes," 1899; "christmas," 1899; "gustavus vasa," 1899; "eric xiv," 1899; "the saga of the folkungs," 1899; "gustavus adolphus," 1900; "the dance of death," i and ii, 1901; "easter," 1901; "midsummer," 1901; "engelbreckt," 1901; "charles xii," 1901; "the crown bride," 1902; "swanwhite," 1902; "the dream play," 1902; "gustavus iii," 1903; "queen christina," 1903; "the nightingale of wittenberg," 1903; "to damascus," iii, 1904; "storm," 1907; "the burned lot," 1907; "the spook sonata," 1907; "the pelican," 1907; "the slippers of abu casem," 1908; "the last knight," 1908; "the national director," 1909; "the earl of bjällbo," 1909; "the black glove," 1909; "the great highway," 1909. _novels and short-story collections_: "the red room," 1879; "swedish events and adventures," 1882-91; "marriage," i, 1884; "real utopias," 1885; "marriage," ii, 1886; "the people at hemsö," 1887; "fisher folks," 1888; "chandalah," 1889; "at the edge of the sea," 1890; "fables," 1890-7; "sagas," 1903; "the gothic rooms," 1904; "historical miniatures," 1905; "new swedish events," 1906; "black flags," 1907; "the scapegoat," 1907. _autobiographical fiction_: "the bondwoman's son," i--iii, 1886-7; "the author," 1887; "a fool's confession," 1888; "inferno," 1897; "legends," 1898; "fairhaven and foulstrand," 1902; "alone," 1903. _history, essays, etc_.: "the new kingdom," 1882; "the swedish people," 1882; "little studies of plants and animals," 1888; "among french peasants," 1889; "a blue book," i--iii, 1907-8; "speeches to the swedish nation," 1910; "religious renascence," 1910; "the origins of our mother tongue," 1910; "biblical proper names," 1910. the dream play 1902 a reminder as he did in his previous dream play,[1] so in this one the author has tried to imitate the disconnected but seemingly logical form of the dream. anything may happen; everything is possible and probable. time and space do not exist. on an insignificant background of reality, imagination designs and embroiders novel patterns: a medley of memories, experiences, free fancies, absurdities and improvisations. the characters split, double, multiply, vanish, solidify, blur, clarify. but one consciousness reigns above them all--that of the dreamer; and before it there are no secrets, no incongruities, no scruples, no laws. there is neither judgment nor exoneration, but merely narration. and as the dream is mostly painful, rarely pleasant, a note of melancholy and of pity with all living things runs right through the wabbly tale. sleep, the liberator, plays often a dismal part, but when the pain is at its worst, the awakening comes and reconciles the sufferer with reality, which, however distressing it may be, nevertheless seems happy in comparison with the torments of the dream. [footnote 1: the trilogy "to damascus."] prologue _the background represents cloud banks that resemble corroding slate cliffs with ruins of castles and fortresses_. _the constellations of leo, virgo, and libra are visible, and from their midst the planet jupiter is shining with a strong light_. the daughter of indra _stands on the topmost cloud_. the voice of indra [_from above_]. where are you, daughter, where? the daughter. here, father, here. the voice. you've lost your way, my child--beware, you sink--how got you there? the daughter. i followed from ethereal heights the ray of lightning, and for car a cloud i took- it sank, and now my journey downward tends. o, noble father, indra, tell what realms i now draw near? the air is here so close, and breathing difficult. the voice. behind you lies the second world; the third is where you stand. from cukra, morning star you have withdrawn yourself to enter soon the vapoury circle of the earth. for mark the seventh house you take. it's libra called: there stands the day-star in the balanced hour when fall gives equal weight to night and day. the daughter. you named the earth--is that the ponderous world and dark, that from the moon must take its light? the voice. it is the heaviest and densest sphere of all that travel through the space. the daughter. and is it never brightened by the sun? the voice. of course, the sun does reach it--now and then-the daughter. there is a rift, and downward goes my glance---the voice. what sees my child? the daughter. i see--o beautiful!--with forests green, with waters blue, white peaks, and yellow fields the voice. yes, beautiful as all that brahma made- but still more beautiful it was of yore, in primal morn of ages. then occurred some strange mishap; the orbit was disturbed; rebellion led to crime that called for check---the daughter. now from below i hear some sounds arise- what sort of race is dwelling there? the voice. see for yourself--of brahma's work no ill i say: but what you hear, it is their speech. the daughter. it sounds as if--it has no happy ring! the voice. i fear me not--for even their mother-tongue is named complaint. a race most hard to please, and thankless, are the dwellers on the earth the daughter. o, say not so--for i hear cries of joy, hear noise and thunder, see the lightnings flash- now bells are ringing, fires are lit, and thousand upon thousand tongues sing praise and thanks unto the heavens on high- too harshly, father, you are judging them. the voice. descend, that you may see and hear, and then return and let me know if their complaints and wailings have some reasonable ground---the daughter. well then, i go; but, father, come with me. the voice. no, there below i cannot breathe---the daughter. now sinks the cloud--what sultriness--i choke! i am not breathing air, but smoke and steam- with heavy weight it drags me down, and i can feel already how it rolls- indeed, the best of worlds is not the third the voice. the best i cannot call it, nor the worst. its name is dust; and like them all, it rolls: and therefore dizzy sometimes grows the race, and seems to be half foolish and half mad- take courage, child--a trial, that is all! the daughter. [_kneeling as the cloud sinks downward_] i sink! _curtain_. _the background represents a forest of gigantic hollyhocks in bloom. they are white, pink, crimson, sulphureous, violet; and above their tops is seen the gilded roof of a castle, the apex of which is formed by a bud resembling a crown. at the foot of the castle walls stand a number of straw ricks, and around these stable litter is scattered. the side-scenes, which remain unchanged throughout the play, show conventionalised frescoes, suggesting at once internal decoration, architecture, and landscape_. _enter_ the glazier _and_ the daughter. the daughter. the castle is growing higher and higher above the ground. do you see how much it has grown since last year? the glazier. [_to himself_] i have never seen this castle before--have never heard of a castle that grew, but--[_to_ the daughter, _with firm conviction_] yes, it has grown two yards, but that is because they have manured it--and it you notice, it has put out a wing on the sunny side. the daughter. ought it not to be blooming soon, as we are already past midsummer? the glazier. don't you see the flower up there? the daughter. yes, i see! [_claps her hands_] say, father, why do flowers grow out of dirt? the glazier, [_simply_] because they do not feel at home in the dirt, and so they make haste to get up into the light in order to blossom and die. the daughter. do you know who lives in that castle? the glazier. i have known it, but cannot remember. the daughter. i believe a prisoner is kept there--and he must be waiting for me to set him free. the glazier. and what is he to pay for it? the daughter. one does not bargain about one's duty. let us go into the castle. the glazier. yes, let us go in. _they go toward the background, which opens and slowly disappears to either side_. _the stage shows now a humble, bare room, containing only a table and a few chairs. on one of the chairs sits an officer, dressed in a very unusual yet modern uniform. he is tilting the chair backward and beating the table with his sabre_. the daughter. [_goes to the officer, from whose hand she gently takes the sabre_] don't! don't! the officer. oh, agnes dear, let me keep the sabre. the daughter. no, you break the table. [_to_ the glazier] now you go down to the harness-room and fix that window pane. we'll meet later. [the glazier _goes out_. the daughter. you are imprisoned in your own rooms--i have come to set you free. the officer. i have been waiting for you, but i was not sure you were willing to do it. the daughter. the castle is strongly built; it has seven walls, but--it can be done!--do you want it, or do you not? the officer. frankly speaking, i cannot tell--for in either case i shall suffer pain. every joy that life brings has to be paid for with twice its measure of sorrow. it is hard to stay where i am, but if i buy the sweets of freedom, then i shall have to suffer twice as much--agnes, i'll rather endure it as it is, if i can only see you. the daughter. what do you see in me? the officer. beauty, which is the harmony of the universe--there are lines of your body which are nowhere to be found, except in the orbits of the solar system, in strings that are singing softly, or in the vibrations of light--you are a child of heaven---the daughter. so are you. the officer. why must i then keep horses, tend stable, and cart straw? the daughter. so that you may long to get away from here. the officer. i am longing, but it is so hard to find one's way out. the daughter. but it is a duty to seek freedom in the light. the officer. duty? life has never recognised any duties toward me. the daughter. you feel yourself wronged by life? the officer. yes, it has been unjust--- _now voices are heard from behind a 'partition, which a moment later is pulled away_. the officer _and_ the daughter _look in that direction and stop as if paralysed in the midst of a gesture_. _at a table sits_ the mother, _looking very sick. in front of her a tallow candle is burning, and every little while she trims it with, a pair of snuffers. the table is piled with new-made shirts, and these she is marking with a quill and ink. to the left stands a brown-coloured wardrobe_. the father. [_holds out a silk mantilla toward_ the mother _and says gently_] you don't want it? the mother. a silk mantilla for me, my dear--of what use would that be when i am going to die shortly? the father. do you believe what the doctor says? the mother. yes, i believe also what he says, but still more what the voice says in here. the father. [_sadly_] it is true then?--and you are thinking of your children first and last. the mother. that has been my life and my reason for living--my joy and my sorrow the father. christine, forgive me--everything! the mother. what have i to forgive? dearest, you forgive _me_! we have been tormenting each other. why? that we may not know. we couldn't do anything else--however, here is the new linen for the children. see that they change twice a week--wednesdays and sundays--and that louise washes them--their whole bodies--are you going out? the father. i have to be in the department at eleven o'clock. the mother. ask alfred to come in before you go. the father. [_pointing to_ the officer] why, he is standing right there, dear heart. the mother. so my eyes are failing, too--yes, it is turning dark. [_trims the candle_] come here, alfred. the father _goes out through the middle of the wall, nodding good-bye as he leaves_. the officer _goes over to_ the mother. the mother. who is that girl? the officer, [_whispers_] it is agnes. the mother. oh, is that agnes?--do you know what they say?--that she is a daughter of the god indra who has asked leave to descend to the earth in order that she may find out what the conditions of men are--but don't say anything about it. the officer. a child of the gods, indeed! the mother. [_aloud_] my alfred, i must soon part from you and from the other children--but let me first speak a word to you that bears on all the rest of your life. the officer. [_sadly_] speak, mother. the mother. only a word: don't quarrel with god! the officer. what do you mean, mother? the mother. don't go around feeling that life has wronged you. the officer. but when i am treated unjustly---the mother. you are thinking of the time when you were unjustly punished for having taken a penny that later turned up? the officer. yes, and that one wrong gave a false twist to my whole life---the mother. perhaps. but please take a look into that wardrobe now---the officer. [_embarrassed_] you know, then? it is---the mother. the swiss family robinson--for which---the officer. don't say any more! the mother. for which your brother was punished--and which you had torn and hidden away. the officer. just think that the old wardrobe is still standing there after twenty years--we have moved so many times, and my mother died ten years ago. the mother. yes, and what of it? you are always asking all sorts of questions, and in that way you spoil the better part of your life--there is lena, now. lena. [_enters_] thank you very much, ma'am, but i can't go to the baptism. the mother. and why not, my girl? lena. i have nothing to put on. the mother. i'll let you use my mantilla here lena. oh, no, ma'am, that wouldn't do! the mother. why not?--it is not likely that i'll go to any more parties. the officer. and what will father say? it is a present from him---the mother. what small minds---the father. [_puts his head through the wall_] are you going to lend my present to the servant girl? the mother. don't talk that way! can you not remember that i was a servant girl also? why should you offend one who has done nothing? the father. why should you offend me, your husband? the mother. oh, this life! if you do anything nice, there is always somebody who finds it nasty. if you act kindly to one, it hurts another. oh, this life! _she trims the candle so that it goes out. the stage turns dark and the partition is pushed back to its former position_. the daughter. men are to be pitied. the officer. you think so? the daughter. yes, life is hard--but love overcomes everything. you shall see for yourself. [_they go toward the background. the background is raised and a new one revealed, showing an old, dilapidated party-wall. in the centre of it is a gate closing a passageway. this opens upon a green, sunlit space, where is seen a tremendous blue monk's-hood (aconite). to the left of the gate sits_ the portress. _her head and shoulders are covered by a shawl, and she is crocheting at a bed-spread with a star-like pattern. to the right of the gate is a billboard, which_ the billposter _is cleaning. beside him stands a dipnet with a green pole. further to the right is a door that has an air-hole shaped like a four-leaved clover. to the left of the gate stands a small linden tree with coal-black trunk and a few pale-green leaves. near it is a small air-hole leading into a cellar._[1] the daughter. [_going to_ the portress] is the spread not done yet? the portress. no, dear. twenty-six years on such a piece of work is not much. the daughter. and your lover never came back? the portress. no, but it was not his fault. he had to go--poor thing! that was thirty years ago now. the daughter. [_to_ the billposter] she belonged to the ballet? up there in the opera-house? the billposter. she was number one--but when _he_ went, it was as if her dancing had gone with him--and so she didn't get any more parts. the daughter. everybody complains--with their eyes, at least, and often with words also---the billposter. i don't complain very much--not now, since i have a dipnet and a green cauf[2]---the daughter. and that can make you happy? the billposter. oh, i'm so happy, so--it was the dream of my youth, and now it has come true. of course, i have grown to be fifty years---the daughter. fifty years for a dipnet and a cauf---the billposter. a _green_ cauf--mind you, _green_---the daughter. [_to_ the portress] let me have the shawl now, and i shall sit here and watch the human children. but you must stand behind me and tell me about everything. [_she takes the shawl and sits down at the gate._ the portress. this is the last day, and the house will be closed up for the season. this is the day when they learn whether their contracts are to be renewed. the daughter. and those that fail of engagement---the portress. o, lord have mercy! i pull the shawl over my head not to see them. the daughter. poor human creatures! the portress. look, here comes one--she's not one of the chosen. see, how she cries. the singer _enters from the right; rushes through the gate with her handkerchief to her eyes; stops for a moment in the passageway beyond the gate and leans her head against the wall; then out quickly_. the daughter. men are to be pitied! the portress. but look at this one. that's the way a happy person looks. the officer _enters through the passageway; dressed in prince albert coat and high hat, and carrying a bunch of roses in one hand; he is radiantly happy_. the portress. he's going to marry miss victoria. the officer. [_far down on the stage, looks up and sings_] victoria! the portress. the young lady will be coming in a moment. the officer. good! the carriage is waiting, the table is set, the wine is on ice--oh, permit me to embrace you, ladies! [_he embraces_ the portress _and_ the daughter. _sings_] victoria! a woman's voice from above. [_sings_] i am here! the daughter. do you know me? the officer. no, i know one woman only--victoria. seven years i have come here to wait for her--at noon, when the sun touched the chimneys, and at night, when it was growing dark. look at the asphalt here, and you will see the path worn by the steps of a faithful lover. hooray! she is mine. [_sings_] victoria! [_there is no reply_] well, she is dressing, i suppose. [_to_ the billposter] there is the dipnet, i see. everybody belonging to the opera is crazy about dipnets--or rather about fishes--because the fishes are dumb and cannot sing!--what is the price of a thing like that? the billposter. it is rather expensive. the officer. [_sings_] victoria! [_shakes the linden tree_] look, it is turning green once more. for the eighth time. [_sings_] victoria!--now she is fixing her hair. [_to_ the daughter] look here, madam, could i not go up and get my bride? the portress. nobody is allowed on the stage. the officer. seven years i have been coming here. seven times three hundred and sixty-five makes two thousand five hundred and fifty-five. [_stops and pokes at the door with the four-leaved clover hole_] and i have been looking two thousand five hundred and fifty-five times at that door without discovering where it leads. and that clover leaf which is to let in light--for whom is the light meant? is there anybody within? does anybody live there? the portress. i don't know. i have never seen it opened. the officer. it looks like a pantry door which i saw once when i was only four years old and went visiting with the maid on a sunday afternoon. we called at several houses--on other maids--but i did not get beyond the kitchen anywhere, and i had to sit between the water barrel and the salt box. i have seen so many kitchens in my days, and the pantry was always just outside, with small round holes bored in the door, and one big hole like a clover leaf--but there cannot be any pantry in the opera-house as they have no kitchen. [_sings_] victoria!--tell me, madam, could she have gone out any other way? the portress. no, there is no other way. the officer. well, then i shall see her here. stage people _rush out and are closely watched by_ the officer _as they pass_. the officer. now she must soon be coming--madam, that blue monk's-hood outside--i have seen it since i was a child. is it the same?--i remember it from a country rectory where i stopped when i was seven years old--there are two doves, two blue doves, under the hood--but that time a bee came flying and went into the hood. then i thought: now i have you! and i grabbed hold of the flower. but the sting of the bee went through it, and i cried--but then the rector's wife came and put damp dirt on the sting--and we had strawberries and cream for dinner--i think it is getting dark already. [_to_ the billposter] where are you going? the billposter. home for supper. the officer. [_draws his hand across his eyes_] evening? at this time?--o, please, may i go in and telephone to the growing castle? the daughter. what do you want there? the officer. i am going to tell the glazier to put in double windows, for it will soon be winter, and i am feeling horribly cold. [_goes into the gatekeeper's lodge_. the daughter. who is miss victoria? the portress. his sweetheart. the daughter. right said! what she is to us and others matters nothing to him. and what she is to him, that alone is her real self. _it is suddenly turning dark_. the portress. [_lights a lantern_] it is growing dark early to-day. the daughter. to the gods a year is as a minute. the portress. and to men a minute may be as long as a year. the officer. [_enters again, looking dusty; the roses are withered_] she has not come yet? the portress. no. the officer. but she will come--she will come! [_walks up and down_] but come to think of it, perhaps i had better call off the dinner after all--as it is late? yes, i will do that. [_goes back into the lodge and telephones_. the portress. [_to_ the daughter] can i have my shawl back now? the daughter. no, dear, be free a while. i shall attend to your duties--for i want to study men and life, and see whether things really are as bad as they say. the portress. but it won't do to fall asleep here--never sleep night or day---the daughter. no sleep at night? the portress. yes, if you are able to get it, but only with the bell string tied around the wrist--for there are night watchmen on the stage, and they have to be relieved every third hour. the daughter. but that is torture! the portress. so you think, but people like us are glad enough to get such a job, and if you only knew how envied i am---the daughter. envied?--envy for the tortured? the portress. yes--but i can tell you what is harder than all drudging and keeping awake nights, harder to bear than draught and cold and dampness--it is to receive the confidences of all the unhappy people up there--they all come to me. why? perhaps they read in the wrinkles of my face some runes that are graved by suffering and that invite confessions--in that shawl, dear, lie hidden thirty years of my own and other people's agonies. the daughter. it is heavy, and it burns like nettles. the portress. as it is your wish, you may wear it. when it grows too burdensome, call me, and i shall relieve you. the daughter. good-bye. what can be done by you ought not to surpass my strength. the portress. we shall see!--but be kind to my poor friends, and don't grow impatient of their complaints. [_she disappears through the passageway. complete darkness covers the stage, and while it lasts the scene is changed so that the linden tree appears stripped of all its leaves. soon the blue monk's-hood is withered, and when the light returns, the verdure in the open space beyond the passageway has changed into autumnal brown_. the officer. [_enters when it is light again. he has gray hair and a gray beard. his clothes are shabby, his collar is soiled and wrinkled. nothing but the bare stems remain of the bunch of roses. he walks to and fro_] to judge by all signs, summer is gone and fall has come. the linden shows it, and the monk's-hood also. [_walks_] but the fall is _my_ spring, for then the opera begins again, and then she must come. please, madam, may i sit down a little on this chair? the daughter. yes, sit down, friend--i am able to stand. the officer. [_sits down_] if i could only get some sleep, then i should feel better--[_he falls asleep for a few moments. then he jumps up and walks back and forth again. stops at last in front of the door with the clover leaf and pokes at_] this door here will not leave me any peace--what is behind it? there must be something. [_faint dance music is heard from above_] oh, now the rehearsals have begun. [_the light goes out and flares up again, repeating this rhythmically as the rays of a lighthouse come and go_] what does this mean? [_speaking in time with the blinkings of the light_] light and dark--light and dark? the daughter. [_imitating him_] night and day--night and day! a merciful providence wants to shorten your wait. therefore the days are flying in hot pursuit of the nights. _the light shines unbrokenly once more_. the billposter _enters with his dipnet and his implements_. the officer. there is the billposter with his dipnet. was the fishing good? the billposter. i should say so. the summer was hot and a little long--the net turned out pretty good, but not as i had expected. the officer. [_with emphasis_] not as i had expected!--that is well said. nothing ever was as i expected it to be--because the thought is more than the deed, more than the thing. _walks to and fro, striking at the wall with the rose stems so that the last few leaves fall off_. the billposter. has she not come down yet? the officer. not yet, but she will soon be here--do you know what is behind that door, billposter? the billposter. no, i have never seen that door open yet. the officer. i am going to telephone for a locksmith to come and open it. [_goes into the lodge_. [the billposter _posts a bill and goes toward the right_. the daughter. what is the matter with the dipnet? the billposter. matter? well, i don't know as there is anything the matter with it--but it just didn't turn out as i had expected, and the pleasure of it was not so much after all. the daughter. how did you expect it to be? the billposter. how?--well, i couldn't tell exactly---the daughter. i can tell you! you had expected it to be what it was not. it had to be green, but not that kind of green. the billposter. you have it, madam. you understand it all--and that is why everybody goes to you with his worries. if you would only listen to me a little also---the daughter. of course, i will!--come in to me and pour out your heart. [_she goes into the lodge_. [the billposter _remains outside, speaking to her. the stage is darkened again. when the light is turned on, the tree has resumed its leaves, the monk's-hood is blooming once more, and the sun is shining on the green space beyond the passageway_. the officer _enters. now he is old and white-haired, ragged, and wearing worn-out shoes. he carries the bare remnants of the rose stems. walks to and fro slowly, with the gait of an aged man. reads on the posted bill_. a ballet girl _comes in from the right_. the officer. is miss victoria gone? the ballet girl. no, she has not gone yet. the officer. then i shall wait. she will be coming soon, don't you think? the ballet girl. oh, yes, i am sure. the officer. don't go away now, for i have sent word to the locksmith, so you will soon see what is behind that door. the ballet girl. oh, it will be awfully interesting to see that door opened. that door, there, and the growing castle--have you heard of the growing castle? the officer. have i?--i have been a prisoner in it. the ballet girl. no, was that you? but why do they keep such a lot of horses there? the officer. because it is a stable castle, don't you know. the ballet girl. [_with confusion_] how stupid of me not to guess that! a male chorus singer _enters from the right_. the officer. has miss victoria gone yet? the chorus singer. [_earnestly_] no, she has not. she never goes away. the officer. that is because she loves me--see here, don't go before the locksmith comes to open the door here. the chorus singer. no, is the door going to be opened? well, that will be fun!--i just want to ask the portress something. the prompter enters from the right. the officer. is miss victoria gone yet? the prompter. not that i know of. the officer. now, didn't i tell you she was waiting for me!--don't go away, for the door is going to be opened. the prompter. which door? the officer. is there more than one door? the prompter. oh, i know--that one with the clover leaf. well, then i have got to stay--i am only going to have a word with the portress. the ballet girl, the chorus singer, and the prompter gather beside the billposter in front of the lodge window and talk by turns to the daughter. the glazier enters through the gate. the officer. are you the locksmith? the glazier. no, the locksmith had visitors, and a glazier will do just as well. the officer. yes, of course, of course--but did you bring your diamond along? the glazier. why, certainly!--a glazier without his diamond, what would that be? the officer. nothing at all!--let us get to work then. [_claps his hands together_. all _gather in a ring around the door_. _male members of the chorus dressed as master singers and ballet girls in costumes from the opera "aïda" enter from the right and join the rest_. the officer. locksmith--or glazier--do your duty! the glazier _goes up to the door with the diamond in his hand_. the officer. a moment like this will not occur twice in a man's life. for this reason, my friends, i ask you--please consider carefully---a policeman. [_enters_] in the name of the law, i forbid the opening of that door! the officer. oh, lord! what a fuss there is as soon as anybody wants to do anything new or great. but we will take the matter into court--let us go to the lawyer. then we shall see whether the laws still exist or not--come along to the lawyer. _without lowering of the curtain, the stage changes to a lawyer's office, and in this manner. the gate remains, but as a wicket in the railing running clear across the stage. the gatekeeper's lodge turns into the private enclosure of the lawyer, and it is now entirely open to the front. the linden, leafless, becomes a hat tree. the billboard is covered with legal notices and court decisions. the door with the four-leaved clover hole forms part of a document chest_. the lawyer, _in evening dress and white necktie, is found sitting to the left, inside the gate, and in front of him stands a desk covered with papers. his appearance indicates enormous sufferings. his face is chalk-white and full of wrinkles, and its shadows have a purple effect. he is ugly, and his features seem to reflect all the crimes and vices with which he has been forced by his profession to come into contact_. _of his two clerks, one has lost an arm, the other an eye_. _the people gathered to witness "the opening of the door" remain as before, bid they appear now to be waiting for an audience with the lawyer. judging by their attitudes, one would think they had been standing there forever_. the daughter, _still wearing the shawl, and_ the officer _are near the footlights_. the lawyer. [goes _over to_ the daughter] tell me, sister, can i have that shawl? i shall keep it here until i have a fire in my grate, and then i shall burn it with all its miseries and sorrows. the daughter. not yet, brother. i want it to hold all it possibly can, and i want it above all to take up your agonies --all the confidences you have received about crime, vice, robbery, slander, abuse---the lawyer. my dear girl, for such a purpose your shawl would prove totally insufficient. look at these walls. does it not look as if the wall-paper itself had been soiled by every conceivable sin? look at these documents into which i write tales of wrong. look at myself--no smiling man ever comes here; nothing is to be seen here but angry glances, snarling lips, clenched fists--and everybody pours his anger, his envy, his suspicions, upon me. look--my hands are black, and no washing will clean them. see how they are chapped and bleeding--i can never wear my clothes more than a few days because they smell of other people's crimes--at times i have the place fumigated with sulphur, but it does not help. i sleep near by, and i dream of nothing but crimes--just now i have a murder case in court--oh, i can stand that, but do you know what is worse than anything else?--that is to separate married people! then it is as if something cried way down in the earth and up there in the sky--as if it cried treason against the primal force, against the source of all good, against love--and do you know, when reams of paper have been filled with mutual accusations, and at last a sympathetic person takes one of the two apart and asks, with a pinch of the ear or a smile, the simple question: what have you really got against your husband?--or your wife?--then he, or she, stands perplexed and cannot give the cause. once--well, i think a lettuce salad was the principal issue; another time it was just a word--mostly it is nothing at all. but the tortures, the sufferings--these i have to bear--see how i look! do you think i could ever win a woman's love with this countenance so like a criminal's? do you think anybody dares to be friendly with me, who has to collect all the debts, all the money obligations, of the whole city?--it is a misery to be man! the daughter. men are to be pitied! the lawyer. they are. and what people are living on puzzles me. they marry on an income of two thousand, when they need four thousand. they borrow, of course--everybody borrows. in some sort of happy-go-lucky fashion, by the skin of their teeth, they manage to pull through--and thus it continues to the end, when the estate is found to be bankrupt. who pays for it at last no one can tell. the daughter. perhaps he who feeds the birds. the lawyer. perhaps. but if he who feeds the birds would only pay a visit to this earth of his and see for himself how the poor human creatures fare--then his heart would surely fill with compassion. the daughter. men are to be pitied! the lawyer. yes, that is the truth!--[_to_ the officer] what do you want? the officer. i just wanted to ask if miss victoria has gone yet. the lawyer. no, she has not; you can be sure of it--why are you poking at my chest over there? the officer. i thought the door of it looked exactly---the lawyer. not at all! not at all! _all the church bells begin to ring_. the officer. is there going to be a funeral? the lawyer. no, it is graduation day--a number of degrees will be conferred, and i am going to be made a doctor of laws. perhaps you would also like to be graduated and receive a laurel wreath? the officer. yes, why not. that would be a diversion, at least. the lawyer. perhaps then we may begin upon this solemn function at once--but you had better go home and change your clothes. [the officer _goes out_. _the stage is darkened and the following changes are made. the railing stays, but it encloses now the chancel of a church. the billboard displays hymn numbers. the linden hat tree becomes a candelabrum. the lawyer's desk is turned into the desk of the presiding functionary, and the door with the clover leaf leads to the vestry_. _the chorus of master singers become heralds with staffs, and the ballet girls carry laurel wreaths. the rest of the people act as spectators_. _the background is raised, and the new one thus discovered represents a large church organ, with the keyboards below and the organist's mirror above_. _music is heard. at the sides stand figures symbolising the four academic faculties: philosophy, theology, medicine, and jurisprudence_. _at first the stage is empty for a few moments_. heralds _enter from the right_. ballet girls _follow with laurel wreaths carried high before them_. three graduates _appear one after another from the left, receive their wreaths from the_ ballet girls, _and go out to the right_. the lawyer _steps forward to get his wreath_. the ballet girls _turn away from him and refuse to place the wreath on his head. then they withdraw from the stage_. the lawyer, _shocked, leans against a column. all the others withdraw gradually until only_ the lawyer _remains on the stage_. the daughter. [_enters, her head and shoulders covered by a white veil_] do you see, i have washed the shawl! but why are you standing there? did you get your wreath? the lawyer. no, i was not held worthy. the daughter. why? because you have defended the poor, put in a good word for the wrong-doing, made the burden easier for the guilty, obtained a respite for the condemned? woe upon men: they are not angels--but they are to be pitied! the lawyer. say nothing evil of men--for after all it is my task to voice their side. the daughter. [_leaning against the organ_] why do they strike their friends in the face? the lawyer. they know no better. the daughter. let us enlighten them. will you try? together with me? the lawyer. they do not accept enlightenment--oh, that our plaint might reach the gods of heaven! the daughter. it shall reach the throne--[_turns toward the organ_] do you know what i see in this mirror?--the world turned the right way!--yes indeed, for naturally we see it upside down. the lawyer. how did it come to be turned the wrong way? the daughter. when the copy was taken---the lawyer. you have said it! the copy--i have always had the feeling that it was a spoiled copy. and when i began to recall the original images, i grew dissatisfied with everything. but men called it soreheadedness, looking at the world through the devil's eyes, and other such things. the daughter. it is certainly a crazy world! look at the four faculties here. the government, to which has fallen the task of preserving society, supports all four of them. theology, the science of god, is constantly attacked and ridiculed by philosophy, which declares itself to be the sum of all wisdom. and medicine is always challenging philosophy, while refusing entirely to count theology a science and even insisting on calling it a mere superstition. and they belong to a common academic council, which has been set to teach the young respect--for the university. it is a bedlam. and woe unto him who first recovers his reason! the lawyer. those who find it out first are the theologians. as a preparatory study, they take philosophy, which teaches them that theology is nonsense. later they learn from theology that philosophy is nonsense. madmen, i should say! the daughter. and then there is jurisprudence which serves all but the servants. the lawyer. justice, which, when it wants to do right, becomes the undoing of men. equity, which so often turns into iniquity! the daughter. what a mess you have made of it, you man-children. children, indeed!--come here, and i will give you a wreath--one that is more becoming to you. [_puts a crown of thorns on his head_] and now i will play for you. _she sits down at the keyboards, but instead of organ-notes human voices are heard_. voices of children. o lord everlasting! [_last note sustained_. voices of women. have mercy upon us! [_last note sustained_. voices of men. [_tenors_] save us for thy mercy's sake! [_last note sustained_. voices of men. [basses] spare thy children, o lord, and deliver us from thy wrath! all. have mercy upon us! hear us! have pity upon the mortals!--? o lord eternal, why art thou afar?--out of the depths we call unto thee: make not the burden of thy children too heavy! hear us! hear us! _the stage turns dark_. the daughter _rises and draws close to_ the lawyer. _by a change of light, the organ becomes fingal's cave. the ground-swell of the ocean, which can be seen rising and falling between the columns of basalt, produces a deep harmony that blends the music of winds and waves_. the lawyer. where are we, sister? the daughter. what do you hear? the lawyer. i hear drops falling---the daughter. those are the tears that men are weeping--what more do you hear? the lawyer. there is sighing--and whining--and wailing---the daughter. hither the plaint of the mortals has reached--and no farther. but why this never-ending wailing? is there then nothing in life to rejoice at? the lawyer. yes, what is most sweet, and what is also most bitter--love--wife and home--the highest and the lowest! the daughter. may i try it? the lawyer. with me? the daughter. with you--you know the rocks, the stumbling-stones. let us avoid them. the lawyer. i am so poor. the daughter. what does that matter if we only love each other? and a little beauty costs nothing. the lawyer. i have dislikes which may prove your likes. the daughter. they can be adjusted. the lawyer. and if we tire of it? the daughter. then come the children and bring with them a diversion that remains for ever new. the lawyer. you, you will take me, poor and ugly, scorned and rejected? the daughter. yes--let us unite our destinies. the lawyer. so be it then! _curtain_. [footnote 1: though the author says nothing about it here, subsequent stage directions indicate a door and a window behind the place occupied by the portress. both lead into her room or lodge, which contains a telephone.] [footnote 2: a floating wooden box with holes in it used to hold fish.] _an extremely plain room inside_ the lawyer's _office. to the right, a big double bed covered by a canopy and curtained in. next to it, a window. to the left, an iron heater with cooking utensils on top of it_. christine _is pasting paper strips along the cracks of the double windows. in the background, an open door to the office. through the door are visible a number of poor clients waiting for admission_. christine. i paste, i paste. the daughter. [_pale and emaciated, sits by the stove_] you shut out all the air. i choke! christine. now there is only one little crack left. the daughter. air, air--i cannot breathe! christine. i paste, i paste. the lawyer. that's right, christine! heat is expensive. the daughter. oh, it feels as if my lips were being glued together. the lawyer. [_standing in the doorway, with a paper in his hand_] is the child asleep? the daughter. yes, at last. the lawyer. [_gently_] all this crying scares away my clients. the daughter. [_pleasantly_] what can be done about it? the lawyer. nothing. the daughter. we shall have to get a larger place. the lawyer. we have no money for it. the daughter. may i open the window--this bad air is suffocating. the lawyer. then the heat escapes, and we shall be cold. the daughter. it is horrible!--may we clean up out there? the lawyer. you have not the strength to do any cleaning, nor have i, and christine must paste. she must put strips through the whole house, on every crack, in the ceiling, in the floor, in the walls. the daughter. poverty i was prepared for, but not for dirt. the lawyer. poverty is always dirty, relatively speaking. the daughter. this is worse than i dreamed! the lawyer. we are not the worst off by far. there is still food in the pot. the daughter. but what sort of food? the lawyer. cabbage is cheap, nourishing, and good to eat. the daughter. for those who like cabbage--to me it is repulsive. the lawyer. why didn't you say so? the daughter. because i loved you, i wanted to sacrifice my own taste. the lawyer. then i must sacrifice my taste for cabbage to you--for sacrifices must be mutual. the daughter. what are we to eat, then? fish? but you hate fish? the lawyer. and it is expensive. the daughter. this is worse than i thought it! the lawyer. [_kindly_] yes, you see how hard it is--and the child that was to become a link and a blessing--it becomes our ruin. the daughter. dearest, i die in this air, in this room, with its backyard view, with its baby cries and endless hours of sleeplessness, with those people out there, and their whinings, and bickerings, and incriminations--i shall die here! the lawyer. my poor little flower, that has no light and no air---the daughter. and you say that people exist who are still worse off? the lawyer. i belong with the envied ones in this locality. the daughter. everything else might be borne if i could only have some beauty in my home. the lawyer. i know you are thinking of flowers--and especially of heliotropes--but a plant costs half a dollar, which will buy us six quarts of milk or a peck of potatoes. the daughter. i could gladly get along without food if i could only have some flowers. the lawyer. there is a kind of beauty that costs nothing--but the absence of it in the home is worse than any other torture to a man with a sense for the beautiful. the daughter. what is it? the lawyer. if i tell, you will get angry. the daughter. we have agreed not to get angry. the lawyer. we have agreed--everything can be over-come, agnes, except the short, sharp accents--do you know them? not yet! the daughter. they will never be heard between us. the lawyer. not as far as it lies on me! the daughter. tell me now. the lawyer. well--when i come into a room, i look first of all at the curtains--[_goes over to the window and straightens out the curtains_] if they hang like ropes or rags, then i leave soon. and next i take a glance at the chairs--if they stand straight along the wall, then i stay. [_puts a chair back against the wall_] finally i look at the candles in their sticks--if they point this way and that, then the whole house is askew. [_straightens up a candle on the chest of drawers_] this is the kind of beauty, dear heart, that costs nothing. the daughter. _with bent head_] beware of the short accents, axel! the lawyer. they were not short. the daughter. yes, they were. the lawyer. well, i'll be---the daughter. what kind of language is that? the lawyer. pardon me, agnes! but i have suffered as much from your lack of orderliness as you have suffered from dirt. and i have not dared to set things right myself, for when i do so, you get as angry as if i were reproaching you--ugh! hadn't we better quit now? the daughter. it is very difficult to be married--it is more difficult than anything else. one has to be an angel, i think! the lawyer. i think so, too. the daughter. i fear i shall begin to hate you after this! the lawyer. woe to us then!--but let us forestall hatred. i promise never again to speak of any untidiness--although it is torture to me! the daughter. and i shall eat cabbage though it means agony to me. the lawyer. a life of common suffering, then! one's pleasure, the other one's pain! the daughter. men are to be pitied! the lawyer. you see that? the daughter. yes, but for heaven's sake, let us avoid the rocks, now when we know them so well. the lawyer. let us try! are we not decent and intelligent persons? able to forbear and forgive? the daughter. why not smile at mere trifles? the lawyer. we--only we--can do so. do you know, i read this morning--by the bye, where is the newspaper? the daughter. [_embarrassed_] which newspaper? the lawyer. [_sharply_] do i keep more than one? the daughter. smile now, and don't speak sharply--i used your paper to make the fire with---the lawyer. [_violently_] well, i'll be damned! the daughter. why don't you smile?--i burned it because it ridiculed what is holy to me. the lawyer. which is unholy to me! yah! [_strikes one clenched fist against the open palm of the other hand_] i smile, i smile so that my wisdom teeth show--of course, i am to be nice, and i am to swallow my own opinions, and say yes to everything, and cringe and dissemble! [_tidies the curtains around the bed_] that's it! now i am going to fix things until you get angry again--agnes, this is simply impossible! the daughter. of course it is! the lawyer. and yet we must endure--not for the sake of our promises, but for the sake of the child! the daughter. you are right--for the sake of the child. oh, oh--we have to endure! the lawyer. and now i must go out to my clients. listen to them--how they growl with impatience to tear each other, to get each other fined and jailed--lost souls! the daughter. poor, poor people! and this pasting! [_she drops her head forward in dumb despair_. christine. i paste, i paste. the lawyer _stands at the door, twisting the door-knob nervously_. the daughter. how that knob squeaks! it is as if you were twisting my heart-strings---the lawyer. i twist, i twist! the daughter. don't! the lawyer. i twist! the daughter. no! the lawyer. i---the officer. [_in the office, on the other side of the door, takes hold of the knob_] will you permit me? the lawyer. [_lets go his hold_] by all means. seeing that you have your degree! the officer. now all life belongs to me. every road lies open. i have mounted parnassus. the laurel is won. immortality, fame, all is mine! the lawyer. and what are you going to live on? the officer. live on? the lawyer. you must have a home, clothes, food---the officer. oh, that will come--if you can only find somebody to love you! the lawyer. you don't say so!--you don't--paste, christine, paste until they cannot breathe! [_goes out backward, nodding_. christine. i paste, i paste--until they cannot breathe. the officer. will you come with me now? the daughter. at once! but where? the officer. to fairhaven. there it is summer; there the sun is shining; there we find youth, children, and flowers, singing and dancing, feasting and frolicking. the daughter. then i will go there. the officer. come! the lawyer. [_enters again_] now i go back to my first hell--this was the second and greater. the sweeter the hell, the greater--and look here, now she has been dropping hair-pins on the floor again. [_he picks up some hair-pins_. the officer. my! but he has discovered the pins also. the lawyer. also?--look at this one. you see two prongs, but it is only one pin. it is two, yet only one. if i bend it open, it is a single piece. if i bend it back, there are two, but they remain one for all that. it means: these two are one. but if i break--like this!--then they become two. [_breaks the pin and throws the pieces away_. the officer. all that he has seen!--but before breaking, the prongs must diverge. if they point together, then it holds. the lawyer. and if they are parallel, then they will never meet--and it neither breaks nor holds. the officer. the hair-pin is the most perfect of all created things. a straight line which equals two parallel ones. the lawyer. a lock that shuts when it is open. the officer. and thus shuts in a braid of hair that opens up when the lock shuts. the lawyer. it is like this door. when i close it, then i open--the way out--for you, agnes! [_withdraws and closes the door behind him_. the daughter. well then? _the stage changes. the bed with its curtains becomes a tent_. _the stove stays as it was. the background is raised. to the right, in the foreground, are seen hills stripped of their trees by fire, and red heather growing between the blackened tree stumps. red-painted pig-sties and outhouses. beyond these, in the open, apparatus for mechanical gymnastics, where sick persons are being treated on machines resembling instruments of torture_. _to the left, in the foreground, the quarantine station, consisting of open sheds, with ovens, furnaces, and pipe coils_. _in the middle distance, a narrow strait_. _the background shows a beautiful wooded shore. flags are flying on its piers, where ride white sailboats, some with sails set and some without. little italian villas, pavilions, arbors, marble statues are glimpsed through the foliage along the shore_. the master of quarantine, _made up like a blackamoor, is walking along the shore_. the officer. [_meets him and they shake hands_] why, ordström![3] have you landed here? master of q. yes, here i am. the officer. is this fairhaven? master of q. no, that is on the other side. this is foulstrand. the officer. then we have lost our way. master of q. we?--won't you introduce me? the officer. no, that wouldn't do. [_in a lowered voice_] it is indra's own daughter. master of q. indra's? and i was thinking of varuna himself--well, are you not surprised to find me black in the face? the officer. i am past fifty, my boy, and at that age one has ceased to be surprised. i concluded at once that you were bound for some fancy ball this afternoon. master of q. right you were! and i hope both of you will come along. the officer. why, yes--for i must say--the place does not look very tempting. what kind of people live here anyhow? master of q. here you find the sick; over there, the healthy. the officer. nothing but poor folk on this side, i suppose. master of q. no, my boy, it is here you find the rich. look at that one on the rack. he has stuffed himself with paté de foie gras and truffles and burgundy until his feet have grown knotted. the officer. knotted? master of q. yes, he has a case of knotted feet. and that one who lies under the guillotine--he has swilled brandy so that his backbone has to be put through the mangle. the officer. there is always something amiss! master of q. moreover, everybody living on this side has some kind of canker to hide. look at the fellow coming here, for instance. _an old dandy is pushed on the stage in a wheel-chair, he is accompanied by a gaunt and grisly coquette in the sixties, to whom_ the friend, _a man of about forty, is paying court_. the officer. it is the major--our schoolmate! master of q. don juan. can you see that he is still enamored of that old spectre beside him? he does not notice that she has grown old, or that she is ugly, faithless, cruel. the officer. why, that is love! and i couldn't have dreamt that a fickle fellow like him would prove capable of loving so deeply and so earnestly. master of q. that is a mighty decent way of looking at it. the officer. i have been in love with victoria myself--in fact i am still waiting for her in the passageway---master of q. oh, you are the fellow who is waiting in the passageway? the officer. i am the man. master of q. well, have you got that door opened yet? the officer. no, the case is still in court--the billposter is out with his dipnet, of course, so that the taking of evidence is always being put off--and in the meantime the glazier has mended all the window panes in the castle, which has grown half a story higher--this has been an uncommonly good year--warm and wet---master of q. but just the same you have had no heat comparing with what i have here. the officer. how much do you have in your ovens? master of q. when we fumigate cholera suspects, we run it up to one hundred and forty degrees. the officer. is the cholera going again? master of q. don't you know that? the officer. of course, i know it, but i forget so often what i know. master of q. i wish often that i could forget--especially myself. that is why i go in for masquerades and carnivals and amateur theatricals. the officer. what have you been up to then? master of q. if i told, they would say that i was boasting; and if i don't tell, then they call me a hypocrite. the officer. that is why you blackened your face? master of q. exactly--making myself a shade blacker than i am. the officer. who is coming there? master of q. oh, a poet who is going to have his mud bath. the poet _enters with his eyes raised toward the sky and carrying a pail of mud in one hand_. the officer. why, he ought to be having light baths and air baths. master of q. no, he is roaming about the higher regions so much that he gets homesick for the mud--and wallowing in the mire makes the skin callous like that of a pig. then he cannot feel the stings of the wasps. the officer. this is a queer world, full of contradictions. the poet. [_ecstatically_] man was created by the god phtah out of clay on a potter's wheel, or a lathe--[_sceptically_], or any damned old thing! [_ecstatically_] out of clay does the sculptor create his more or less immortal masterpieces--[_sceptically_], which mostly are pure rot. [_ecstatically_] out of clay they make those utensils which are so indispensable in the pantry and which generically are named pots and plates--[_sceptically_], but what in thunder does it matter to me what they are called anyhow? [_ecstatically_] such is the clay! when clay becomes fluid, it is called mud--c'est mon affaire!--[_shouts_] lena! lena _enters with a pail in her hand_. the poet. lena, show yourself to miss agnes--she knew you ten years ago, when you were a young, happy and, let us say, pretty girl--behold how she looks now. five children, drudgery, baby-cries, hunger, ill-treatment. see how beauty has perished and joy vanished in the fulfilment of duties which should have brought that inner satisfaction which makes each line in the face harmonious and fills the eye with a quiet glow. master of q. [_covering the poet's mouth with his hand_] shut up! shut up! the poet. that is what they all say. and if you keep silent, then they cry: speak! oh, restless humanity! the daughter. [_goes to_ lena] tell me your troubles. lena. no, i dare not, for then they will be made worse. the daughter. who could be so cruel? lena. i dare not tell, for if i do, i shall be spanked. the poet. that is just what will happen. but i will speak, even though the blackamoor knock out all my teeth--i will tell that justice is not always done--agnes, daughter of the gods, do you hear music and dancing on the hill over there?--well, it is lena's sister who has come home from the city where she went astray--you understand? now they are killing the fatted calf; but lena, who stayed at home, has to carry slop pails and feed the pigs. the daughter. there is rejoicing at home because the stray has left the paths of evil, and not merely because she has come back. bear that in mind. the poet. but then they should give a ball and banquet every night for the spotless worker that never strayed into paths of error--yet they do nothing of the kind, but when lena has a free moment, she is sent to prayer-meetings where she has to hear reproaches for not being perfect. is this justice? the daughter. your question is so difficult to answer because--there are so many unforeseen cases the poet. that much the caliph, haroun the just, came to understand. he was sitting on his throne, and from its height he could never make out what happened below. at last complaints penetrated to his exalted ears. and then, one fine day, he disguised himself and descended unobserved among the crowds to find out what kind of justice they were getting. the daughter. i hope you don't take me for haroun the just! the officer. let us talk of something else--here come visitors. _a white boat, shaped like a viking ship, with a dragon for figure-head, with a pale-blue silken sail on a gilded yard, and with a rose-red standard flying from the top of a gilded mast, glides through the strait from the left._ he _and_ she _are seated in the stern with their arms around each other_. the officer. behold perfect happiness, bliss without limits, young love's rejoicing! _the stage grows brighter_. he. [_stands up in the boat and sings_] hail, beautiful haven, where the springs of my youth were spent, where my first sweet dreams were dreamt-to thee i return, but lonely no longer! ye hills and groves, thou sky o'erhead, thou mirroring sea, give greeting to her: my love, my bride, my light and my life! _the flags at the landings of fairhaven are dipped in salute; white handkerchiefs are waved from verandahs and boats, and the air is filled with tender chords from harps and violins_. the poet. see the light that surrounds them! hear how the air is ringing with music!--eros! the officer. it is victoria. master of q. well, what of it? the officer. it is his victoria--my own is still mine. and nobody can see _her_--now you hoist the quarantine flag, and i shall pull in the net. [the master of quarantine _waves a yellow flag._ the officer. [_pulling a rope that turns the boat toward foulstrand_] hold on there! he _and_ she _become aware of the hideous view and give vent to their horror_. master of q. yes, it comes hard. but here every one must stop who hails from plague-stricken places. the poet. the idea of speaking in such manner, of acting in such a way, within the presence of two human beings united in love! touch them not! lay not hands on love! it is treason!--woe to us! everything beautiful must now be dragged down--dragged into the mud! [he _and_ she _step ashore, looking sad and shamefaced_. he. woe to us! what have we done? master of q. it is not necessary to have done anything in order to encounter life's little pricks. she. so short-lived are joy and happiness! he. how long must we stay here? master of q. forty days and nights. she. then rather into the water! he. to live here--among blackened hills and pig-sties? the poet. love overcomes all, even sulphur fumes and carbolic acid. master of q. [_starts a fire in the stove; blue, sulphurous flames break forth_] now i set the sulphur going. will you please step in? she. oh, my blue dress will fade. master of q. and become white. so your roses will also turn white in time. he. even your cheeks--in forty days! she. [_to_ the officer] that will please you. the officer. no, it will not!--of course, your happiness was the cause of my suffering, but--it doesn't matter--for i am graduated and have obtained a position over there--heigh-ho and alas! and in the fall i shall be teaching school--teaching boys the same lessons i myself learned during my childhood and youth--the same lessons throughout my manhood and, finally, in my old age--the self-same lessons! what does twice two make? how many times can four be evenly divided by two?--until i get a pension and can do nothing at all--just wait around for meals and the newspapers--until at last i am carted to the crematorium and burned to ashes--have you nobody here who is entitled to a pension? barring twice two makes four, it is probably the worst thing of all--to begin school all over again when one already is graduated; to ask the same questions until death comes--- _an elderly man goes by, with his hands folded behind his back_. the officer. there is a pensioner now, waiting for himself to die. i think he must be a captain who missed the rank of major; or an assistant judge who was not made a chief justice. many are called but few are chosen--he is waiting for his breakfast now. the pensioner. no, for the newspaper--the morning paper. the officer. and he is only fifty-four years old. he may spend twenty-five more years waiting for meals and newspapers--is it not dreadful? the pensioner. what is not dreadful? tell me, tell me! the officer. tell that who can!--now i shall have to teach boys that twice two makes four. and how many times four can be evenly divided by two. [_he clutches his head in despair_] and victoria, whom i loved and therefore wished all the happiness life can give--now she has her happiness, the greatest one known to her, and for this reason i suffer--suffer, suffer! she. do you think i can be happy when i see you suffering? how can you think it? perhaps it will soothe your pains that i am to be imprisoned here for forty days and nights? tell me, does it soothe your pains? the officer. yes and no. how can i enjoy seeing you suffer? oh! she. and do you think my happiness can be founded on your torments? the officer. we are to be pitied--all of us! all. [_raise their arms toward the sky and utter a cry of anguish that sounds like a dissonant chord_] oh! the daughter. everlasting one, hear them! life is evil! men are to be pitied! all. [_as before_] oh! _for a moment the stage is completely darkened, and during that moment everybody withdraws or takes up a new position. when the light is turned on again, foulstrand is seen in the background, lying in deep shadow. the strait is in the middle distance and fairhaven in the foreground, both steeped in light. to the right, a corner of the casino, where dancing couples are visible through the open windows. three servant maids are standing outside on top of an empty box, with arms around each other, staring at the dancers within. on the verandah of the casino stands a bench, where_ "plain" edith _is sitting. she is bare-headed, with an abundance of tousled hair, and looks sad. in front of her is an open piano_. _to the left, a frame house painted yellow. two children in light dresses are playing ball outside_. _in the centre of the middle distance, a pier with white sailboats tied to it, and flag poles with hoisted flags. in the strait is anchored a naval vessel, brig-rigged, with gun ports. but the entire landscape is in winter dress, with snow on the ground and on the bare trees_. the daughter _and_ the officer _enter_. the daughter. here is peace, and happiness, and leisure. no more toil; every day a holiday; everybody dressed up in their best; dancing and music in the early morning. [_to the maids_] why don't you go in and have a dance, girls? the maids. we? the officer. they are servants, don't you see! the daughter. of course!--but why is edith sitting there instead of dancing? [edith _buries her face in her hands_. the officer. don't question her! she has been sitting there three hours without being asked for a dance. [_goes into the yellow house on the left_. the daughter. what a cruel form of amusement! the mother. [_in a low-necked dress, enters from the casino and goes up to_ edith] why don't you go in as i told you? edith. because--i cannot throw myself at them. that i am ugly, i know, and i know that nobody wants to dance with me, but i might be spared from being reminded of it. _begins to play on the piano, the toccata con fuga, op_. 10, by sebastian bach. [illustration: music.] _the waltz music from within is heard faintly at first. then it grows in strength, as if to compete with the bach toccata_. edith _prevails over it and brings it to silence. dancers appear in the doorway to hear her play. everybody on the stage stands still and listens reverently_. a naval officer. [_takes_ alice, _one of the dancers, around the waist and drags her toward the pier_] come quick! edith _breaks off abruptly, rises and stares at the couple with an expression of utter despair; stands as if turned to stone_. _now the front wall of the yellow house disappears, revealing three benches full of schoolboys. among these_ the officer _is seen, looking worried and depressed. in front of the boys stands_ the teacher, _bespectacled and holding a piece of chalk in one hand, a rattan cane in the other_. the teacher. [_to_ the officer] well, my boy, can you tell me what twice two makes? the officer _remains seated while he racks his mind without finding an answer_. the teacher. you must rise when i ask you a question. the officer. [_harassed, rises_] two--twice--let me see. that makes two-two. the teacher. i see! you have not studied your lesson. the officer. [_ashamed_] yes, i have, but--i know the answer, but i cannot tell it---the teacher. you want to wriggle out of it, of course. you know it, but you cannot tell. perhaps i may help you. [_pulls his hair_. the officer. oh, it is dreadful, it is dreadful! the teacher. yes, it is dreadful that such a big boy lacks all ambition---the officer. [_hurt_] big boy--yes, i am big--bigger than all these others--i am full-grown, i am done with school--[_as if waking up_] i have graduated--why am i then sitting here? have i not received my doctor's degree? the teacher. certainly, but you are to sit here and mature, you know. you have to mature--isn't that so? the officer. [_feels his forehead_] yes, that is right, one must mature--twice two--makes two--and this i can demonstrate by analogy, which is the highest form of all reasoning. listen!--once one makes one; consequently twice two must make two. for what applies in one case must also apply in another. the teacher. your conclusion is based on good logic, but your answer is wrong. the officer. what is logical cannot be wrong. let us test it. one divided by one gives one, so that two divided by two must give two. the teacher. correct according to analogy. but how much does once three make? the officer. three, of course. the teacher. consequently twice three must also make three. the officer. [_pondering_] no, that cannot be right--it cannot--or else--[_sits down dejectedly_] no, i am not mature yet. the teacher. no, indeed, you are far from mature. the officer. but how long am i to sit here, then? the teacher. here--how long? do you believe that time and space exist?--suppose that time does exist, then you should be able to say what time is. what is time? the officer. time--[_thinks_] i cannot tell, but i know what it is. consequently i may also know what twice two is without being able to tell it. and, teacher, can you tell what time is? the teacher. of course i can. all the boys. tell us then! the teacher. time--let me see. [_stands immovable until one finger on his nose_] while we are talking, time flies. consequently time is something that flies while we talk. a boy. [_rising_] now you are talking, teacher, and while you are talking, i fly: consequently i am time. [_runs out_. the teacher. that accords completely with the laws of logic. the officer. then the laws of logic are silly, for nils who ran away, cannot be time. the teacher. that is also good logic, although it is silly. the officer. then logic itself is silly. the teacher. so it seems. but if logic is silly, then all the world is silly--and then the devil himself wouldn't stay here to teach you more silliness. if anybody treats me to a drink, we'll go and take a bath. the officer. that is a _posterus prius_, or the world turned upside down, for it is customary to bathe first and have the drink afterward. old fogy! the teacher. beware of a swelled head, doctor! the officer. call me captain, if you please. i am an officer, and i cannot understand why i should be sitting here to get scolded like a schoolboy---the teacher. [_with raised index finger_] we were to mature! master of q. [_enters_] the quarantine begins. the officer. oh, there you are. just think of it, this fellow makes me sit among the boys although i am graduated. master of q. well, why don't you go away? the officer. heaven knows!--go away? why, that is no easy thing to do. the teacher. i guess not--just try! the officer. [_to_ master of quarantine] save me! save me from his eye! master of q. come on. come and help us dance--we have to dance before the plague breaks out. we must! the officer. is the brig leaving? master of q. yes, first of all the brig must leave--then there will be a lot of tears shed, of course. the officer. always tears: when she comes and when she goes--let us get out of here. _they go out_. the teacher _continues his lesson in silence_. the maids _that were staring through the window of the dance hall walk sadly down to the pier_. edith, _who has been standing like a statue at the piano, follows them_. the daughter. [_to_ the officer] is there not one happy person to be found in this paradise? the officer. yes, there is a newly married couple. just watch them. the newly married couple _enter_. husband. [_to his_ wife] my joy has no limits, and i could now wish to die---wife. why die? husband. because at the heart of happiness grows the seed of disaster. happiness devours itself like a flame--it cannot burn for ever, but must go out some time. and this presentiment of the coming end destroys joy in the very hour of its culmination. wife. let us then die together--this moment! husband. die? all right! for i fear happiness--that cheat! [_they go toward the water_. the daughter. life is evil! men are to be pitied! the officer. look at this fellow. he is the most envied mortal in this neighbourhood. the blind man _is led in_. the officer. he is the owner of these hundred or more italian villas. he owns all these bays, straits, shores, forests, together with the fishes in the water, the birds in the air, the game in the woods. these thousand or more people are his tenants. the sun rises upon his sea and sets upon his land---the daughter. well--is he complaining also? the officer. yes, and with right, for he cannot see. master of q. he is blind. the daughter. the most envied of all! the officer. now he has come to see the brig depart with his son on board. the blind man. i cannot see, but i hear. i hear the anchor bill claw the clay bottom as when the hook is torn out of a fish and brings up the heart with it through the neck--my son, my only child, is going to journey across the wide sea to foreign lands, and i can follow him only in my thought! now i hear the clanking of the chain--and--there is something that snaps and cracks like clothes drying on a line--wet handkerchiefs perhaps. and i hear it blubber and snivel as when people are weeping--maybe the splashing of the wavelets among the seines--or maybe girls along the shore, deserted and disconsolate--once i asked a child why the ocean is salt, and the child, which had a father on a long trip across the high seas, said immediately: the ocean is salt because the sailors shed so many tears into it. and why do the sailors cry so much then?--because they are always going away, replied the child; and that is why they are always drying their handkerchiefs in the rigging--and why does man weep when he is sad? i asked at last--because the glass in the eyes must be washed now and then, so that we can see clearly, said the child. _the brig has set sail and is gliding off. the girls along the shore are alternately waving their handkerchiefs and wiping off their tears with them. then a signal is set on the foremast--a red ball in a white field, meaning "yes." in response to it_ alice _waves her handkerchief triumphantly_. the daughter. [_to_ the officer] what is the meaning of that flag? the officer. it means "yes." it is the lieutenant's troth--red as the red blood of the arteries, set against the blue cloth of the sky. the daughter. and how does "no" look? the officer. it is blue as the spoiled blood in the veins--but look, how jubilant alice is. the daughter. and how edith cries. the blind man. meet and part. part and meet. that is life. i met his mother. and then she went away from me. he was left to me; and now he goes. the daughter. but he will come back. the blind man. who is speaking to me? i have heard that voice before--in my dreams; in my youth, when vacation began; in the early years of my marriage, when my child was born. every time life smiled at me, i heard that voice, like a whisper of the south wind, like a chord of harps from above, like what i feel the angels' greeting must be in the holy night--- the lawyer _enters and goes up to whisper something into_ the blind man's _ear_. the blind man. is that so? the lawyer. that's the truth. [_goes to_ the daughter] now you have seen most of it, but you have not yet tried the worst of it. the daughter. what can that be? the lawyer. repetition--recurrence. to retrace one's own tracks; to be sent back to the task once finished--come! the daughter. where? the lawyer. to your duties. the daughter. what does that mean? the lawyer. everything you dread. everything you do not want but must. it means to forego, to give up, to do without, to lack--it means everything that is unpleasant, repulsive, painful. the daughter. are there no pleasant duties? the lawyer. they become pleasant when they are done. the daughter. when they have ceased to exist--duty is then something unpleasant. what is pleasant then? the lawyer. what is pleasant is sin. the daughter. sin? the lawyer. yes, something that has to be punished. if i have had a pleasant day or night, then i suffer infernal pangs and a bad conscience the next day. the daughter. how strange! the lawyer. i wake up in the morning with a headache; and then the repetitions begin, but so that everything becomes perverted. what the night before was pretty, agreeable, witty, is presented by memory in the morning as ugly, distasteful, stupid. pleasure seems to decay, and all joy goes to pieces. what men call success serves always as a basis for their next failure. my own successes have brought ruin upon me. for men view the fortune of others with an instinctive dread. they regard it unjust that fate should favour any one man, and so they try to restore balance by piling rocks on the road. to have talent is to be in danger of one's life, for then one may easily starve to death!--however, you will have to return to your duties, or i shall bring suit against you, and we shall pass through every court up to the highest--one, two, three! the daughter. return?--to the iron stove, and the cabbage pot, and the baby clothes---the lawyer. exactly! we have a big wash to-day, for we must wash all the handkerchiefs---the daughter. oh, must i do it all over again? the lawyer. all life is nothing but doing things over again. look at the teacher in there--he received his doctor's degree yesterday, was laurelled and saluted, climbed parnassus and was embraced by the monarch--and to-day he starts school all over again, asks how much twice two makes, and will continue to do so until his death--however, you must come back to your home! the daughter. i shall rather die! the lawyer. die?--that is not allowed. first of all, it is a disgrace--so much so that even the dead body is subjected to insults; and secondly, one goes to hell--it is a mortal sin! the daughter. it is not easy to be human! all. hear! the daughter. i shall not go back with you to humiliation and dirt--i am longing for the heights whence i came--but first the door must be opened so that i may learn the secret--it is my will that the door be opened! the lawyer. then you must retrace your own steps, cover the road you have already travelled, suffer all annoyances, repetitions, tautologies, recopyings, that a suit will bring with it---the daughter. may it come then--but first i must go into the solitude and the wilderness to recover my own self. we shall meet again! [_to_ the poet] follow me. _cries of anguish are heard from a distance_. woe! woe! woe! the daughter. what is that? the lawyer. the lost souls at foulstrand. the daughter. why do they wail more loudly than usual to-day? the lawyer. because the sun is shining here; because here we have music, dancing, youth. and it makes them feel their own sufferings more keenly. the daughter. we must set them free. the lawyer. try it! once a liberator appeared, and he was nailed to a cross. the daughter. by whom? the lawyer. by all the right-minded. the daughter. who are they? the lawyer. are you not acquainted with all the right-minded? then you must learn to know them. the daughter. were they the ones that prevented your graduation? the lawyer. yes. the daughter. then i know them! _curtain_. _on the shores of the mediterranean. to the left, in the foreground, a white wall, and above it branches of an orange tree with ripe fruit on them. in the background, villas and a casino placed on a terrace. to the right, a huge pile of coal and two wheel-barrows. in the background, to the right, a corner of blue sea_. _two coalheavers, naked to the waist, their faces, hands, and bodies blackened by coal dust, are seated on the wheel-barrows. their expressions show intense despair_. the daughter _and_ the lawyer _in the background_. the daughter. this is paradise! first coalheaver. this is hell! second coalheaver. one hundred and twenty degrees in the shadow. first heaver. let's have a bath. second heaver. the police won't let us. no bathing here. first heaver. couldn't we pick some fruit off that tree? second heaver. then the police would get after us. first heaver. but i cannot do a thing in this heat--i'll just chuck the job---second heaver. then the police will get you for sure!-[_pause_] and you wouldn't have anything to eat anyhow. first heaver. nothing to eat? we, who work hardest, get least food; and the rich, who do nothing, get most. might one not--without disregard of truth--assert that this is injustice --what has the daughter of the gods to say about it? the daughter. i can say nothing at all--but tell me, what have you done that makes you so black and your lot so hard? first heaver. what have we done? we have been born of poor and perhaps not very good parents--maybe we have been punished a couple of times. the daughter. punished? first heaver. yes, the unpunished hang out in the casino up there and dine on eight courses with wine. the daughter. [_to_ the lawyer] can that be true? the lawyer. on the whole, yes. the daughter. you mean to say that every man at some time has deserved to go to prison? the lawyer. yes. the daughter. you, too? the lawyer. yes. the daughter. is it true that the poor cannot bathe in the sea? the lawyer. yes. not even with their clothes on. none but those who intend to take their own lives escape being fined. and those are said to get a good drubbing at the police station. the daughter. but can they not go outside of the city, out into the country, and bathe there? the lawyer. there is no place for them--all the land is fenced in. the daughter. but i mean in the free, open country. the lawyer. there is no such thing--it all belongs to somebody. the daughter. even the sea, the great, vast sea---the lawyer. even that! you cannot sail the sea in a boat and land anywhere without having it put down in writing and charged for. it is lovely! the daughter. this is not paradise. the lawyer. i should say not! the daughter. why don't men do something to improve their lot? the lawyer. oh, they try, of course, but all the improvers end in prison or in the madhouse---the daughter. who puts them in prison? the lawyer. all the right-minded, all the respectable---the daughter. who sends them to the madhouse? the lawyer. their own despair when they grasp the hopelessness of their efforts. the daughter. has the thought not occurred to anybody, that for secret reasons it must be as it is? the lawyer. yes, those who are well off always think so. the daughter. that it is all right as it is? first heaver. and yet we are the foundations of society. if the coal is not unloaded, then there will be no fire in the kitchen stove, in the parlour grate, or in the factory furnace; then the light will go out in streets and shops and homes; then darkness and cold will descend upon you--and, therefore, we have to sweat as in hell so that the black coals may be had--and what do you do for us in return? the lawyer. [_to_ the daughter] help them!--[_pause_] that conditions cannot be quite the same for everybody, i understand, but why should they differ so widely? a gentleman _and_ a lady _pass across the stage_. the lady. will you come and play a game with us? the gentleman. no, i must take a walk, so i can eat something for dinner. first heaver. so that he _can_ eat something? second heaver. so that he _can_----? _children enter and cry with horror when they catch sight of the grimy workers_. first heaver. they cry when they see us. they cry---second heaver. damn it all!--i guess we'll have to pull out the scaffolds soon and begin to operate on this rotten body---first heaver. damn it, i say, too! [_spits_. the lawyer. [_to_ the daughter] yes, it is all wrong. and men are not so very bad--but---the daughter. but---the lawyer. but the government---the daughter. [_goes out, hiding her face in her hands_] this is not paradise. coalheavers. no, hell, that's what it is! _curtain_. [footnote 3: means literally "wordspout."] _fingal's cave. long green waves are rolling slowly into the cave. in the foreground, a siren buoy is swaying to and fro in time with the waves, but without sounding except at the indicated moment. music of the winds. music of the waves_. the daughter _and_ the poet. the poet. where are you leading me? the daughter. far away from the noise and lament of the man-children, to the utmost end of the ocean, to the cave that we name indra's ear because it is the place where the king of the heavens is said to listen to the complaints of the mortals. the poet. what? in this place? the daughter. do you see how this cave is built like a shell? yes, you can see it. do you know that your ear, too, is built in the form of a shell? you know it, but have not thought of it. [_she picks up a shell from the beach_] have you not as a child held such a shell to your ear and listened--and heard the ripple of your heart-blood, the humming of your thoughts in the brain, the snapping of a thousand little worn-out threads in the tissues of your body? all that you hear in this small shell. imagine then what may be heard in this larger one! the poet. [_listening_] i hear nothing but the whispering of the wind. the daughter. then i shall interpret it for you. listen. the wail of the winds. [_recites to subdued music_: born beneath the clouds of heaven, driven we were by the lightnings of indra down to the sand-covered earth. straw from the harvested fields soiled our feet; dust from the high-roads, smoke from the cities, foul-smelling breaths, fumes from cellars and kitchens, all we endured. then to the open sea we fled, filling our lungs with air, shaking our wings, and laving our feet. indra, lord of the heavens, hear us! hear our sighing! unclean is the earth; evil is life; neither good nor bad can men be deemed. as they can, they live, one day at a time. sons of dust, through dust they journey; born out of dust, to dust they return. given they were, for trudging, feet, not wings for flying. dusty they grow-lies the fault then with them, or with thee? the poet. thus i heard it once---the daughter. hush! the winds are still singing. [_recites to subdued music_: we, winds that wander, we, the air's offspring, bear with us men's lament. heard us you have during gloom-filled fall nights, in chimneys and pipes, in key-holes and door cracks, when the rain wept on the roof: heard us you have in the snowclad pine woods midst wintry gloom: heard us you have, crooning and moaning in ropes and rigging on the high-heaving sea. it was we, the winds, offspring of the air, who learned how to grieve within human breasts through which we passed-in sick-rooms, on battle-fields, but mostly where the newborn whimpered and wailed at the pain of living. we, we, the winds, we are whining and whistling: woe! woe! woe! the poet. it seems to me that i have already---the daughter. hush! now the waves are singing. [_recites to subdued music_: we, we waves, that are rocking the winds to rest-green cradles, we waves! wet are we, and salty; leap like flames of fire-wet flames are we: burning, extinguishing; cleansing, replenishing; bearing, engendering. we, we waves, that are rocking the winds to rest! the daughter. false waves and faithless! everything on earth that is not burned, is drowned--by the waves. look at this. [_pointing to pile of debris_] see what the sea has taken and spoiled! nothing but the figure-heads remain of the sunken ships--and the names: _justice_, _friendship, golden peace, hope_--this is all that is left of _hope_--of fickle _hope_--railings, tholes, bails! and lo: the life buoy--which saved itself and let distressed men perish. the poet. [_searching in the pile_] here is the name-board of the ship _justice_. that was the one which left fairhaven with the blind man's son on board. it is lost then! and with it are gone the lover of alice, the hopeless love of edith. the daughter. the blind man? fairhaven? i must have been dreaming of them. and the lover of alice, "plain" edith, foulstrand and the quarantine, sulphur and carbolic acid, the graduation in the church, the lawyer's office, the passageway and victoria, the growing castle and the officer--all this i have been dreaming---the poet. it was in one of my poems. the daughter. you know then what poetry is---the poet. i know then what dreaming is--but what is poetry? the daughter. not reality, but more than reality--not dreaming, but daylight dreams---the poet. and the man-children think that we poets are only playing--that we invent and make believe. the daughter. and fortunate it is, my friend, for otherwise the world would lie fallow for lack of ministration. everybody would be stretched on his back, staring into the sky. nobody would be touching plough or spade, hammer or plane. the poet. and you say this, indra's daughter, you who belong in part up there---the daughter. you do right in reproaching me. too long have i stayed down here taking mud baths like you--my thoughts have lost their power of flight; there is clay on their wings--mire on their feet--and i myself--[_raising her arms_] i sink, i sink--help me, father, lord of the heavens! [_silence_] i can no longer hear his answer. the ether no longer carries the sound from his lips to my ear's shell the silvery thread has snapped--woe is me, i am earthbound! the poet. do you mean to ascend--soon? the daughter. as soon as i have consigned this mortal shape to the flames--for even the waters of the ocean cannot cleanse me. why do you question me thus? the poet. because i have a prayer---the daughter. what kind of prayer? the poet. a written supplication from humanity to the ruler of the universe, formulated by a dreamer. the daughter. to be presented by whom? the poet. by indra's daughter. the daughter. can you repeat what you have written? the poet. i can. the daughter. speak it then. the poet. better that you do it. the daughter. where can i read it? the poet. in my mind--or here. [_hands her a roll of paper._ the daughter. [_receives the roll, but reads without looking at it_] well, by me it shall be spoken then: "why must you be born in anguish? why, o man-child, must you always wring your mother's heart with torture when you bring her joy maternal, highest happiness yet known? why to life must you awaken, why to light give natal greeting, with a cry of anger and of pain? why not meet it smiling, man-child, when the gift of life is counted in itself a boon unmatched? why like beasts should we be coming, we of race divine and human? better garment craves the spirit than one made of filth and blood! need a god his teeth be changing----" --silence, rash one! is it seemly for the work to blame its maker? no one yet has solved life's riddle. "thus begins the human journey o'er a road of thorns and thistles; if a beaten path be offered. it is named at once forbidden; if a flower you covet, straightway you are told it is another's; if a field should bar your progress, and you dare to break across it, you destroy your neighbour's harvest; others then your own will trample, that the measure may be evened! every moment of enjoyment brings to some one else a sorrow, but your sorrow gladdens no one, for from sorrow naught but sorrow springs. "thus you journey till you die, and your death brings others' bread." --is it thus that you approach, son of dust, the one most high? the poet. could the son of dust discover words so pure and bright and simple that to heaven they might ascend----? child of gods, wilt thou interpret mankind's grievance in some language that immortals understand? the daughter. i will. the poet. [_pointing to the buoy_] what is that floating there?--a buoy? the daughter. yes. the poet. it looks like a lung with a windpipe. the daughter. it is the watchman of the seas. when danger is abroad, it sings. the poet. it seems to me as if the sea were rising and the waves growing larger---the daughter. not unlikely. the poet. woe! what do i see? a ship bearing down upon the reef. the daughter. what ship can that be? the poet. the ghost ship of the seas, i think. the daughter. what ship is that? the poet. the _flying dutchman_. the daughter. oh, that one. why is he punished so hard, and why does he not seek harbour? the poet. because he had seven faithless wives. the daughter. and for this he should be punished? the poet. yes, all the right-minded condemned him---the daughter. strange world, this!--how can he then be freed from his curse? the poet. freed?--oh, they take good care that none is set free. the daughter. why? the poet. because--no, it is not the _dutchman_! it is an ordinary ship in distress. why does not the buoy cry out now? look, how the sea is rising--how high the waves are--soon we shall be unable to get out of the cave! now the ship's bell is ringing--soon we shall have another figure-head. cry out, buoy! do your duty, watchman! [_the buoy sounds a four-voice chord of fifths and sixths, reminding one of fog horns_] the crew is signalling to us--but we are doomed ourselves. the daughter. do you not wish to be set free? the poet. yes, of course--of course, i wish it--but not just now, and not by water. the crew. [_sings in quartet_] christ kyrie! [illustration: music.] the poet. now they are crying aloud, and so is the sea, but no one gives ear. the crew. [_as before_] christ kyrie! the daughter. who is coming there? the poet. walking on the waters? there is only one who does that--and it is not peter, the rock, for he sank like a stone--- _a white light is seen shining over the water at some distance_. the crew. christ kyrie! the daughter. can this be he? the poet. it is he, the crucified---the daughter. why--tell me--why was he crucified? the poet. because he wanted to set free---the daughter. who was it--i have forgotten--that crucified him? the poet. all the right-minded. the daughter. what a strange world! the poet. the sea is rising. darkness is closing in upon us. the storm is growing--- [the crew _set up a wild outcry_. the poet. the crew scream with horror at the sight of their saviour--and now--they are leaping overboard for fear of the redeemer--- [the crew _utter another cry_. the poet. now they are crying because they must die. crying when they are born, and crying when they pass away! [_the rising waves threaten to engulf the two in the cave_. the daughter. if i could only be sure that it is a ship---the poet. really--i don't think it is a ship--it is a two-storied house with trees in front of it--and--a telephone tower--a tower that reaches up into the skies--it is the modern tower of babel sending wires to the upper regions--to communicate with those above---the daughter. child, the human thought needs no wires to make a way for itself--the prayers of the pious penetrate the universe. it cannot be a tower of babel, for if you want to assail the heavens, you must do so with prayer. the poet. no, it is no house--no telephone tower--don't you see? the daughter. what are you seeing? the poet. i see an open space covered with snow--a drill ground--the winter sun is shining from behind a church on a hill, and the tower is casting its long shadow on the snow--now a troop of soldiers come marching across the grounds. they march up along the tower, up the spire. now they have reached the cross, but i have a feeling that the first one who steps on the gilded weathercock at the top must die. now they are near it--a corporal is leading them--ha-ha! there comes a cloud sweeping across the open space, and right in front of the sun, of course--now everything is gone--the water in the cloud put out the sun's fire!--the light of the sun created the shadow picture of the tower, but the shadow picture of the cloud swallowed the shadow picture of the tower--- _while_ the poet _is still speaking, the stage is changed and shows once more the passageway outside the opera-house_. the daughter. [_to_ the portress] has the lord chancellor arrived yet? the portress. no. the daughter. and the deans of the faculties? the portress. no. the daughter. call them at once, then, for the door is to be opened---the portress. is it so very pressing? the daughter. yes, it is. for there is a suspicion that the solution of the world-riddle may be hidden behind it. call the lord chancellor, and the deans of the four faculties also. [the portress _blows in a whistle_. the daughter. and do not forget the glazier and his diamond, for without them nothing can be done. stage people _enter from the left as in the earlier scene_. the officer. [_enters from the background, in prince albert and high hat, with a bunch of roses in his hand, looking radiantly happy_] victoria! the portress. the young lady will be coming in a moment. the officer. good! the carriage is waiting, the table is set, the wine is on ice--permit me to embrace you, madam! [_embraces_ the portress] victoria! a woman's voice from above. [_sings_] i am here! the officer. [_begins to walk to and fro_] good! i am waiting. the poet. it seems to me that all this has happened before---the daughter. so it seems to me also. the poet. perhaps i have dreamt it. the daughter. or put it in a poem, perhaps. the poet. or put it in a poem. the daughter. then you know what poetry is. the poet. then i know what dreaming is. the daughter. it seems to me that we have said all this to each other before, in some other place. the poet. then you may soon figure out what reality is. the daughter. or dreaming! the poet. or poetry! _enter the_ lord chancellor _and the_ deans _of the_ theological, philosophical, medical, _and_ legal faculties. lord chancellor. it is about the opening of that door, of course--what does the dean of the theological faculty think of it? dean of theology. i do not think--i believe--_credo_---dean of philosophy. i hold---dean of medicine. i know---dean of jurisprudence. i doubt until i have evidence and witnesses. lord chancellor. now they are fighting again!--well, what does theology believe? theology. i believe that this door must not be opened, because it hides dangerous truths---philosophy. truth is never dangerous. medicine. what is truth? jurisprudence. what can be proved by two witnesses. theology. anything can be proved by two false witnesses--thinks the pettifogger. philosophy. truth is wisdom, and wisdom, knowledge, is philosophy itself--philosophy is the science of sciences, the knowledge of knowing, and all other sciences are its servants. medicine. natural science is the only true science--and philosophy is no science at all. it is nothing but empty speculation. theology. good! philosophy. [_to_ theology] good, you say! and what are you, then? you are the arch-enemy of all knowledge; you are the very antithesis of knowledge; you are ignorance and obscuration---medicine. good! theology. [_to_ medicine] you cry "good," you, who cannot see beyond the length of your own nose in the magnifying glass; who believes in nothing but your own unreliable senses--in your vision, for instance, which may be far-sighted, near-sighted, blind, purblind, cross-eyed, one-eyed, colour-blind, red-blind, green-blind---medicine. idiot! theology. ass! [_they fight_. lord chancellor. peace! one crow does not peck out the other's eye. philosophy. if i had to choose between those two, theology and medicine, i should choose--neither! jurisprudence. and if i had to sit in judgment on the three of you, i should find--all guilty! you cannot agree on a single point, and you never could. let us get back to the case in court. what is the opinion of the lord chancellor as to this door and its opening? lord chancellor. opinion? i have no opinion whatever. i am merely appointed by the government to see that you don't break each other's arms and legs in the council--while you are educating the young! opinion? why, i take mighty good care to avoid everything of the kind. once i had one or two, but they were refuted at once. opinions are always refuted--by their opponents, of course--but perhaps we might open the door now, even with the risk of finding some dangerous truths behind it? jurisprudence. what is truth? what is truth? theology. i am the truth and the life---philosophy. i am the science of sciences---medicine. i am the only exact science---jurisprudence. i doubt---[_they fight_. the daughter. instructors of the young, take shame! jurisprudence. lord chancellor, as representative of the government, as head of the corps of instructors, you must prosecute this woman's offence. she has told all of you to take shame, which is an insult; and she has--in a sneering, ironical sense--called you instructors of the young, which is a slanderous speech. the daughter. poor youth! jurisprudence. she pities the young, which is to accuse us. lord chancellor, you must prosecute the offence. the daughter. yes, i accuse you--you in a body--of sowing doubt and discord in the minds of the young. jurisprudence. listen to her--she herself is making the young question our authority, and then she charges us with sowing doubt. is it not a criminal act, i ask all the right-minded? all right-minded. yes, it is criminal. jurisprudence. all the right-minded have condemned you. leave in peace with your lucre, or else---the daughter. my lucre? or else? what else? jurisprudence. else you will be stoned. the poet. or crucified. the daughter. i leave. follow me, and you shall learn the riddle. the poet. which riddle? the daughter. what did he mean with "my lucre"? the poet. probably nothing at all. that kind of thing we call talk. he was just talking. the daughter. but it was what hurt me more than anything else! the poet. that is why he said it, i suppose--men are that way. all right-minded. hooray! the door is open. lord chancellor. what was behind the door? the glazier. i can see nothing. lord chancellor. he cannot see anything--of course, he cannot! deans of the faculties: what was behind that door? theology. nothing! that is the solution of the world-riddle. in the beginning god created heaven and the earth out of nothing---philosophy. out of nothing comes nothing. medicine. yes, bosh--which is nothing! jurisprudence. i doubt. and this is a case of deception. i appeal to all the right-minded. the daughter. [_to_ the poet] who are the right-minded? the poet. who can tell? frequently all the right-minded consist of a single person. to-day it is me and mine; to-morrow it is you and yours. to that position you are appointed--or rather, you appoint yourself to it. all right-minded. we have been deceived. lord chancellor. who has deceived you? all right-minded. the daughter! lord chancellor. will the daughter please tell us what she meant by having this door opened? the daughter. no, friends. if i did, you would not believe me. medicine. why, then, there is nothing there. the daughter. you have said it--but you have not understood. medicine. it is bosh, what she says! all. bosh! the daughter. [_to_ the poet] they are to be pitied. the poet. are you in earnest? the daughter. always in earnest. the poet. do you think the right-minded are to be pitied also? the daughter. they most of all, perhaps. the poet. and the four faculties, too? the daughter. they also, and not the least. four heads, four minds, and one body. who made that monster? all. she has not answered! lord chancellor. stone her then! the daughter. i have answered. lord chancellor. hear--she answers. all. stone her! she answers! the daughter. whether she answer or do not answer, stone her! come, prophet, and i shall tell you the riddle--but far away from here--out in the desert, where no one can hear us, no one see us, for---the lawyer. [_enters and takes_ the daughter _by the arm_] have you forgotten your duties? the daughter. oh, heavens, no! but i have higher duties. the lawyer. and your child? the daughter. my child--what of it? the lawyer. your child is crying for you. the daughter. my child! woe, i am earth-bound! and this pain in my breast, this anguish--what is it? the lawyer. don't you know? the daughter. no. the lawyer. it is remorse. the daughter. is that remorse? the lawyer. yes, and it follows every neglected duty; every pleasure, even the most innocent, if innocent pleasures exist, which seems doubtful; and every suffering inflicted upon one's fellow-beings. the daughter. and there is no remedy? the lawyer. yes, but only one. it consists in doing your duty at once---the daughter. you look like a demon when you speak that word duty--and when, as in my case, there are two duties to be met? the lawyer. meet one first, and then the other. the daughter. the highest first--therefore, you look after my child, and i shall do my duty---the lawyer. your child suffers because it misses you--can you bear to know that a human being is suffering for your sake? the daughter. now strife has entered my soul--it is rent in two, and the halves are being pulled in opposite directions! the lawyer. such, you know, are life's little discords. the daughter. oh, how it is pulling! the poet. if you could only know how i have spread sorrow and ruin around me by the exercise of my calling--and note that i say _calling_, which carries with it the highest duty of all--then you would not even touch my hand. the daughter. what do you mean? the poet. i had a father who put his whole hope on me as his only son, destined to continue his enterprise. i ran away from the business college. my father grieved himself to death. my mother wanted me to be religious, and i could not do what she wanted--and she disowned me. i had a friend who assisted me through trying days of need--and that friend acted as a tyrant against those on whose behalf i was speaking and writing. and i had to strike down my friend and benefactor in order to save my soul. since then i have had no peace. men call me devoid of honour, infamous--and it does not help that my conscience says, "you have done right," for in the next moment it is saying, "you have done wrong." such is life. the daughter. come with me into the desert. the lawyer. your child! the daughter. [_indicating all those present_] here are my children. by themselves they are good, but if they only come together, then they quarrel and turn into demons--farewell! _outside the castle. the same scenery as in the first scene of the first act. but now the ground in front of the castle wall is covered with flowers--blue monk's-hood or aconite. on the roof of the castle, at the very top of its lantern, there is a chrysanthemum bud ready to open. the castle windows are illuminated with candles_. the daughter _and_ the poet. the daughter. the hour is not distant when, with the help of the flames, i shall once more ascend to the ether. it is what you call to die, and what you approach in fear. the poet. fear of the unknown. the daughter. which is known to you. the poet. who knows it? the daughter. all! why do you not believe your prophets? the poet. prophets have always been disbelieved. why is that so? and "if god has spoken, why will men not believe then?" his convincing power ought to be irresistible. the daughter. have you always doubted? the poet. no. i have had certainty many times. but after a while it passed away, like a dream when you wake up. the daughter. it is not easy to be human! the poet. you see and admit it? the daughter. i do. the poet. listen! was it not indra that once sent his son down here to receive the complaints of mankind? the daughter. thus it happened--and how was he received? the poet. how did he fill his mission?--to answer with another question. the daughter. and if i may reply with still another--was not man's position bettered by his visit to the earth? answer truly! the poet. bettered?--yes, a little. a very little--but instead of asking questions--will you not tell the riddle? the daughter. yes. but to what use? you will not believe me. the poet. in you i shall believe, for i know who you are. the daughter. then i shall tell! in the morning of the ages, before the sun was shining, brahma, the divine primal force, let himself be persuaded by maya, the world-mother, to propagate himself. this meeting of the divine primal matter with the earth-matter was the fall of heaven into sin. thus the world, existence, mankind, are nothing but a phantom, an appearance, a dream-image---the poet. my dream! the daughter. a dream of truth! but in order to free themselves from the earth-matter, the offspring of brahma seek privation and suffering. there you have suffering as a liberator. but this craving for suffering comes into conflict with the craving for enjoyment, or love--do you now understand what love is, with its utmost joys merged into its utmost sufferings, with its mixture of what is most sweet and most bitter? can you now grasp what woman is? woman, through whom sin and death found their way into life? the poet. i understand!--and the end? the daughter. you know it: conflict between the pain of enjoyment and the pleasure of suffering--between the pangs of the penitent and the joys of the prodigal---the poet. a conflict it is then? the daughter. conflict between opposites produces energy, as fire and water give the power of steam---the poet. but peace? rest? the daughter. hush! you must ask no more, and i can no longer answer. the altar is already adorned for the sacrifice--the flowers are standing guard--the candles are lit--there are white sheets in the windows--spruce boughs have been spread in the gateway---the poet. and you say this as calmly as if for you suffering did not exist! the daughter. you think so?--i have suffered all your sufferings, but in a hundredfold degree, for my sensations were so much more acute---the poet. relate your sorrow! the daughter. poet, could you tell yours so that not one word went too far? could your word at any time approach your thought? the poet. no, you are right! to myself i appeared like one struck dumb, and when the mass listened admiringly to my song, i found it mere noise--for this reason, you see, i have always felt ashamed when they praised me. the daughter. and then you ask me--look me straight in the eye! the poet. i cannot bear your glance---the daughter. how could you bear my word then, were i to speak in your tongue? the poet. but tell me at least before you go: from what did you suffer most of all down here? the daughter. from--_being_: to feel my vision weakened by an eye, my hearing blunted by an ear, and my thought, my bright and buoyant thought, bound in labyrinthine coils of fat. you have seen a brain--what roundabout and sneaking paths---the poet. well, that is because all the right-minded think crookedly! the daughter. malicious, always malicious, all of you! the poet. how could one possibly be otherwise? the daughter. first of all i now shake the dust from my feet--the dirt and the clay- [_takes off her shoes and puts them into the fire_. the portress. [_puts her shawl into the fire_] perhaps i may burn my shawl at the same time? [_goes out_. the officer. [_enters_] and i my roses, of which only the thorns are left. [_goes out_. the billposter. [_enters_] my bills may go, but never the dipnet! [_goes out_. the glazier. [_enters_] the diamond that opened the door--good-bye! [_goes out_. the lawyer. [_enters_] the minutes of the great process concerning the pope's beard or the water loss in the sources of the ganges. [_goes out_. master of quarantine. [_enters_] a small contribution in shape of the black mask that made me a blackamoor against my will! [_goes out_. victoria. [_enters_] my beauty, my sorrow! [_goes out_. edith. [_enters_] my plainness, my sorrow! [_goes out_. the blind man. [_enters; puts his hand into the fire_] i give my hand for my eye. [_goes out_. don juan _in his wheel chair_; she _and_ the friend. don juan. hurry up! hurry up! life is short! [_leaves with the other two_. the poet. i have read that when the end of life draws near, everything and everybody rushes by in continuous review--is this the end? the daughter. yes, it is my end. farewell! the poet. give us a parting word. the daughter. no, i cannot. do you believe that your words can express our thoughts? dean of theology. [_enters in a rage_] i am cast off by god and persecuted by man; i am deserted by the government and scorned by my colleagues! how am i to believe when nobody else believes? how am i to defend a god that does not defend his own? bosh, that's what it is! [_throws a book on the fire and goes out_. the poet. [_snatches the book out of the fire_] do you know what it is? a martyrology, a calendar with a martyr for each day of the year. the daughter. martyr? the poet. yes, one that has been tortured and killed on account of his faith! tell me why?--do you think that all who are tortured suffer, and that all who are killed feel pain? suffering is said to be salvation, and death a liberation. christine. [_with slips of paper_] i paste, i paste until there is nothing more to paste---the poet. and if heaven should split in twain, you would try to paste it together--away! christine. are there no double windows in this castle? the poet. not one, i tell you. christine. well, then i'll go. [_goes out_. the daughter. the parting hour has come, the end draws near. and now farewell, thou dreaming child of man, thou singer, who alone knows how to live! when from thy winged flight above the earth at times thou sweepest downward to the dust, it is to touch it only, not to stay! and as i go--how, in the parting hour, as one must leave for e'er a friend, a place, the heart with longing swells for what one loves, and with regret for all wherein one failed! o, now the pangs of life in all their force i feel: i know at last the lot of man regretfully one views what once was scorned; for sins one never sinned remorse is felt; to stay one craves, but equally to leave: as if to horses tied that pull apart, one's heart is split in twain, one's feelings rent, by indecision, contrast, and discord. farewell! to all thy fellow-men make known that where i go i shall forget them not; and in thy name their grievance shall be placed before the throne. farewell! _she goes into the castle. music is heard. the background is lit up by the burning castle and reveals a wall of human faces, questioning, grieving, despairing. as the castle breaks into flames, the bud on the roof opens into a gigantic chrysanthemum flower_. _curtain_. the link a tragedy in one act 1877 characters the judge, 27 _years_ the pastor, 60 _years_ the baron, 42 _years_ the baroness, 40 _years_ alexander eklund } emmanuel wickberg } carl johan sjöberg } eric otto boman } ärenfrid söderberg } olof andersson of wik } _jurors_ carl peter andersson of berga } alex wallin } anders eric ruth } swen oscar erlin } august alexander vass } ludwig östman } the clerk of the court the sheriff the constable the lawyer alexandersson, _a farmer_ alma jonsson, _a servant girl_ the milkmaid the farm hand spectators the link _a court-room. door and windows in the background. through the windows are seen the churchyard and the bell-tower. door on the right. on the left, the desk of the judge on a platform. the front side of the desk is decorated in gold, with the judicial emblems of the sword and the scales. on both sides of the desk are placed chairs and small tables for the twelve jurors. in the centre of the room, benches for the spectators. along the sides of the room are cupboards built into the walls. on the doors of these are posted court notices and schedules of market tolls_. scene i the sheriff _and_ the constable the sheriff. did you ever see such a lot of people at the summer sessions before? the constable. not in fifteen years, or since we had the big murder at alder lake. sheriff. well, this story here is almost as good as a double parricide. that the baron and the baroness are going to separate is scandal enough, but when on top of it the families take to wrangling about properties and estates, then it's easy to see that there's going to be a hot time. the only thing wanting now is that they get to fighting over the child, too, and then king solomon himself can't tell what's right. constable. what is there behind this case anyhow? some say this and some say that, but the blame ought to rest on somebody? sheriff. i don't know about that. sometimes it is nobody's fault when two quarrel, and then again one alone is to blame for the quarrel of two. now take my old shrew, for instance, she's running around at home scolding for dear life all by herself when i am away, they tell me. besides, this is not just a quarrel, but a full-fledged criminal case, and in most such one party is complainant, or the one that has been wronged, and the other is defendant, or the one that has committed the crime. but in this case it is not easy to tell who is guilty, for both parties are at once complainants and defendants. constable. well, well, queer things do happen these days. it's as if the women had gone crazy. my old one has spells when she says that i should bear children also, if there was any justice in things--just as if the lord didn't know how he made his own creatures. and then i get long rigmaroles about her being human also, just as if i didn't know that before, or had said anything to the contrary; and of her being tired of acting as my servant girl, when, for a fact, i am not much better than her hired man. sheriff. so-o. so you have got that kind of plague in your house too. mine reads a paper she gets at the manor, and then she tells me as something wonderful, one day, that some farmer's lass has turned mason, and the next that an old woman has set upon and beaten her sick husband. i cannot quite get at what's the meaning of it all, but it looks most as if she was mad at me for being a man. constable. mighty queer, that's what it is. [_offers snuff_] fine weather we're having. the rye is standing as thick as the hairs in a fox fell, and we got over the black frosts without a hitch. sheriff. there is nothing of mine growing, and good years are bad for me: no executions and no auctions. do you know anything about the new judge who is going to hold court to-day? constable. not much, but i understand he's a youngster who has just got his appointment and is going to sit for the first time now---sheriff. and they say he is religious. hm! constable. hm-hm!--they're taking an awful time over the church services this year. sheriff. [_puts a big bible on the judge's desk and a smaller one on each one of the jurors' tables_] it cannot be long till they're done now, for they have been at it most of an hour. constable. he's a wonder at preaching, is the pastor, once he gets going. [_pause_] are the parties to put in a personal appearance? sheriff. both of them, so i guess we'll have some scrapping-[_the bell in the tower begins to ring_] there, now they're done--just give the tables a wiping, and i think we are ready to start. constable. and there's ink in all the wells? scene ii _the_ baron _and the_ baroness _enter_. baron. [_in a low voice to the_ baroness] then, before we part for a year, we are perfectly agreed on all points. first, no recriminations in court? baroness. do you think i would care to lay open the intimate details of our common life before a lot of curious peasants? baron. so much the better! and further: you keep the child during the year of separation, provided it may visit me when i so desire, and provided it is educated in accordance with the principles laid down by me and approved by you? baroness. exactly! baron. and out of the income from the estate i give you three thousand crowns during the year of separation? baroness. agreed. baron. then i have nothing more to add, but ask only to bid you good-bye. why we part is known only to you and me, and for the sake of our son no one else must know it. but for his sake i beg you also: start no fight, lest we be goaded into soiling the names of his parents. it is more than likely, anyhow, that life in its cruelty will make him suffer for our divorce. baroness. i don't care to fight as long as i may keep my child. baron. let us then concentrate our attention on the child's welfare and forget what has happened between us. and remember another thing: if we fight about the child and question each other's fitness to take care of it, the judge may take it away from both of us and put it with some of those religious people who will bring it up in hatred and contempt for its parents. baroness. that's impossible! baron. such, my dear, is the law. baroness. it is a stupid law. baron. maybe, but it holds; and for you no less than for others. baroness. it is unnatural! and i should never submit to it. baron. you don't have to, as we have decided to raise no objections against each other. we have never agreed before, but on this one point we are at one, are we not: to part without any kind of hostility? [_to the_ sheriff] could the baroness be permitted to wait in that room over there? sheriff. certainly, walk right in. _the_ baron _escorts the_ baroness _to the door on the right and leaves then himself through the door in the background_. scene iii _the_ sheriff. _the_ constable. _the_ lawyer. alma jonsson. _the_ milkmaid. _the_ farm hand. lawyer. [_to_ alma jonsson] look here, my girl: that you have stolen, i don't doubt for a moment; but as your master has no witnesses to it, you are not guilty. but as your master has called you a thief in the presence of two witnesses, he is guilty of slander. and now you are complainant and he defendant. remember this one thing: the first duty of a criminal is--to deny! alma jonsson. but please, sir, didn't you just say i was no criminal, and master was? lawyer. you are a criminal because you have committed a theft, but as you have called for a lawyer, it is my unmistakable duty to clear you and convict your master. therefore, and for the last time: deny! [_to the witnesses_] and as to the witnesses, what are they going to testify? listen: a good witness sticks to the case. now you must bear in mind that the question is not whether alma has stolen anything or not, but only whether alexandersson said that she had stolen. for, mark you, he has no right to prove his assertions, but we have. why it should be so, the devil only knows! but that's none of your business. therefore: keep your tongues straight and your fingers on the bible! milkmaid. lord, but i'm that scared, for i don't know what i'm going to say! farm hand. you say as i do, and then you won't be lying. scene iv _the_ judge _and the_ pastor _enter_. judge. permit me to thank you for the sermon, pastor. pastor. oh, don't mention it, judge. judge. yes--for, as you know, this is my first court. to tell the truth, i have felt some fear of this career, into which i have been thrown almost against my will. for one thing, the laws are so imperfect, the judicial practices so uncertain, and human nature so full of falsehood and dissimulation, that i have often wondered how a judge could dare to express any definite opinion at all. and to-day you have revived all my old fears. pastor. to be conscientious is a duty, of course, but to be sentimental about it won't do. and as everything else on this earth is imperfect, there is no reason why we should expect judges and judgments to be perfect. judge. that may be, but it does not prevent me from harbouring a sense of tremendous responsibility, as i have men's fates in my hand, and a word spoken by me may show its effects through generations. i am especially thinking of this separation suit started by the baron and his wife, and i have to ask you--you who have administered the two prescribed warnings before the vestry board--what is your view concerning their mutual relations and relative guilt? pastor. in other words, judge, you would either put me in your own place or base your decision on my testimony. and all i can do is to refer you to the minutes of the board. judge. yes, the minutes--i know them. but it is just what does not appear in the minutes that i need to know. pastor. what charges the couple made against each other at the private hearings must be my secret. and besides, how can i know who told the truth and who lied? i have to tell you what i told them: there is no reason why i should believe more in one than in the other. judge. but were you not able to form some kind of opinion in the matter during the hearings? pastor. when i heard one, i formed one opinion, and another when i was hearing the other. in a word: i have no settled view in this question. judge. but i am to express a definite view--i, who know nothing at all. pastor. that is the heavy task of the judge, which i could never undertake. judge. but there are witnesses to be heard? evidence to be obtained? pastor. no, they are not accusing each other in public. and furthermore: two false witnesses will furnish sufficient proof, and a perjurer will do just as well. do you think i would base my judgment on servant gossip, on the loose-tongued chatter of envious neighbours, or on the spiteful partisanship of relatives? judge. you are a terrible sceptic, pastor. pastor. well, one gets to be so after sixty, and particularly after having tended souls for forty years. the habit of lying clings like original sin, and i believe that all men lie. as children we lie out of fear; as grown-ups, out of interest, need, instinct for self-preservation; and i have known those who lied out of sheer kindliness. in the present case, and in so far as this married couple is concerned, i fear you will find it very hard to figure out who has told most of the truth, and all i can do is to warn you against being caught in the snares set by preconceived opinions. you were married not long ago yourself, and you are still under the spell of the young woman's witchery. for this reason you may easily become prejudiced in favor of a young and charming lady, who is an unhappy wife and a mother besides. on the other hand, you have also recently become a father, and as such you cannot escape being moved by the impending separation of the father from his child. beware of sympathy with either side, for sympathy with one is cruelty to the other. judge. one thing will make my task more easy at least, and that is their mutual agreement on the principal points. pastor. don't rely too much on that, for it is what they all say. and when they appear in court, the smouldering fire breaks into open flames. in this case a tiny spark will be enough to start a conflagration. here comes the jury. well, good-by for a while! i stay, although i shall not be seen. scene v _the_ twelve jurors _enter. the_ sheriff _rings a bell from the open doorway in the background. the members of the court take their seats_. spectators _pour into the room_. judge. with a reminder of the provisions in chapter eleven, sections five, six, and eight, of the criminal code, as to the peace and order that must be maintained in court, i hereby declare the proceedings of the court opened. [_whispers to the_ clerk of the court; _then_] will the newly chosen jury please take the oath. jurors. [_rise, each one putting the fingers of one hand on the bible in front of him; then they speak in unison except when their names are being read out_] i, alexander eklund; i, emmanuel wickberg; i, carl johan sjöberg; i, eric otto boman; i, ärenfrid söderberg; i, olof andersson of wik; i, carl peter andersson of berga; i, axel wallin; i, anders eric ruth; i, swen oscar erlin; i, august alexander vass; i, ludwig östman; [_all at once, keeping time and speaking with low voices in a low pitch_] promise and swear by god and his holy gospel, that i will and shall, according to my best reason and conscience, judge rightly in all cases, no less for the poor than for the rich, and decide in accordance with the law of god and that of this country, as well as its legal statutes: [_in a higher pitch and with raised voices_] never tamper with the law or further any wrong, for the sake of either kinship by blood, kinship by marriage, friendship, envy, ill-will, or fear; nor for the sake of bribe or gift or any other cause, under any form whatsoever: and not make him responsible who has no guilt, or set him free who is guilty. [_raising their voices still further_] neither before judgment nor afterward, neither to parties in court nor to others, am i to discover such counsel as may be taken by the court behind closed doors. all this i will and shall faithfully keep as an honest and upright judge, without fell deceit or design--[_pause_] so help god my life and soul! [_the_ jurors _sit down._ judge. [_to the_ sheriff] call the case of alma jonsson against the farmer alexandersson. scene vi _enter the_ lawyer, alexandersson, alma jonsson, _the_ milkmaid, _the_ farm hand. sheriff, [_calls out_] the servant girl alma jonsson and the farmer alexandersson. lawyer. i wish to present my power of attorney for the complainant. judge. [_examines the submitted document; then_] the servant girl alma jonsson has had writ served on her former master, alexandersson, bringing charges under chapter sixteen, section eight, of the criminal code, providing for imprisonment of not more than six months, or a fine, because alexandersson has called her a thief without supporting his accusation or making legal charges. what have you to say, alexandersson? alexandersson. i called her a thief because i caught her stealing. judge. have you witnesses to her theft? alexandersson. no, as luck would have it, there's no witnesses, for i mostly go about by myself. judge. why did you not make a charge against her? alexandersson. well, i never go to court. and then it isn't the usage among us masters to prosecute household thefts, partly because there are so many of 'em, and partly because we don't like to spoil a servant's whole future. judge. alma jonsson, what have you to say in answer to this? alma jonsson. ya-es---lawyer. you keep quiet! alma jonsson, who is not a defendant in this case, but the complainant, asks to have her witnesses heard in order that she may prove the slander uttered against her by alexandersson. judge. as alexandersson has admitted the slander, i shall ask for no witnesses. on the other hand, it is of importance for me to know whether alma jonsson be guilty of the offence mentioned, for if alexandersson had reasonable grounds for his utterance, this will be held a mitigating circumstance when sentence is passed. lawyer. i must take exception to the statement made by the court, for by chapter sixteen, section thirteen, of the criminal code, one charged with slander is denied the right to bring evidence as to the truth of his defamation. judge. parties, witnesses, and spectators will retire so that the court may consider the case. [_all go out except the members of the court_. scene vii the court. judge. is alexandersson an honest and reliable man? all the jurors. alexandersson is a reliable man. judge. is alma jonsson known as an honest servant? eric otto boman. i had to discharge alma jonsson last year for petty thievery. judge. and nevertheless i have now to fine alexandersson. there is no way out of it. is he poor? ludwig östman. he's behind with his crown taxes, and his crop failed last year. so i guess the fine will be more than he can carry. judge. and yet i can find no reason to postpone the case, as it is a clear one, and alexandersson has no right to prove anything on his side. has any one here anything to add or object? alexander eklund. i would just ask leave to make a general reflection. a case like this, where one not only innocent, but offended against, has to take the punishment, while the thief has his so-called honour restored, may easily bring about that people grow less forbearing toward their fellow-men, and that taking cases to court grows more common. judge. this is quite possible, but general reflections have no place in the proceedings, and the court has to make a decision. consequently my one question to the jury is: can alexandersson be held guilty under chapter sixteen, section thirteen, of the criminal code? all the jurors. yes. judge. [_to the_ sheriff] call in the parties and the witnesses. scene viii all _return_. judge. in the case of alma jonsson against the farmer alexandersson, alexandersson is sentenced to pay a fine of one hundred crowns for slander. alexandersson. but i saw her stealing with my own eyes!--that's what one gets for being kind! lawyer. [_to_ alma jonsson] what did i tell you! if you only deny, everything is all right. alexandersson acted like a fool and denied nothing. if i had been his counsel, and he had denied the charge, i should have challenged your witnesses, and there you would have been!--now we'll go out and settle up this business. [_goes out with_ alma jonsson _and the witnesses_. alexandersson. [_to the_ sheriff] and perhaps i have now got to give alma her papers and write down that she has been honest and faithful? sheriff. that's none of my concern! alexandersson. [_to the_ constable] and for a thing like this i am to lose house and land! who'd believe it, that justice means honour for the thief and a flogging for him that's robbed! damn it!--come and have a cup of coffee with a stick in it afterward, öman. constable. i'll come, but don't make a row. alexandersson. yes, i'll be damned if i don't, even if it should cost me three months! constable. now please don't make a row--don't make a row! scene ix _the_ baron _and the_ baroness _enter after awhile_. judge. [_to the_ sheriff] call the separation suit of baron sprengel and his wife, born malmberg. sheriff. separation suit of baron sprengel and his wife, born malmberg. _the_ baron _and the_ baroness _enter_. judge. in the proceedings entered against his wife, baron sprengel declares his intention of not continuing the marriage, and requests that, as the warnings of the vestry board have proved fruitless, order be issued for a year's separation in bed and board. what objection have you to make to this, baroness? baroness. to the separation i make no objection at all; if i can only have my child. that is my condition. judge. the law recognises no conditions in a case like this, and it is for the court to dispose of the child. baroness. why, that's very peculiar! judge. for this reason it is of utmost importance that the court learn who has caused the dissension leading to this suit. according to appended minutes of the vestry board, it appears that the wife has admitted having at times shown a quarrelsome and difficult disposition, while the husband has admitted no fault. thus, baroness, you appear to have admitted---baroness. that's a lie! judge. i find it difficult to believe that the minutes of the vestry board, countersigned by the pastor and eight other trustworthy men, can be inaccurate. baroness. the report is false! judge. such remarks cannot be made with impunity before this court. baron. may i call attention to the fact that i have voluntarily surrendered the child to the baroness on certain conditions? judge. and i have to repeat once more what i said before, namely, that the case will be decided by the court and not by the parties to it. therefore: you deny having caused any dissension, baroness? baroness. indeed, i do! and it is not the fault of one that two quarrel. judge. this is no quarrel, baroness, but a criminal case; and furthermore, you seem now to be displaying a contentious temperament as well as inconsiderate behaviour. baroness. then you don't know my husband. judge. will you please explain yourself, for i can base no decision on mere insinuations. baron. then i must ask to have the case dismissed, so that i can obtain separation in other ways. judge. the case is already before the court and will have to be carried to its conclusion--baroness, you maintain then that your husband has caused the estrangement. can this be proved? baroness. yes, it can be proved. judge. please do so then, but bear in mind that it is a question of depriving the baron of his parental rights and also of his rights to the property. baroness. he has forfeited it many times over, and not the least when he denied me sleep and food. baron. i feel compelled to state that i have never refused to let the baroness sleep. i have merely asked her not to sleep in the afternoon, because thereby the house was neglected and the child left without proper care. as to food, i have always left such matters to my wife, and i have only objected to some extravagant entertainments, as the neglected household could not bear such expenses. baroness. and he has let me lie sick without calling in a physician. baron. the baroness would always be taken sick when she could not have her own way, but that kind of ailment did not last long as a rule. after i had brought a specialist from the city, and he had declared it to be nothing but tricks, i did not judge it necessary to call a physician the next time the baroness was taken sick--because the new pier-glass cost fifty crowns less than originally intended. judge. all this is not of such nature that it can be considered when such a serious case has to be decided. there must be some deeper motives. baroness. it ought to be counted a motive that the father will not permit the mother to bring up her own child. baron. first of all, the baroness left the care of the child to a maid, and whenever she tried to assist, things went wrong. secondly, she tried to bring up the boy as a woman, and not as a man. for instance, she dressed him as a girl until he was four years old; and to this very day, when he is eight years old, he carries his hair long as a girl, is forced to sew and crochet, and plays with dolls; all of which i regard as injurious to the child's normal development into a man. on the other hand, she has amused herself by dressing up the daughters of our tenants as boys, cutting their hair short, and putting them to work on things generally handled by boys. in a word, i took charge of my son's education because i noticed symptoms of mental derangement which before this have led to offences against the eighteenth chapter of the criminal code. judge. and yet you are now willing to leave the child in the hands of the mother? baron. yes, for i have never been able to contemplate such a cruelty as to separate mother and child--and also because the mother has promised to mend her ways. and for that matter, i had only promised conditionally, and with the understanding that the law was not to be invoked in the matter. but since we have not been able to keep away from recriminations, i have changed my mind--especially as, from being the complainant, i have been turned into a defendant. baroness. that's the way this man always keeps his promises. baron. my promises, like those of other people, have always been conditional, and i have kept them as long as the conditions were observed. baroness. in the same way he had promised me personal freedom within the marriage. baron. naturally with the provision that the laws of decency were kept inviolate; but when all bounds were exceeded, and when ideas of license appeared under the name of freedom, then i regarded my promise as annulled. baroness. and for this reason he tormented me with the most absurd jealousy, and that is generally enough to make a common life unbearable. he even made himself ridiculous to the extent of being jealous of the doctor. baron. this alleged jealousy may be reduced to an advice on my part against the employment of a notorious and tattling masseur for an ailment commonly treated by women--unless the baroness is having in mind the occasion when i showed our steward the door for smoking in my drawing-room and offering cigars to my wife. baroness. as we have not been able to keep away from scandal-mongering, it is just as well that the whole truth should get out: the baron has been guilty of adultery. is not this enough to make him unworthy of bringing up my child alone? judge. can you prove this, baroness? baroness. yes, i can, and here are letters that show. judge. [_receiving the letters_] how long ago did this happen? baroness. a year ago. judge. of course, the time limit for prosecution has already expired, but the fact itself weighs heavily against the husband and may cause him to lose the child entirely as well as a part of the marriage portion. do you admit the truth of this charge, baron? baron. yes, with remorse and mortification; but there were circumstances which ought to be held extenuating. i was forced into humiliating celibacy by the calculated coldness of the baroness, although i, and in all courtesy, asked as a favour, what the law allowed me to demand as a right. i tired of buying her love, she having prostituted our marriage by selling her favours first for power and later for presents and money; and in the end i found myself compelled, with the express consent of the baroness, to take up an irregular relationship. judge. had you given your consent, baroness? baroness. no, that is not true! i demand proofs! baron. it is true, but i cannot prove it, since the only witness, my wife, denies it. judge. what is unproved need not be untrue, but a com-pact of this kind, trespassing upon prevailing laws, must be held a _pactum turpe_ and invalid in itself. baron, so far everything is against you. baroness. and as the baron has confessed his guilt with remorse and shame, i, who have now become complainant instead of defendant, ask that the court proceed to render a decision, as further details are not needed. judge. in my capacity as presiding officer of this court, i wish to hear what the baron has to say in justification, or at least in palliation. baron. i have just admitted the charge of adultery and have advanced as extenuating circumstances, partly that it was the result of pressing need when, after ten years of married life, i suddenly found myself unmarried, and partly that it was done with the consent of the baroness herself. as i have now come to believe that all this was a trap set to make a case against me, it is my duty, for the sake of my son, to hold back no further---baroness. [_exclaims instinctively_] axel! baron. what caused me to break my marital vows was the faithlessness of the baroness. judge. baron, can you prove that the baroness has been faithless to you? baron. no! for i was concerned about the honour of the family, and i destroyed all proofs that i obtained. but i still venture to believe that, in this matter, the baroness will stand by the confession she once made to me. judge. baroness, do you admit this offence as preceding and, therefore, probably causing the lapse of the baron? baroness. no! judge. are you willing to repeat under oath that you are innocent of this charge? baroness. yes! baron. good heavens! no, she must not do that! no perjury for my sake! judge. i ask once more: is the baroness willing to take the oath? baroness. yes. baron. permit me to suggest that the baroness just now appears as complainant, and a complaint is not made under oath. judge. as you have charged her with a criminal offence, she is defendant. what does the jury hold? emmanuel wickberg. as the baroness is a party to this suit, it seems to me that she can hardly be allowed to testify in her own behalf. swen oscar erlin. it seems to me that if the baroness is to testify under oath, then the baron should also be allowed to do so in the same matter, but as oath may not be put against oath, the whole matter remains in the dark. august alexander vass. i should say that it is not a question of testifying under oath here, but of taking an oath on one's own innocence. anders eric ruth. well, isn't that the question which has to be settled first of all? axel wallin. but not in the presence of the parties, as the deliberations of the court are not public. carl johan sjöberg. the right of the jury to express itself is not limited or conditioned by secrecy. judge. out of so many meanings i can get no guidance. but as the guilt of the baron can be proved, and that of the baroness still remains unproved, i must demand that the baroness take oath on her innocence. baroness. i am ready! judge. no, wait a moment!--baron, if you were granted time, would you be able to produce evidence or witnesses in support of your charge? baron. this i neither can nor will do, as i am not anxious to see my dishonour made public. judge. the proceedings of the court will be adjourned while i consult with the chairman of the vestry board. [_steps down and goes out to the right_. scene x _the_ jurors _confer in low tones among themselves_. _the_ baron _and the_ baroness _in the background_. _the_ spectators _form groups and talk_. baron. [_to the_ baroness] you do not shrink from perjuring yourself? baroness. i shrink from nothing when my child is concerned. baron. but if i have proofs? baroness. well, you have not. baron. the letters were burned, but certified copies of them are still in existence. baroness. you lie to frighten me! baron. to show you how deeply i love my child, and to save the mother at least, as i seem to be lost, you--may have the proofs. but don't be ungrateful. [_hands her a bundle of letters_. baroness. that you are a liar, i knew before, but that you were scoundrel enough to have the letters copied, that i could never have believed. baron. that is your thanks! but now both of us are lost. baroness. yes, let both go down--then there will be an end to the fight---baron. is it better for the child to lose both its parents and be left alone in the world? baroness. that will never occur! baron. your absurd conceit, which makes you think yourself above all laws and above other human beings, has lured you into starting this fight, in which there can be only one loser: our son! what were you thinking of when you began this attack, which could not fail to provoke a defence? not of the child, i am sure. but of revenge, i suppose? revenge for what? for my discovery of your guilt? baroness. the child? were you thinking of the child when you dragged me in the mire before this rabble? baron. helen!--like wild beasts we have clawed each other bloody. we have laid our disgrace open to all these who take pleasure in our ruin, for in this room we have not a single friend. our child will after this never be able to speak of his parents as respectable people; he will not be able to start life with a recommendation from father and mother; he will see the home shunned, the old parents isolated and despised, and so the time must come when he will flee us! baroness. what do you want then? baron. let us leave the country after selling the property. baroness. and begin the same squabble all over again! i know what will happen: for a week you will be tame, and then you will abuse me. baron. just think--now they are settling our fate in there. you cannot hope for a good word from the pastor, whom you have just called a liar; and i, who am known to be no christian, can expect no mercy either. oh, i wish i were in the woods, so that i could crawl in under some big roots or put my head under a rock--this is more shame than i can bear! baroness. it is true that the minister hates both of us, and it may happen as you say. why don't you speak to him? baron. of what? making up? baroness. of anything you please, if it only be not too late! oh, if it should be too late!--what can that man alexandersson want that makes him prowl about us two all the time? i am afraid of that man! baron. alexandersson is a nice fellow. baroness. yes, he is nice to you, but not to me--i have observed those glances before--go and see the pastor now; but take my hand first--i am scared! baron. of what, dear, of what? baroness. i don't know--everything, everybody! baron. but not of me? baroness. no, not now! it is as if our clothes had been caught in the mill wheels, and we had been dragged into the machinery. what have we been doing? what have we been doing in our anger? how they will enjoy themselves, all these who are now seeing the baron and the baroness stripped naked and flogging each other--oh, i feel as if i were standing here without a rag to cover me. [_she buttons her coat_. baron. calm yourself, my dear. it is not exactly the proper place to tell you what i have said before: that there is only one friend and one home--but we might start over again!--well, heaven knows! no, we cannot do it. you have gone too far. it is all over. and this last--yes, let it be the last! and it had to come after all the rest. no, we are enemies for life! and if i let you go away with the child now, then you might marry again--i see that now. and my child might have a step-father; and i should have to watch another man going about with my wife and child--or i might myself be going about with somebody else's wench hanging on my arm. no! either you or i! one of us must be struck down! you or i! baroness. you! for if i let you take the child, you might marry again, and i might have to see another woman taking my place with my own child. the mere thought of it could make me a murderess! a step-mother for _my_ child! baron. you might have thought of it before! but when you saw me champing at the chain of love that bound me to you, then you believed me incapable of loving anybody but yourself. baroness. do you think i ever loved you? baron. yes, once at least. when i had been faithless to you. then your love grew sublime. and your pretended scorn made you irresistible. but my error caused you to respect me, too. whether it was the male or the criminal you admired most, i don't know, but i believe it was both--it must have been both, for you are the most typical woman i have ever met. and now you are already jealous of a new wife whom i have never thought of. what a pity that you became my mate! as my mistress, your victory would have been unchallenged, and your infidelities would only have seemed the bouquet of my new wine. baroness. yes, your love was always material. baron. material as everything spiritual, and spiritual as all that is material! my weakness for you, which gave strength to my feeling, made you believe yourself the stronger, when you were simply coarser, more ill-natured, and more unscrupulous than i. baroness. you the stronger? you, who never want the same thing two minutes in a stretch! you, who as a rule never know what you want! baron. yes, i know perfectly well what i want, but there is room in me for both love and hatred, and while i love you one minute, i hate you the next. and just now i hate you! baroness. are you now thinking of the child also? baron. yes, now and always! and do you know why? because he is our love that has taken flesh. he is the memory of our beautiful hours, the link that unites our souls, the common ground where we must ever meet without wishing to do so. and that is why we shall never be able to part, even if our separation be declared--oh, if i could only hate you as i want to! scene xi _the_ judge _and the_ pastor _enter in conversation and remain in the foreground_. judge. thus i recognize the utter hopelessness of seeking justice or discovering truth. and it seems to me as if the laws were a couple of centuries behind our ideas of right. did i not have to punish alexandersson, who was innocent, and exonerate the girl, who was guilty of theft? and as for this separation suit, i know nothing at all about it at this minute, and i cannot take upon my conscience to render a decision. pastor. but a decision has to be rendered. judge. not by me! i shall give up my place and choose another profession. pastor. why, such a scandal would only bring you notoriety and close every career to you. keep on judging a few years, and you will come to think it quite easy to crush human fates like egg shells. and for that matter, if you want to stand clear of this case, let yourself be outvoted by the jury. then they must take the responsibility on themselves. judge. that is a way--and i suspect that they will be practically at one against me, for i have formed an opinion in this matter, which, however, is wholly intuitive and, therefore, not to be trusted--i thank you for your advice. sheriff. [_who has been talking with_ alexandersson, _steps up to the_ judge] in my capacity of public prosecutor, i have to report the farmer alexandersson as a witness against baroness sprengel. judge. in relation to the adultery charge? sheriff. yes. judge. [_to the_ pastor] here is a new clue that may lead to a solution. pastor. oh, there are lots of clues, if you can only get hold of them. judge. but nevertheless it is horrible to see two persons who have loved trying to ruin each other. it is like being in a slaughter-house! pastor. well, that is love, judge! judge. what then is hatred? pastor. it is the lining of the coat. [_the_ judge _goes over and speaks to the_ jurors. baroness. [_comes forward to the_ pastor] help us, pastor! help us! pastor. i cannot, and as a clergyman, i must not. and furthermore, did i not warn you not to play with such serious matters? you thought it so simple to part! well, part then! the law will not prevent you, so don't put the blame on it. scene xii all _as before_. judge. the court will now resume its proceedings. according to the report of the public prosecutor, sheriff wiberg, a new witness has appeared against the baroness and is ready to affirm her guilt under the charge of adultery. farmer alexandersson! alexandersson. i am here. judge. how can you prove your assertion? alexandersson. i saw the offence committed. baroness. he is lying! let him bring proof! alexandersson. proof? i'm a witness now, ain't i? baroness. your assertion is no proof, although you happen to be called a witness for the moment. alexandersson. maybe the witness has to have two more witnesses, and those still others? baroness. yes, it might be needed when one cannot tell whether the whole lot are lying or not. baron. the testimony of alexandersson will not be required. i beg leave to offer the court all the correspondence by which the marital infidelity of the baroness stands completely proved--here are the originals; copies of them will be found in the possession of defendant. [_the_ baroness _utters a cry but controls herself quickly_. judge. and yet, baroness, you were willing to take the oath a little while ago? baroness. but i didn't take it! and now i think the baron and i may cry quits. judge. we do not let one crime cancel another. the account of each one has to be settled separately. baroness. then i want to file a claim at once against the baron for my dowry which he has squandered. judge. if you have squandered your wife's dowry, baron, it might be well to settle that matter right here. baron. the baroness brought with her six thousand crowns in stock that was then unsalable and soon became wholly worthless. as at the time of our marriage she held a position as a telegrapher and declared herself unwilling to take support from her husband, we made a marriage contract and agreed that each one should be self-supporting. but she lost her position after the marriage, and i have been supporting her ever since. to this i had no objection whatever, but as she is now putting in bills, i shall ask leave to present one of my own to meet hers. it totals up to thirty-five thousand crowns, this being one-third of the household expenses since the beginning of our marriage, and i being willing to take two-thirds upon myself. judge. have you this agreement in black and white, baron? baron. i have not. judge. have you any documents to prove the disposition of your dowry, baroness? baroness. i didn't think at the time it would be necessary to get anything in writing, as i supposed myself to be dealing with honourable people. judge. then this whole question cannot come under consideration here. the jury will please step into the small court-room for discussion of the case and formulation of a decision. scene xiii _the_ jury _and the_ judge _go out to the right_. alexandersson. [_to the_ sheriff] this here justice is more than i can get any sense out of. sheriff. i think it would be wiser for you to go right home now, or you might have the same experience as the farmer from mariestad. did you ever hear of it? alexandersson. no. sheriff. well, he went to court as spectator, was dragged into the case as witness, became a party to it, and ended up with a flogging at the whipping-post. alexandersson. oh, hell! but i believe it of 'em! i believe anything of 'em! [_goes out_. _the_ baron _joins the_ baroness _in the foreground_. baroness. you find it hard to keep away from me. baron. now i have struck you down, and i am bleeding to death myself, for your blood is mine---baroness. and how clever you are at making out bills! baron. only when it comes to counter-claims! your courage is that of despair, or that of a person sentenced to death. and when you leave here, you will collapse. then you will no longer be able to load your sorrow and guilt on me, and you will be suffering from remorse. do you know why i have not killed you? baroness. because you did not dare! baron. no! not even the thought of hell could have held me back--for i don't believe in it. but this was the thought that did it: even if you get the child, you will be gone in five years. that is what the doctor tells me. and then the child might be left without either father or mother. think of it--all alone in the world! baroness. five years!--it is a lie! baron. in five years! and then i am left behind with the child whether you want it or not. baroness. oh no! for then my family will bring suit to get the child away from you. i don't die when i die! baron. evil never dies! that is so! but can you explain why you grudge me the child, and grudge the child me, whom it needs? is it sheer malice--a craving for revenge that punishes the child? [_the_ baroness _remains silent_] do you know, i remarked to the pastor that i thought possibly you might have some doubts concerning the child's parentage, and that this might be a reason why you would not let me have the child, lest my happiness be built on a false foundation. and he replied: no, i don't think her capable of it--not of such a fine motive--i don't think you know yourself what makes you so fanatical about this one thing: it is the yearning for continued existence that goads you into maintaining your hold. our son has your body, but my soul, and that soul you cannot rid him of. in him you will have me back when you least expect it; in him you will find my thoughts, my tastes, my passions, and for this reason you will hate him one day, as you hate me now. that is what i fear! baroness. you seem still a little afraid that he may become mine? baron. in your quality of mother and woman, you have a certain advantage over me with our judges, and although justice may throw dice blindfolded, there is always a little lead on one side of each die. baroness. you know how to pay compliments even in the moment of separation. perhaps you don't hate me as much as you pretend? baron. frankly speaking, i think that i hate not so much you as my dishonour, though you, too, come in for a share. and why this hatred? perhaps i have overlooked that you are near the forties, and that a masculine element is making its appearance in you. perhaps it is this element that i notice in your kisses, in your embraces--perhaps that is what i find so repulsive? baroness. perhaps. for the sorrow of my life has been, as you well know, that i was not born a man. baron. perhaps that became the sorrow of my life! and now you try to avenge yourself on nature for having played with you, and so you want to bring up your son as a woman. will you promise me one thing? baroness. will you promise me one thing? baron. what is the use of promising? baroness. no, let us give no more promises. baron. will you answer a question truthfully? baroness. if i told the truth, you would think i lied. baron. yes, so i should! baroness. can you see now that all is over, for ever? baron. for ever! it was for ever that we once swore to love each other. baroness. it is too bad that such oaths must be taken! baron. why so? it is always a bond, such as it is. baroness. i never could bear with bonds! baron. do you think it would have been better for us not to bind ourselves? baroness. better for me, yes. baron. i wonder. for then you could not have bound me. baroness. nor you me. baron. and so the result would have been the same--as when you reduce fractions. consequently: not the law's fault; not our own; not anybody else's. and yet we have to assume the responsibility! [_the_ sheriff _approaches_] so! now the verdict has been pronounced--good-bye, helen! baroness. good-bye--axel! baron. it is hard to part! and impossible to live together. but the fight is over at least! baroness. if it were! i fear it is just about to begin. sheriff. the parties will retire while the court takes action. baroness. axel, a word before it is too late! after all, they might take the child away from both of us. drive home and take the boy to your mother, and then we will flee from here, far away! baron. i think you are trying to fool me again. baroness. no, i am not. i am no longer thinking of you, or of myself, or of my revenge. save the child only! listen, axel--you must do it! baron. i will. but if you are deceiving me--never mind: i'll do it! _goes out quickly. the_ baroness _leaves through the door in the background_. scene xiv _the_ jury _and the_ judge _enter and resume their seats_. judge. as we now have the case complete before us, i shall ask each juror separately to state his opinion before decision is rendered. personally, i can only hold it reasonable that the child be given to the mother, as both parties are equally to blame for the estrangement, and as the mother must be held better adapted to the care of the child than the father. [_silence_. alexander eklund. according to prevailing law, it is the wife who takes her rank and condition from the husband, not the husband from the wife. emmanuel wickberg. and the husband is the proper guardian of his wife. carl johan sjöberg. the ritual, which gives binding force to the marriage, says that the wife should obey her husband, and so it is clear to me that the man takes precedence of the woman. eric otto boman. and the children are to be brought up in the faith of the father. ärenfrid söderberg. from which may be concluded that children follow the father and not the mother. olof andersson of wik. but as in the case before us both man and wife are equally guilty, and, judging by what has come to light, equally unfit to rear a child, i hold that the child should be taken away from both. carl peter andersson of berga. in concurring with olof andersson, i may call to mind that in such cases the court names two good men as guardians to take charge of children and property, so that out of the latter man and wife may have their support together with the child. axel wallin. and for guardians i wish in this case to propose alexander eklund and ärenfrid söderberg, both of whom are well known to be of honest character and christian disposition. anders eric ruth. i concur with olof andersson of wik as to the separation of the child from both father and mother, and with axel wallin as to the guardians, whose christian disposition makes them particularly fitted to bring up the child. swen oscar erling. i concur in what has just been said. august alexander vass. i concur. ludwig östman. i concur. judge. as the opinion expressed by a majority of the jurors is contrary to my own, i must ask the jury to take a vote on the matter. and i think it proper first to put the motion made by olof andersson for the separation of the child from both father and mother, and for the appointment of guardians. is it the unanimous will of the jury that such action be taken? all the jurors. yes. judge. if anybody objects to the motion, he will hold up his hand. [_silence_] the opinion of the jury has won out against my own, and i shall enter an exception on the minutes against what seems to me the needless cruelty of the decision--the couple will then be sentenced to a year's separation of bed and board, at the risk of imprisonment if, during that period, they should seek each other. [_to the_ sheriff] call in the parties. scene xv _the_ baroness _and_ spectators _enter_. judge. is baron sprengel not present? baroness. the baron will be here in a moment. judge. whoever does not observe the time, has only himself to blame. this is the decision of the county court: that husband and wife be sentenced to a year's separation of bed and board, and that the child be taken from the parents and placed in charge of two guardians for education. for this purpose the court has selected and appointed the jurors alexander eklund and ärenfrid söderberg. _the_ baroness _cries out and sinks to the floor. the_ sheriff _and the_ constable _raise her up and place her on a chair. some of the_ spectators _leave in the meantime_. baron. [_enters_] your honor! i heard the sentence of the court from the outside, and i wish to enter a challenge, first against the jury as a whole, it being made up of my personal enemies, and secondly against the guardians, alexander eklund and ärenfrid söderberg, neither of whom possesses the financial status demanded of guardians. furthermore, i shall enter proceedings against the judge for incompetence displayed in the exercise of his office, in so far as he has failed to recognise that the primary guilt of one led to the subsequent guilt of the other, so that both cannot be held equally responsible. judge. whosoever be not satisfied with the decision rendered may appeal to the higher court within the term set by law. will the jury please accompany me on house visitation to the rectory in connection with the suit pending against the communal assessors? _the_ judge _and the_ jury _go out through the door in the background_. scene xvi _the_ baron _and the_ baroness. _the_ spectators _withdraw gradually_. baroness. where is emil? baron. he was gone! baroness. that's a lie! baron. [_after a pause_] yes--i did not bring him to my mother, whom i cannot trust, but to the rectory. baroness. to the minister! baron. your one reliable enemy! yes. who was there else that i might trust? and i did it because a while ago i caught a glance in your eye which made me think that you possibly might kill yourself and the child. baroness. you saw that!--oh, why did i let myself be fooled into believing you. baron. well, what do you say of all this? baroness. i don't know. but i am so tired that i no longer feel the blows. it seems almost a relief to have received the final stab. baron. you give no thought to what is now going to happen: how your son is going to be brought up by two peasants, whose ignorance and rude habits will kill the child by slow torture; how he is going to be forced down into their narrow sphere; how his intelligence is going to be smothered by religious superstition; how he is going to be taught contempt for his father and mother---baroness. hush! don't say another word, or i shall lose my reason! my emil in the hands of peasant women, who don't know enough to wash themselves, who have their beds full of vermin, and who cannot even keep a comb clean! my emil! no, it is impossible! baron. it is the actual reality, and you have nobody but yourself to blame for it. baroness. myself? but did i make myself? did i put evil tendencies, hatred, and wild passions into myself? no! and who was it that denied me the power and will to combat all those things?--when i look at myself this moment, i feel that i am to be pitied. am i not? baron. yes, you are! both of us are to be pitied. we tried to avoid the rocks that beset marriage by living unmarried as husband and wife; but nevertheless we quarrelled, and we were sacrificing one of life's greatest joys, the respect of our fellow-men--and so we were married. but we must needs steal a march on the social body and its laws. we wanted no religious ceremony, but instead we wriggled into a civil marriage. we did not want to depend on each other--we were to have no common pocket-book and to insist on no personal ownership of each other--and with that we fell right back into the old rut again. without wedding ceremony, but with a marriage contract! and then it went to pieces. i forgave your faithlessness, and for the child's sake we lived together in voluntary separation--and freedom! but i grew tired of introducing my friend's mistress as my wife--and so we had to get a divorce. can you guess--do you know against whom we have been fighting? you call him god, but i call him nature. and that was the master who egged us on to hate each other, just as he is egging people on to love each other. and now we are condemned to keep on tearing each other as long as a spark of life remains. new proceedings in the higher court, reopening of the case, report by the vestry board, opinion from the diocesan chapter, decision by the supreme court. then comes my complaint to the attorney-general, my application for a guardian, your objections and counter-suits: from pillory to post! without hope of a merciful executioner! neglect of the property, financial ruin, scamped education for the child! and why do we not put an end to these two miserable lives? because the child stays our hands! you cry, but i cannot! not even when my thought runs ahead to the night that is waiting for me in a home laid waste! and you, poor helen, who must go back to your mother! that mother whom you once left with such eagerness in order to get a home of your own. to become her daughter once more--and perhaps find it worse than being a wife! one year! two years! many years! how many more do you think we can bear to suffer? baroness. i shall never go back to my mother. never! i shall go out on the high-roads and into the woods so that i may find a hiding-place where i can scream--scream myself tired against god, who has put this infernal love into the world as a torment for us human creatures--and when night comes, i shall seek shelter in the pastor's barn, so that i may sleep near my child. baron. you hope to sleep to-night--you? _curtain_. the dance of death 1901 part i characters edgar, _captain in the coast artillery_ alice, _his wife_, _a former actress_ curt, _master of quarantine_ jenny } the old woman } _subordinate characters_ the sentry } the dance of death part i _the scene is laid inside of a round fort built of granite_. _in the background, a gateway, closed by huge, swinging double doors; in these, small square window panes, through which may be seen a sea shore with batteries and the sea beyond_. _on either side of the gateway, a window with flower pots and bird cages_. _to the right of the gateway, an upright piano; further down the stage, a sewing-table and two easy-chairs_. _on the left, half-way down the stage, a writing-table with a telegraph instrument on it; further down, a what-not full of framed photographs. beside it, a couch that can be used to sleep on. against the wall, a buffet_. _a lamp suspended from the ceiling. on the wall near the piano hang two large laurel wreaths with ribbons. between them, the picture of a woman in stage dress_. _beside the door, a hat-stand on which hang accoutrements, sabres, and so forth. near it, a chiffonier_. _to the left of the gateway hangs a mercurial barometer_. _it is a mild fall evening. the doors stand open, and a sentry is seen pacing back and forth on the shore battery. he wears a helmet with a forward pointed brush for a crest. now and then his drawn sabre catches the red glare of the setting sun. the sea lies dark and quiet_. _the_ captain _sits in the easy-chair to the left of the sewing-table, fumbling an extinguished cigar. he has on a much-worn undress uniform and riding-boots with spurs. looks tired and bored_. alice _sits in the easy-chair on the right, doing nothing at all. looks tired and expectant_. captain. won't you play something for me? alice. [_indifferently, but not snappishly_] what am i to play? captain. whatever suits you. alice. you don't like my repertory. captain. nor you mine. alice. [_evasively_] do you want the doors to stay open? captain. if you wish it. alice. let them be, then. [_pause_] why don't you smoke? captain. strong tobacco is beginning not to agree with me. alice. [_in an almost friendly tone_] get weaker tobacco then. it is your only pleasure, as you call it. captain. pleasure--what is that? alice. don't ask me. i know it as little as you--don't you want your whiskey yet? captain. i'll wait a little. what have you for supper? alice. how do i know? ask christine. captain. the mackerel ought to be in season soon--now the fall is here. alice. yes, it is fall! captain. within and without. but leaving aside the cold that comes with the fall, both within and without, a little broiled mackerel, with a slice of lemon and a glass of white burgundy, wouldn't be so very bad. alice. now you grow eloquent. captain. have we any burgundy left in the wine-cellar? alice. so far as i know, we have had no wine-cellar these last five years---captain. you never know anything. however, we _must_ stock up for our silver wedding. alice. do you actually mean to celebrate it? captain. of course! alice. it would be more seemly to hide our misery--our twenty-five years of misery---captain. my dear alice, it has been a misery, but we have also had some fun--now and then. one has to avail one-self of what little time there is, for afterward it is all over. alice. is it over? would that it were! captain. it is over! nothing left but what can be put on a wheel-barrow and spread on the garden beds. alice. and so much trouble for the sake of the garden beds! captain. well, that's the way of it. and it is not of my making. alice. so much trouble! [_pause_] did the mail come? captain. yes. alice. did the butcher send his bill? captain. yes. alice. how large is it? captain. [_takes a paper from his pocket and puts on his spectacles, but takes them off again at once_] look at it yourself. i cannot see any longer. alice. what is wrong with your eyes? captain. don't know. alice. growing old? captain. nonsense! i? alice. well, not i! captain. hm! alice. [_looking at the bill_] can you pay it? captain. yes, but not this moment. alice. some other time, of course! in a year, when you have been retired with a small pension, and it is too late! and then, when your trouble returns---captain. trouble? i never had any trouble--only a slight indisposition once. and i can live another twenty years. alice. the doctor thought otherwise. captain. the doctor! alice. yes, who else could express any valid opinion about sickness? captain. i have no sickness, and never had. i am not going to have it either, for i shall die all of a sudden--like an old soldier. alice. speaking of the doctor--you know they are having a party to-night? captain. [_agitated_] yes, what of it? we are not invited because we don't associate with those people, and we don't associate with them because we don't want to--because we despise both of them. rabble--that's what they are! alice. you say that of everybody. captain. because everybody is rabble. alice. except yourself. captain. yes, because i have behaved decently under all conditions of life. that's why i don't belong to the rabble. [_pause_. alice. do you want to play cards? captain. all right. alice. [_takes a pack of cards from the drawer in the sewing-table and begins to shuffle them_] just think, the doctor is permitted to use the band for a private entertainment! captain. [_angrily_] that's because he goes to the city and truckles to the colonel. truckle, you know--if one could only do that! alice. [_deals_] i used to be friendly with gerda, but she played me false---captain. they are all false! what did you turn up for trumps? alice. put on your spectacles. captain. they are no help--well, well! alice. spades are trumps. captain. [_disappointed_] spades----? alice. [_leads_] well, be that as it may, our case is settled in advance with the wives of the new officers. captain. [_taking the trick_] what does it matter? we never give any parties anyhow, so nobody is the wiser. i can live by myself--as i have always done. alice. i, too. but the children? the children have to grow up without any companionship. captain. let them find it for themselves in the city--i take that! got any trumps left? alice. one--that's mine! captain. six and eight make fifteen---alice. fourteen--fourteen! captain. six and eight make fourteen. i think i am also forgetting how to count. and two makes sixteen--[_yawns_] it is your deal. alice. you are tired? captain. [_dealing_] not at all. alice. [_listening in direction of the open doors_] one can hear the music all this way. [_pause_] do you think curt is invited also? captain. he arrived this morning, so i guess he has had time to get out his evening clothes, though he has not had time to call on us. alice. master of quarantine--is there to be a quarantine station here? captain. yes. alice. he is my own cousin after all, and once i bore the same name as he---captain. in which there was no particular honour---alice. see here! [_sharply_] you leave my family alone, and i'll leave yours! captain. all right, all right--don't let us begin again! alice. must the master of quarantine be a physician? captain. oh, no, he's merely a sort of superintendent or book-keeper--and curt never became anything in particular. alice. he was not much good---captain. and he has cost us a lot of money. and when he left wife and children, he became disgraced. alice. not quite so severe, edgar! captain. that's what happened! what has he been doing in america since then? well, i cannot say that i am longing for him--but he was a nice chap, and i liked to argue with him. alice. because he was so tractable---captain. [_haughtily_] tractable or not, he was at least a man one could talk to. here, on this island, there is not _one_ person who understands what i say--it's a community of idiots! alice. it is rather strange that curt should arrive just in time for our silver wedding--whether we celebrate it or not---captain. why is that strange? oh, i see! it was he who brought us together, or got you married, as they put it. alice. well, didn't he? captain. certainly! it was a kind of fixed idea with him--i leave it for you to say what kind. alice. a wanton fancy---captain. for which we have had to pay, and not he! alice. yes, think only if i had remained on the stage! all my friends are stars now. captain. [_rising_] well, well, well! now i am going to have a drink. [_goes over to the buffet and mixes a drink, which he takes standing up_] there should be a rail here to put the foot on, so that one might dream of being at copenhagen, in the american bar. alice. let us put a rail there, if it will only remind us of copenhagen. for there we spent our best moments. captain. [_drinks quickly_] yes, do you remember that "navarin aux pommes"? alice. no, but i remember the concerts at the tivoli. captain. yes, your tastes are so--exalted! alice. it ought to please you to have a wife whose taste is good. captain. so it does. alice. sometimes, when you need something to brag of---captain. [_drinking_] i guess they must be dancing at the doctor's--i catch the three-four time of the tuba: boom-boom-boom! alice. i can hear the entire melody of the alcazar waltz. well, it was not yesterday i danced a waltz---captain. you think you could still manage? alice. still? captain. ye-es. i guess you are done with dancing, you like me! alice. i am ten years younger than you. captain. then we are of the same age, as the lady should be ten years younger. alice. be ashamed of yourself! you are an old man--and i am still in my best years. captain. oh, i know, you can be quite charming--to others, when you make up your mind to it. alice. can we light the lamp now? captain. certainly. alice. will you ring, please. _the_ captain _goes languidly to the writing-table and rings a bell_. jenny _enters from the right_. captain. will you be kind enough to light the lamp, jenny? alice. [_sharply_] i want you to light the hanging lamp. jenny. yes, ma'am. [_lights the lamp while the_ captain _watches her_. alice. [_stiffly_] did you wipe the chimney? jenny. sure. alice. what kind of an answer is that? captain. now--now---alice. [_to_ jenny] leave us. i will light the lamp myself. that will be better. jenny: i think so too. [_starts for the door_. alice. [_rising_] go! jenny. [_stops_] i wonder, ma'am, what you'd say if i did go? alice _remains silent_. jenny _goes out_. _the_ captain _comes forward and lights the lamp_. alice. [_with concern_] do you think she will go? captain. shouldn't wonder. and then we are in for it---alice. it's your fault! you spoil them. captain. not at all. can't you see that they are always polite to me? alice. because you cringe to them. and you always cringe to inferiors, for that matter, because, like all despots, you have the nature of a slave. captain. there--there! alice. yes, you cringe before your men, and before your sergeants, but you cannot get on with your equals or your superiors. captain. ugh! alice. that's the way of all tyrants--do you think she will go? captain. yes, if you don't go out and say something nice to her. alice. i? captain. yes, for if i should do it, you would say that i was flirting with the maids. alice. mercy, if she should leave! then i shall have to do the work, as i did the last time, and my hands will be spoiled. captain. that is not the worst of it. but if jenny leaves, christine will also leave, and then we shall never get a servant to the island again. the mate on the steamer scares away every one that comes to look for a place--and if he should miss his chance, then my corporals attend to it. alice. yes, your corporals, whom i have to feed in my kitchen, and whom you dare not show the door---captain. no, for then they would also go when their terms were up--and we might have to close up the whole gun shop! alice. it will be our ruin. captain. that's why the officers have proposed to petition his royal majesty for special expense money. alice. for whom? captain. for the corporals. alice. [_laughing_] you are crazy! captain. yes, laugh a little for me. i need it. alice. i shall soon have forgotten how to laugh---captain. [_lighting his cigar_] that is something one should never forget--it is tedious enough anyhow! alice. well, it is not very amusing--do you want to play any more? captain. no, it tires me. alice. do you know, it irritates me nevertheless that my cousin, the new master of quarantine, makes his first visit to our enemies. captain. well, what's the use of talking about it? alice. but did you see in the paper that he was put down as _rentier_? he must have come into some money then. captain. _rentier_! well, well--a rich relative. that's really the first one in this family. alice. in your family, yes. but among my people many have been rich. captain. if he has money, he's conceited, i suppose, but i'll hold him in check--and he won't get a chance to look at my cards. _the telegraph receiver begins to click_. alice. who is it? captain. [_standing still_] keep quiet, please. alice. well, are you not going to look---captain. i can hear--i can hear what they are saying--it's the children. _goes over to the instrument and sends an answer; the receiver continues to click for awhile, and then the_ captain _answers again_. alice. well? captain. wait a little--[_gives a final click_] the children are at the guard-house in the city. judith is not well again and is staying away from school. alice. again! what more did they say? captain. money, of course! alice. why is judith in such a hurry? if she didn't pass her examinations until next year, it would be just as well. captain. tell her, and see what it helps. alice. you should tell her. captain. how many times have i not done so? but children have their own wills, you know. alice. yes, in this house at least. [_the_ captain _yawns_] so, you yawn in your wife's presence! captain. well, what can i do? don't you notice how day by day we are saying the same things to each other? when, just now, you sprang that good old phrase of yours, "in this house at least," i should have come back with my own stand-by, "it is not my house only." but as i have already made that reply some five hundred times, i yawned instead. and my yawn could be taken to mean either that i was too lazy to answer, or "right you are, my angel," or "supposing we quit." alice. you are very amiable to-night. captain. is it not time for supper soon? alice. do you know that the doctor ordered supper from the city--from the grand hotel? captain. no! then they are having ptarmigans--tschk! ptarmigan, you know, is the finest bird there is, but it's clear barbarism to fry it in bacon grease---alice. ugh! don't talk of food. captain. well, how about wines? i wonder what those barbarians are drinking with the ptarmigans? alice. do you want me to play for you? captain. [_sits down at the writing-table_] the last resource! well, if you could only leave your dirges and lamentations alone--it sounds too much like music with a moral. and i am always adding within myself: "can't you hear how unhappy i am! meow, meow! can't you hear what a horrible husband i have! brum, brum, brum! if he would only die soon! beating of the joyful drum, flourishes, the finale of the alcazar waltz, champagne galop!" speaking of champagne, i guess there are a couple of bottles left. what would you say about bringing them up and pretending to have company? alice. no, we won't, for they are mine--they were given to me personally. captain. you are so economical. alice. and you are always stingy--to your wife at least! captain. then i don't know what to suggest. perhaps i might dance for you? alice. no, thank you--i guess you are done with dancing. captain. you should bring some friend to stay with you. alice. thanks! you might bring a friend to stay with you. captain. thanks! it has been tried, and with mutual dissatisfaction. but it was interesting in the way of an experiment, for as soon as a stranger entered the house, we became quite happy--to begin with---alice. and then! captain. oh, don't talk of it! _there is a knock at the door on the left_. alice. who can be coming so late as this? captain. jenny does not knock. alice. go and open the door, and don't yell "come"--it has a sound of the workshop. captain. [_goes toward the door on the left_] you don't like workshops. alice. please, open! captain. [_opens the door and receives a visiting-card that is held out to him_] it is christine--has jenny left? [_as the public cannot hear the answer, to_ alice] jenny has left. alice. then i become servant girl again! captain. and i man-of-all-work. alice. would it not be possible to get one of your gunners to help along in the kitchen? captain. not these days. alice. but it couldn't be jenny who sent in her card? captain. [_looks at the card through his spectacles and then turns it over to_ alice] you see what it is--i cannot. alice. [_looks at the card_] curt--it is curt! hurry up and bring him in. captain. [_goes out to the left_] curt! well, that's a pleasure! [alice _arranges her hair and seems to come to life_. captain. [_enters from the left with_ curt] here he is, the traitor! welcome, old man! let me hug you! alice. [_goes to_ curt] welcome to my home, curt! curt. thank you--it is some time since we saw each other. captain. how long? fifteen years! and we have grown old---alice. oh, curt has not changed, it seems to me. captain. sit down, sit down! and first of all--the programme. have you any engagement for to-night? curt. i am invited to the doctor's, but i have not promised to go. alice. then you will stay with your relatives. curt. that would seem the natural thing, but the doctor is my superior, and i might have trouble afterward. captain. what kind of talk is that? i have never been afraid of my superiors---curt. fear or no fear, the trouble cannot be escaped. captain. on this island i am master. keep behind my back, and nobody will dare to touch you. alice. oh, be quiet, edgar! [_takes_ curt _by the hand_] leaving both masters and superiors aside, you must stay with us. that will be found both natural and proper. curt. well, then--especially as i feel welcome here. captain. why should you not be welcome? there is nothing between us--[curt _tries vainly to hide a sense of displeasure_] what could there be? you were a little careless as a young man, but i have forgotten all about it. i don't let things rankle. alice _looks annoyed. all three sit down at the sewing-table_. alice. well, you have strayed far and wide in the world? curt. yes, and now i have found a harbour with you---captain. whom you married off twenty-five years ago. curt. it was not quite that way, but it doesn't matter. it is pleasing to see that you have stuck together for twenty-five years. captain. well, we have borne with it. now and then it has been so-so, but, as you say, we have stuck together. and alice has had nothing to complain of. there has been plenty of everything--heaps of money. perhaps you don't know that i am a celebrated author--an author of text-books---curt. yes, i recall that, when we parted, you had just published a volume on rifle practice that was selling well. is it still used in the military schools? captain. it is still in evidence, and it holds its place as number one, though they have tried to substitute a worse one --which is being used now, but which is totally worthless. [_painful silence_. curt. you have been travelling abroad, i have heard. alice. we have been down to copenhagen five times--think of it? captain. well, you see, when i took alice away from the stage---alice. oh, you took me? captain. yes, i took you as a wife should be taken---alice. how brave you have grown! captain. but as it was held up against me afterward that i had spoiled her brilliant career--hm!--i had to make up for it by promising to take my wife to copenhagen--and this i have kept--fully! five times we have been there. five [_holding up the five fingers of the left hand_] have you been in copenhagen? curt. [_smiling_] no, i have mostly been in america. captain. america? isn't that a rotten sort of a country? curt. [_unpleasantly impressed_] it is not copenhagen. alice. have you--heard anything--from your children? curt. no. alice. i hope you pardon me--but was it not rather inconsiderate to leave them like that---curt. i didn't leave them, but the court gave them to the mother. captain. don't let us talk of that now. i for my part think it was lucky for you to get out of that mess. curt. [_to_ alice] how are your children? alice. well, thank you. they are at school in the city and will soon be grown up. captain. yes, they're splendid kids, and the boy has a brilliant head--brilliant! he is going to join the general staff---alice. if they accept him! captain. him? who has the making of a war minister in him! curt. from one thing to another. there is to be a quarantine station here--against plague, cholera, and that sort of thing. and the doctor will be my superior, as you know--what sort of man is he? captain. man? he is no man! he's an ignorant rascal! curt. [_to_ alice] that is very unpleasant for me. alice. oh, it is not quite as bad as edgar makes it out, but i must admit that i have small sympathy for the man---captain. a rascal, that's what he is. and that's what the others are, too--the collector of customs, the postmaster, the telephone girl, the druggist, the pilot--what is it they call him now?--the pilot master--rascals one and all--and that's why i don't associate with them. curt. are you on bad terms with all of them? captain. every one! alice. yes, it is true that intercourse with those people is out of the question. captain. it is as if all the tyrants of the country had been sent to this island for safe-keeping. alice. [_ironically_] exactly! captain. [_good-naturedly_] hm! is that meant for me? i am no tyrant--not in my own house at least. alice. you know better! captain. [_to_ curt] don't believe her! i am a very reasonable husband, and the old lady is the best wife in the world. alice. would you like something to drink, curt? curt. no, thank you, not now. captain. have you turned---curt. a little moderate only---captain. is that american? curt. yes. captain. no moderation for me, or i don't care at all. a man should stand his liquor. curt. returning to our neighbours on the island--my position will put me in touch with all of them--and it is not easy to steer clear of everything, for no matter how little you care to get mixed up in other people's intrigues, you are drawn into them just the same. alice. you had better take up with them--in the end you will return to us, for here you find your true friends. curt. is it not dreadful to be alone among a lot of enemies as you are? alice. it is not pleasant. captain. it isn't dreadful at all. i have never had anything but enemies all my life, and they have helped me on instead of doing me harm. and when my time to die comes, i may say that i owe nothing to anybody, and that i have never got a thing for nothing. every particle of what i own i have had to fight for. alice. yes, edgar's path has not been strewn with roses---captain. no, with thorns and stones--pieces of flint--but a man's own strength: do you know what that means? curt. [_simply_] yes, i learned to recognise its insufficiency about ten years ago. captain. then you are no good! alice. [_to the_ captain] edgar! captain. he is no good, i say, if he does not have the strength within himself. of course it is true that when the mechanism goes to pieces there is nothing left but a barrowful to chuck out on the garden beds; but as long as the mechanism holds together the thing to do is to kick and fight, with hands and feet, until there is nothing left. that is my philosophy. curt. [_smiling_] it is fun to listen to you. captain. but you don't think it's true? curt. no, i don't. captain. but true it is, for all that. _during the preceding scene the wind has begun to blow hard, and now one of the big doors is closed with a bang_. captain. [_rising_] it's blowing. i could just feel it coming. _goes back and closes both doors. knocks on the barometer_. alice. [_to_ curt] you will stay for supper? curt. thank you. alice. but it will be very simple, as our housemaid has just left us. curt. oh, it will do for me, i am sure. alice. you ask for so little, dear curt. captain. [_at the barometer_] if you could only see how the mercury is dropping! oh, i felt it coming! alice. [_secretly to_ curt] he is nervous. captain. we ought to have supper soon. alice. [_rising_] i am going to see about it now. you can sit here and philosophise--[_secretly to_ curt], but don't contradict him, for then he gets into bad humour. and don't ask him why he was not made a major. [curt _nods assent_. [alice _goes toward the right_. captain. see that we get something nice now, old lady! alice. you give me money, and you'll get what you want. captain. always money! [alice _goes out_. captain. [_to_ curt] money, money, money! all day long i have to stand ready with the purse, until at last i have come to feel as if i myself were nothing but a purse. are you familiar with that kind of thing? curt. oh, yes--with the difference that i took myself for a pocket-book. captain. ha-ha! so you know the flavour of the brand! oh, the ladies! ha-ha! and you had one of the proper kind! curt. [_patiently_] let that be buried now. captain. she was a jewel! then i have after all--in spite of everything--one that's pretty decent. for she is straight, in spite of everything. curt. [_smiling good-humouredly_] in spite of everything. captain. don't you laugh! curt. [_as before_] in spite of everything! captain. yes, she has been a faithful mate, a splendid mother--excellent--but [_with a glance at the door on the right_] she has a devilish temper. do you know, there have been moments when i cursed you for saddling me with her. curt. [_good-naturedly_] but i didn't. listen, man---captain. yah, yah, yah! you talk nonsense and forget things that are not pleasant to remember. don't take it badly, please--i am accustomed to command and raise cain, you see, but you know me, and don't get angry! curt. not at all. but i have not provided you with a wife--on the contrary. captain. [_without letting his flow of words be checked_] don't you think life is queer anyhow? curt. i suppose so. captain. and to grow old--it is no fun, but it is interesting. well, my age is nothing to speak of, but it does begin to make itself felt. all your friends die off, and then you become so lonely. curt. lucky the man who can grow old in company with a wife. captain. lucky? well, it is luck, for the children go their way, too. you ought not to have left yours. curt. well, i didn't. they were taken away from me---captain. don't get mad now, because i tell you---curt. but it was not so. captain. well, whichever way it was, it has now become forgotten--but you are alone! curt. you get accustomed to everything. captain. do you--is it possible to get accustomed--to being quite alone also? curt. here am i! captain. what have you been doing these fifteen years? curt. what a question! these fifteen years! captain. they say you have got hold of money and grown rich. curt. i can hardly be called rich---captain. i am not going to ask for a loan. curt. if you were, you would find me ready. captain. many thanks, but i have my bank account. you see [_with a glance toward the door on the right_], nothing must be lacking in this house; and the day i had no more money--she would leave me! curt. oh, no! captain. no? well, i know better. think of it, she makes a point of asking me when i happen to be short, just for the pleasure of showing me that i am not supporting my family. curt. but i heard you say that you have a large income. captain. of course, i have a large income--but it is not enough. curt. then it is not large, as such things are reckoned---captain. life is queer, and we as well! _the telegraph receiver begins to click_. curt. what is that? captain. nothing but a time correction. curt. have you no telephone? captain. yes, in the kitchen. but we use the telegraph because the girls at the central report everything we say. curt. social conditions out here by the sea must be frightful! captain. they are simply horrible! but all life is horrible. and you, who believe in a sequel, do you think there will be any peace further on? curt. i presume there will be storms and battles there also. captain. there also--if there be any "there"! i prefer annihilation! curt. are you sure that annihilation will come without pain? captain. i am going to die all of a sudden, without pain curt. so you know that? captain. yes, i know it. curt. you don't appear satisfied with your life? captain. [_sighing_] satisfied? the day i could die, i should be satisfied. curt. [_rising_] that you don't know! but tell me: what is going on in this house? what is happening here? there is a smell as of poisonous wall-paper, and one feels sick the moment one enters. i should prefer to get away from here, had i not promised alice to stay. there are dead bodies beneath the flooring, and the place is so filled with hatred that one can hardly breathe. [_the_ captain _sinks together and sits staring into vacancy_] what is the matter with you? edgar! [_the_ captain _does not move. slaps the_ captain _on the shoulder_] edgar! captain. [_recovering consciousness_] did you say anything? [_looks around_] i thought it was--alice!--oh, is that you?--say--[_relapses into apathy_. curt. this is horrible! [_goes over to the door on the right and opens it_] alice! alice. [_enters, wearing a kitchen apron_] what is it? curt. i don't know. look at him. alice. [_calmly_] he goes off like that at times--i'll play and then he will wake up. curt. no, don't! not that way! leave it to me--does he hear? or see? alice. just now he neither hears nor sees. curt. and you can speak of that with such calm? alice, what is going on in this house? alice. ask him there. curt. him there? but he is your husband! alice. a stranger to me--as strange as he was twenty-five years ago. i know nothing at all about that man--nothing but---curt. stop! he may overhear you. alice. now he cannot hear anything. _a trumpet signal is sounded outside_. captain. [_leaps to his feet and grabs sabre and cap_] pardon me. i have to inspect the sentries. [_goes out through the door in the background_. curt. is he ill? alice. i don't know. curt. has he lost his reason? alice. i don't know. curt. does he drink? alice. he boasts more of it than he really drinks. curt. sit down and talk--but calmly and truthfully. alice. [_sitting down_] what am i to talk about? that i have spent a lifetime in this tower, locked up, guarded by a man whom i have always hated, and whom i now hate so beyond all bounds that the day he died i should be laughing until the air shook. curt. why have you not parted? alice. you may well ask! while still engaged we parted twice; since then we have been trying to part every single day--but we are chained together and cannot break away. once we were separated--within the same house--for five whole years. now nothing but death can part us. this we know, and for that reason we are waiting for him as for a liberator. curt. why are you so lonely? alice. because he isolates me. first he "exterminated" all my brothers and sisters from our home--he speaks of it himself as "extermination"--and then my girl friends and everybody else. curt. but _his_ relatives? he has not "exterminated" them? alice. yes, for they came near taking my life, after having taken my honour and good name. finally i became forced to keep up my connection with the world and with other human beings by means of that telegraph--for the telephone was watched by the operators. i have taught myself telegraphy, and he doesn't know it. you must not tell him, for then he would kill me. curt. frightful! frightful!--but why does he hold me responsible for your marriage? let me tell you now how it was. edgar was my childhood friend. when he saw you he fell in love at once. he came to me and asked me to plead his cause. i said no at once--and, my dear alice, i knew your tyrannical and cruel temperament. for that reason i warned him--and when he persisted, i sent him to get your brother for his spokesman. alice. i believe what you say. but he has been deceiving himself all these years, so that now you can never get him to believe anything else. curt. well, let him put the blame on me if that can relieve his sufferings. alice. but that is too much---curt. i am used to it. but what does hurt me is his unjust charge that i have deserted my children---alice. that's the manner of man he is. he says what suits him, and then he believes it. but he seems to be fond of you, principally because you don't contradict him. try not to grow tired of us now. i believe you have come in what was to us a fortunate moment; i think it was even providential--curt, you must not grow tired of us, for we are undoubtedly the most unhappy creatures in the whole world! [_she weeps_. curt. i have seen _one_ marriage at close quarters, and it was dreadful--but this is almost worse! alice. do you think so? curt. yes. alice. whose fault is it? curt. the moment you quit asking whose fault it is, alice, you will feel a relief. try to regard it as a fact, a trial that has to be borne---alice. i cannot do it! it is too much! [rising] it is beyond help! curt. i pity both of you!--do you know why you are hating each other? alice. no, it is the most unreasoning hatred, without cause, without purpose, but also without end. and can you imagine why he is principally afraid of death? he fears that i may marry again. curt. then he loves you. alice. probably. but that does not prevent him from hating me. curt. [_as if to himself_] it is called love-hatred, and it hails from the pit!--does he like you to play for him? alice. yes, but only horrid melodies--for instance, that awful "the entry of the boyars." when he hears it he loses his head and wants to dance. curt. does he dance? alice. oh, he is very funny at times. curt. one thing--pardon me for asking. where are the children? alice. perhaps you don't know that two of them are dead? curt. so you have had that to face also? alice. what is there i have not faced? curt. but the other two? alice. in the city. they couldn't stay at home. for he set them against me. curt. and you set them against him? alice. of course. and then parties were formed, votes bought, bribes given--and in order not to spoil the children completely we had to part from them. what should have been the uniting link became the seed of dissension; what is held the blessing of the home turned into a curse--well, i believe sometimes that we belong to a cursed race! curt. yes, is it not so--ever since the fall? alice. [_with a venomous glance and sharp voice_] what fall? curt. that of our first parents. alice. oh, i thought you meant something else! [_embarrassed silence_. alice. [_with folded hands_] curt, my kinsman, my childhood friend--i have not always acted toward you as i should. but now i am being punished, and you are having your revenge. curt. no revenge! nothing of that kind here! hush! alice. do you recall one sunday while you were engaged--and i had invited you for dinner---curt. never mind! alice. i must speak! have pity on me! when you came to dinner, we had gone away, and you had to leave again. curt. you had received an invitation yourselves--what is that to speak of! alice. curt, when to-day, a little while ago, i asked you to stay for supper, i thought we had something left in the pantry. [_hiding her face in her hands_] and there is not a thing, not even a piece of bread---curt. _weeping_] alice--poor alice! alice. but when he comes home and wants something to eat, and there is nothing--then he gets angry. you have never seen him angry! o, god, what humiliation! curt. will you not let me go out and arrange for something? alice. there is nothing to be had on this island. curt. not for my sake, but for his and yours--let me think up something--something. we must make the whole thing seem laughable when he comes. i'll propose that we have a drink, and in the meantime i'll think of something. put him in good humour; play for him, any old nonsense. sit down at the piano and make yourself ready---alice. look at my hands--are they fit to play with? i have to wipe glasses and polish brass, sweep floors, and make fires---curt. but you have two servants? alice. so we have to pretend because he is an officer--but the servants are leaving us all the time, so that often we have none at all--most of the time, in fact. how am i to get out of this--this about supper? oh, if only fire would break out in this house! curt. don't, alice, don't! alice. if the sea would rise and take us away! curt. no, no, no, i cannot listen to you! alice. what will he say, what will he say--don't go, curt, don't go away from me! curt. no, dear alice--i shall not go. alice. yes, but when you are gone---curt. has he ever laid hands on you? alice. on me? oh, no, for he knew that then i should have left him. one has to preserve some pride. _from without is heard_: "_who goes there_?--_friend_." curt. [_rising_] is he coming? alice. [_frightened_] yes, that's he. [_pause_. curt. what in the world are we to do? alice. i don't know, i don't know! captain. [_enters from the background_, _cheerful_] there! leisure now! well, has she had time to make her complaints? is she not unhappy--hey? curt. how's the weather outside?-captain. half storm--[_facetiously; opening one of the doors ajar_] sir bluebeard with the maiden in the tower; and outside stands the sentry with drawn sabre to guard the pretty maiden--and then come the brothers, but the sentry is there. look at him. hip--hip! that's a fine sentry. look at him. _malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre_! let us dance the sword dance! curt ought to see it! curt. no, let us have "the entry of the boyars" instead! captain. oh, you know that one, do you?--alice in the kitchen apron, come and play. come, i tell you! [alice _goes reluctantly to the piano_. captain. [_pinching her arm_] now you have been black-guarding me! alice. i? curt _turns away from them_. alice _plays_ "_the entry of the boyars_." _the_ captain _performs some kind of hungarian dance step behind the writing-table so that his spurs are set jingling. then he sinks down on the floor without being noticed by_ curt _and_ alice, _and the latter goes on playing the piece to the end_. alice. [_without turning around_] shall we have it again? [_silence. turns around and becomes aware of the_ captain, _who is lying unconscious on the floor in such a way that he is hidden from the public by the writing-table_] lord jesus! _she stands still, with arms crossed over her breast, and gives vent to a sigh as of gratitude and relief_. curt. [_turns around; hurries over to the_ captain] what is it? what is it? alice. [_in a high state of tension_] is he dead? curt. i don't know. come and help me. alice. [_remains still_] i cannot touch him--is he dead? curt. no--he lives. alice _sighs_. curt _helps the_ captain _to his feet and places him in a chair_. captain. what was it? [_silence_] what was it? curt. you fell down. captain. did anything happen? curt. you fell on the floor. what is the matter with you? captain. with me? nothing at all. i don't know of anything. what are you staring at me for? curt. you are ill. captain. what nonsense is that? you go on playing, alice--oh, now it's back again! [_puts both hands up to his head._ alice. can't you see that you are ill? captain. don't shriek! it is only a fainting spell. curt. we must call a doctor--i'll use your telephone---captain. i don't want any doctor. curt. you must! we have to call him for our own sake--otherwise we shall be held responsible---captain. i'll show him the door if he comes here. i'll shoot him. oh, now it's there again! [_takes hold of his head._ curt. [_goes toward the door on the right_] now i am going to telephone! [_goes out_. [alice _takes off her apron._ captain. will you give me a glass of water? alice. i suppose i have to! [_gives him a glass of water._ captain. how amiable! alice. are you ill? captain. please pardon me for not being well. alice. will you take care of yourself then? captain. _you_ won't do it, i suppose? alice. no, of that you may be sure! captain. the hour is come for which you have been waiting so long. alice. the hour you believed would never come. captain. don't be angry with me! curt. [_enters from the right_] oh, it's too bad---alice. what did he say? curt. he rang off without a word. alice. [_to the_ captain] there is the result of your limitless arrogance! captain. i think i am growing worse--try to get a doctor from the city. alice. [_goes to the telegraph instrument_] we shall have to use the telegraph then. captain. [_rising half-way from the chair; startled_] do you--know--how to use it? alice. [_working the key_] yes, i do. captain. so-o! well, go on then--but isn't she treacherous! [_to_ curt] come over here and sit by me. [curt _sits down beside the_ captain] take my hand. i sit here and fall--can you make it out? down something--such a queer feeling. curt. have you had any attack like this before? captain. never---curt. while you are waiting for an answer from the city, i'll go over to the doctor and have a talk with him. has he attended you before? captain. he has. curt. then he knows your case. [goes _toward the left_. alice. there will be an answer shortly. it is very kind of you, curt. but come back soon. curt. as soon as i can. [_goes out_. captain. curt _is_ kind! and how he has changed. alice. yes, and for the better. it is too bad, however, that he must be dragged into our misery just now. captain. but good for us--i wonder just how he stands. did you notice that he wouldn't speak of his own affairs? alice. i did notice it, but then i don't think anybody asked him. captain. think, what a life! and ours! i wonder if it is the same for all people? alice. perhaps, although they don't speak of it as we do. captain. at times i have thought that misery draws misery, and that those who are happy shun the unhappy. that is the reason why we see nothing but misery. alice. have you known anybody who was happy? captain. let me see! no--yes--the ekmarks. alice. you don't mean it! she had to have an operation last year---captain. that's right. well, then i don't know--yes, the von kraffts. alice. yes, the whole family lived an idyllic life, well off, respected by everybody, nice children, good marriages--right along until they were fifty. then that cousin of theirs committed a crime that led to a prison term and all sorts of after-effects. and that was the end of their peace. the family name was dragged in the mud by all the newspapers. the krafft murder case made it impossible for the family to appear anywhere, after having been so much thought of. the children had to be taken out of school. oh, heavens! captain. i wonder what my trouble is? alice. what do you think? captain. heart or head. it is as if the soul wanted to fly off and turn into smoke. alice. have you any appetite? captain. yes, how about the supper? alice. [_crosses the stage, disturbed_] i'll ask jenny. captain. why, she's gone! alice. yes, yes, yes! captain. ring for christine so that i can get some fresh water. alice. [_rings_] i wonder--[_rings again_] she doesn't hear. captain. go and look--just think, if she should have left also! alice. [_goes over to the door on the left and opens it_] what is this? her trunk is in the hallway--packed. captain. then she has gone. alice. this is hell! _begins to cry, falls on her knees, and puts her head on a chair, sobbing_. captain. and everything at once! and then curt had to turn up just in time to get a look into this mess of ours! if there be any further humiliation in store, let it come this moment! alice. do you know what i suspect? curt went away and will not come back. captain. i believe it of him. alice. yes, we are cursed---captain. what are you talking of? alice. don't you see how everybody shuns us? captain. i don't mind! [_the telegraph receiver clicks_] there is the answer. hush, i can hear it--nobody can spare the time. evasions! the rabble! alice. that's what you get because you have despised your physicians--and failed to pay them. captain. that is not so! alice. even when you could, you didn't care to pay their bills because you looked down upon their work, just as you have looked down upon mine and everybody else's. they don't want to come. and the telephone is cut off because you didn't think that good for anything either. nothing is good for anything but your rifles and guns! captain. don't stand there and talk nonsense---alice. everything comes back. captain. what sort of superstition is that? talk for old women! alice. you will see! do you know that we owe christine six months' wages? captain. well, she has stolen that much. alice. but i have also had to borrow money from her. captain. i think you capable of it. alice. what an ingrate you are! you know i borrowed that money for the children to get into the city. captain. curt had a fine way of coming back! a rascal, that one, too! and a coward! he didn't dare to say he had had enough, and that he found the doctor's party more pleasant--he's the same rapscallion as ever! curt. [_enters quickly from the left_] well, my dear edgar, this is how the matter stands--the doctor knows everything about your heart---captain. my heart? curt. you have long been suffering from calcification of the heart---captain. stone heart? curt. and---captain. is it serious? curt. well, that is to say---captain. it is serious. curt. yes. captain. fatal? curt. you must be very careful. first of all: the cigar must go. [_the_ captain _throws away his cigar_] and next: no more whiskey! then, to bed! captain. [_scared_] no, i don't want _that_! not to bed! that's the end! then you never get up again. i shall sleep on the couch to-night. what more did he say? curt. he was very nice about it and will come at once if you call him. captain. was he nice, the hypocrite? i don't want to see him! i can at least eat? curt. not to-night. and during the next few days nothing but milk. captain. milk! i cannot take that stuff into my mouth. curt. better learn how! captain. i am too old to learn. [_puts his hand up to his head_] oh, there it is again now! [_he sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead_. alice. [_to_ curt] what did the doctor tell you? curt. that he _may_ die. alice. thank god! curt. take care, alice, take care! and now, go and get a pillow and a blanket and i'll put him here on the couch. then i'll sit on the chair here all night. alice. and i? curt. you go to bed. your presence seems only to make him worse. alice. command! i shall obey, for you seem to mean well toward both of us. [_goes out to the left_. curt. mark you--toward both of you! and i shall not mix in any partisan squabbles. curt _takes the water bottle and goes out to the right. the noise of the wind outside is clearly heard. then one of the doors is blown open and an old woman of shabby, unprepossessing appearance peeps into the room_. captain. [_wakes up, rises, and looks around_] so, they have left me, the rascals! [_catches sight of the old woman and is frightened by her_] who is it? what do you want? old woman. i just wanted to close the door, sir. captain. why should you? why should you? old woman. because it blew open just as i passed by. captain. wanted to steal, did you? old woman. not much here to take away, christine said. captain. christine? old woman. good night, sir, and sleep well! [_closes the door and disappears._ alice _comes in from the left with pillows and a blanket._ captain. who was that at the door? anybody? alice. why, it was old mary from the poorhouse who just went by. captain. are you sure? alice. are you afraid? captain. i, afraid? oh, no! alice. as you don't want to go to bed, you can lie here. captain. [_goes over to the couch and lies down_] i'll lie here. [_tries to take_ alice's _hand, but she pulls it away._ curt _comes in with the water bottle_. captain. curt, don't go away from me! curt. i am going to stay up with you all night. alice is going to bed. captain. good night then, alice. alice. [_to_ curt] good night, curt. curt. good night. [alice _goes out_. curt. [_takes a chair and sits down beside the couch_] don't you want to take off your boots? captain. no, a warrior should always be armed. curt. are you expecting a battle then? captain. perhaps! [_rising up in bed_] curt, you are the only human being to whom i ever disclosed anything of myself. listen to me!--if i die to-night--look after my children! curt. i will do so. captain. thank you--i trust in you! curt. can you explain why you trust me? captain. we have not been friends, for friendship is something i don't believe in, and our families were born enemies and have always been at war---curt. and yet you trust me? captain. yes, and i don't know why. [_silence_] do you think i am going to die? curt. you as well as everybody. there will be no exception made in your case. captain. are you bitter? curt. yes--are you afraid of death? of the wheelbarrow and the garden bed? captain. think, if it were not the end! curt. that's what a great many think! captain. and then? curt. nothing but surprises, i suppose. captain. but nothing at all is known with certainty? curt. no, that's just it! that is why you must be prepared for everything. captain. you are not childish enough to believe in a hell? curt. do you not believe in it--you, who are right in it? captain. that is metaphorical only. curt. the realism with which you have described yours seems to preclude all thought of metaphors, poetical or otherwise. [_silence_. captain. if you only knew what pangs i suffer! curt. of the body? captain. no, not of the body. curt. then it must be of the spirit, for no other alternative exists. [_pause._ captain. [_rising up in bed_] i don't want to die! curt. not long ago you wished for annihilation. captain. yes, if it be painless. curt. apparently it is not! captain. is this annihilation then? curt. the beginning of it. captain. good night. curt. good night. _curtain_. _the same setting, but note the lamp is at the point of going out. through the windows and the glass panes of the doors a gray morning is visible. the sea is stirring. the sentry is on the battery as before_. _the_ captain _is lying on the couch, asleep_. curt _sits on a chair beside him, looking pale and wearied from his watch_. alice. [_in from the left_] is he asleep? curt. yes, since the time when the sun should have risen. alice. what kind of night did he have? curt. he slept now and then, but he talked a good deal. alice. of what? curt. he argued about religion like a schoolboy, but with a pretension of having solved all the world riddles. finally, toward morning, he invented the immortality of the soul. alice. for his own glory. curt. exactly! he is actually the most conceited person i have ever met. "i am; consequently god must be." alice. you have become aware of it? look at those boots. with those he would have trampled the earth flat, had he been allowed to do so. with those he has trampled down other people's fields and gardens. with those he has trampled on some people's toes and other people's heads--man-eater, you have got your bullet at last! curt. he would be comical were he not so tragical; and there are traces of greatness in all his narrow-mindedness--have you not a single good word to say about him? alice. [_sitting down_] yes, if he only does not hear it; for if he hears a single word of praise he develops megalomania on the spot. curt. he can hear nothing now, for he has had a dose of morphine. alice. born in a poor home, with many brothers and sisters, edgar very early had to support the family by giving lessons, as the father was a ne'er-do-well if nothing worse. it must be hard for a young man to give up all the pleasures of youth in order to slave for a bunch of thankless children whom he has not brought into the world. i was a little girl when i saw him, as a young man, going without an overcoat in the winter while the mercury stood at fifteen below zero--his little sisters wore kersey coats--it was fine, and i admired him, but his ugliness repelled me. is he not unusually ugly? curt. yes, and his ugliness has a touch of the monstrous at times. whenever we fell out, i noticed it particularly. and when, at such times, he went away, his image assumed enormous forms and proportions, and he literally haunted me. alice. think of me then! however, his earlier years as an officer were undoubtedly a martyrdom. but now and then he was helped by rich people. this he will never admit, and whatever has come to him in that way he has accepted as a due tribute, without giving thanks for it. curt. we were to speak well of him. alice. yes--after he is dead. but then i recall nothing more. curt. have you found him cruel? alice. yes--and yet he can show himself both kind and susceptible to sentiment. as an enemy he is simply horrible. curt. why did he not get the rank of major? alice. oh, you ought to understand that! they didn't want to raise a man above themselves who had already proved himself a tyrant as an inferior. but you must never let on that you know this. he says himself that he did not want promotion--did he speak of the children? curt. yes, he was longing for judith. alice. i thought so--oh! do you know what judith is? his own image, whom he has trained for use against me. think only, that my own daughter--has raised her hand against me! curt. that is too much! alice. hush! he is moving--think if he overheard us! he is full of trickery also. curt. he is actually waking up. alice. does he not look like an ogre? i am afraid of him! [_silence_. captain. [_stirs, wakes up, rises in bed, and looks around_] it is morning--at last! curt. how are you feeling? captain. not so very bad. curt. do you want a doctor? captain. no--i want to see judith--my child! curt. would it not be wise to set your house in order before--or if something should happen? captain. what do you mean? what could happen? curt. what may happen to all of us. captain. oh, nonsense! don't you believe that i die so easily! and don't rejoice prematurely, alice! curt. think of your children. make your will so that your wife at least may keep the household goods. captain. is she going to inherit from me while i am still alive? curt. no, but if something happens she ought not to be turned into the street. one who has dusted and polished and looked after these things for twenty-five years should have some right to remain in possession of them. may i send word to the regimental lawyer? captain. no! curt. you are a cruel man--more cruel than i thought you! captain. now it is back again! [_falls back on the bed unconscious_. alice. [_goes toward the right_] there are some people in the kitchen--i have to go down there. curt. yes, go. here is not much to be done. [alice _goes out_. captain. [_recovers_] well, curt, what are you going to do about your quarantine? curt. oh, that will be all right. captain. no; i am in command on this island, so you will have to deal with me--don't forget that! curt. have you ever seen a quarantine station? captain. have i? before you were born. and i'll give you a piece of advice: don't place your disinfection plant too close to the shore. curt. i was thinking that the nearer i could get to the water the better---captain. that shows how much you know of your business. water, don't you see, is the element of the bacilli, their life element? curt. but the salt water of the sea is needed to wash away all the impurity. captain. idiot! well, now, when you get a house for yourself i suppose you'll bring home your children? curt. do you think they will let themselves be brought? captain. of course, if you have got any backbone! it would make a good impression on the people if you fulfilled your duties in that respect also---curt. i have always fulfilled my duties in that respect. captain. [_raising his voice_]--in the one respect where you have proved yourself most remiss---curt. have i not told you---captain. [_paying no attention_]--for one does not desert one's children like that---curt. go right on! captain. as your relative--a relative older than yourself--i feel entitled to tell you the truth, even if it should prove bitter--and you should not take it badly---curt. are you hungry? captain. yes, i am. curt. do you want something light? captain. no, something solid. curt. then you would be done for. captain. is it not enough to be sick, but one must starve also? curt. that's how the land lies. captain. and neither drink nor smoke? then life is not worth much! curt. death demands sacrifices, or it comes at once. alice. [_enters with several bunches of flowers and some telegrams and letters_] these are for you. [_throws the flowers on the writing-table_. captain. [_flattered_] for me! will you please let me look? alice. oh, they are only from the non-commissioned officers, the bandmen, and the gunners. captain. you are jealous. alice. oh, no. if it were laurel wreaths, that would be another matter--but those you can never get. captain. hm!--here's a telegram from the colonel--read it, curt. the colonel is a gentleman after all--though he is something of an idiot. and this is from--what does it say? it is from judith! please telegraph her to come with the next boat. and here--yes, one is not quite without friends after all, and it is fine to see them take thought of a sick man, who is also a man of deserts above his rank, and a man free of fear or blemish. alice. i don't quite understand--are they congratulating you because you are sick? captain. hyena! alice. yes, we had a doctor here on the island who was so hated that when he left they gave a banquet--after him, and not for him! captain. put the flowers in water--i am not easily caught, and all people are a lot of rabble, but, by heavens, these simple tributes are genuine--they cannot be anything but genuine! alice. fool! curt. [_reading the telegram_] judith says she cannot come because the steamer is held back by the storm. captain. is that all? curt. no-o--there is a postscript. captain. out with it! curt. well, she asks her father not to drink so much. captain. impudence! that's like children! that's my only beloved daughter--my judith--my idol! alice. and your image! captain. such is life. such are its best joys--hell! alice. now you get the harvest of your sowing. you have set her against her own mother and now she turns against the father. tell me, then, that there is no god! captain. [_to_ curt] what does the colonel say? curt. he grants leave of absence without any comment. captain. leave of absence? i have not asked for it. alice. no, but i have asked for it. captain. i don't accept it. alice. order has already been issued. captain. that's none of my concern! alice. do you see, curt, that for this man exist no laws, no constitutions, no prescribed human order? he stands above everything and everybody. the universe is created for his private use. the sun and the moon pursue their courses in order to spread his glory among the stars. such is this man: this insignificant captain, who could not even reach the rank of major, and at whose strutting everybody laughs, while he thinks himself feared; this poor wretch who is afraid in the dark and believes in barometers: and all this in conjunction with and having for its climax--a barrowful of manure that is not even prime quality! captain. [_fanning himself with a bunch of flowers, conceitedly, without listening to_ alice] have you asked curt to breakfast? alice. no. captain. get us, then, at once two nice tenderloin steaks. alice. two? captain. i am going to have one myself. alice. but we are three here. captain. oh, you want one also? well, make it three then. alice. where am i to get them? last night you asked curt to supper, and there was not a crust of bread in the house. curt has been awake all night without anything to eat, and he has had no coffee because there is none in the house and the credit is gone. captain. she is angry at me for not dying yesterday. alice. no, for not dying twenty-five years ago--for not dying before you were born! captain. [_to_ curt] listen to her! that's what happens when you institute a marriage, my dear curt. and it is perfectly clear that it was not instituted in heaven. [alice _and_ curt _look at each other meaningly_. captain. [_rises and goes toward the door_] however, say what you will, now i am going on duty. [_puts on an old-fashioned helmet with a brush crest, girds on the sabre, and shoulders his cloak_] if anybody calls for me, i am at the battery. [alice _and_ curt _try vainly to hold him back_] stand aside! [_goes out_. alice. yes, go! you always go, always show your back, whenever the fight becomes too much for you. and then you let your wife cover the retreat--you hero of the bottle, you arch-braggart, you arch-liar! fie on you! curt. this is bottomless! alice. and you don't know everything yet. curt. is there anything more---alice. but i am ashamed---curt. where is he going now? and where does he get the strength? alice. yes, you may well ask! now he goes down to the non-commissioned officers and thanks them for the flowers--and then he eats and drinks with them. and then he speaks ill of all the other officers--if you only knew how many times he has been threatened with discharge! nothing but sympathy for his family has saved him. and this he takes for fear of his superiority. and he hates and maligns the very women--wives of other officers--who have been pleading our cause. curt. i have to confess that i applied for this position in order to find peace by the sea--and of your circumstances i knew nothing at all. alice. poor curt! and how will you get something to eat? curt. oh, i can go over to the doctor's--but you? will you not permit me to arrange this for you? alice. if only he does not learn of it, for then he would kill me. curt. [_looking out through the window_] look, he stands right in the wind out there on the rampart. alice. he is to be pitied--for being what he is! curt. both of you are to be pitied! but what can be done? alice. i don't know--the mail brought a batch of unpaid bills also, and those he did not see. curt. it may be fortunate to escape seeing things at times. alice. [_at the window_] he has unbuttoned his cloak and lets the wind strike his chest. now he wants to die! curt. that is not what he wants, i think, for a while ago, when he felt his life slipping away, he grabbed hold of mine and began to stir in my affairs as if he wanted to crawl into me and live my life. alice. that is just his vampire nature--to interfere with other people's destinies, to suck interest out of other existences, to regulate and arrange the doings of others, since he can find no interest whatever in his own life. and remember, curt, don't ever admit him into your family life, don't ever make him acquainted with your friends, for he will take them away from you and make them his own. he is a perfect magician in this respect. were he to meet your children, you would soon find them intimate with _him_, and he would be advising them and educating them to suit himself--but principally in opposition to _your_ wishes. curt. alice, was it not he who took my children away from me at the time of the divorce? alice. since it is all over now--yes, it was he. curt. i have suspected it, but never had any certainty. it was he! alice. when you placed your full trust in my husband and sent him to make peace between yourself and your wife, he made love to her instead, and taught her the trick that gave her the children. curt. oh, god! god in heaven! alice. there you have another side of him. [_silence_. curt. do you know, last night--when he thought himself dying--then--he made me promise that i should look after his children! alice. but you don't want to revenge yourself on my children? curt. yes--by keeping my promise. i shall look after your children. alice. you could take no worse revenge, for there is nothing he hates so much as generosity. curt. then i may consider myself revenged--without any revenge. alice. i love revenge as a form of justice, and i am yearning to see evil get its punishment. curt. you still remain at that point? alice. there i shall always remain, and the day i forgave or loved an enemy i should be a hypocrite. curt. it may be a duty not to say everything, alice, not to see everything. it is called forbearance, and all of us need it. alice. not i! my life lies clear and open, and i have always played my cards straight. curt. that is saying a good deal. alice. no, it is not saying enough. because what i have suffered innocently for the sake of this man, whom i never loved---curt. why did you marry? alice. who can tell? because he took me, seduced me! i don't know. and then i was longing to get up on the heights---curt. and deserted your art? alice. which was despised! but you know, he cheated me! he held out hopes of a pleasant life, a handsome home--and there was nothing but debts; no gold except on the uniform--and even that was not real gold. he cheated me! curt. wait a moment! when a young man falls in love, he sees the future in a hopeful light: that his hopes are not always realized, one must pardon. i have the same kind of deceit on my own conscience without thinking myself dishonest--what is it you see on the rampart? alice. i want to see if he has fallen down. curt. has he? alice. no--worse luck! he is cheating me all the time. curt. then i shall call on the doctor and the lawyer. alice. [_sitting down at the window_] yes, dear curt, go. i shall sit here and wait. and i have learned how to wait! _curtain_. _same setting in full daylight. the sentry is pacing back and forth on the battery as before_. alice _sits in the right-hand easy-chair. her hair is now gray_. curt. [_enters from the left after having knocked_] good day, alice. alice. good day, curt. sit down. curt. [_sits down in the left-hand easy-chair_] the steamer is just coming in. alice. then i know what's in store, for he is on board. curt. yes, he is, for i caught the glitter of his helmet--what has he been doing in the city? alice. oh, i can figure it out. he dressed for parade, which means that he saw the colonel, and he put on white gloves, which means that he made some calls. curt. did you notice his quiet manner yesterday? since he has quit drinking and become temperate, he is another man: calm, reserved, considerate---alice. i know it, and if that man had always kept sober he would have been a menace to humanity. it is perhaps fortunate for the rest of mankind that he made himself ridiculous and harmless through his whiskey. curt. the spirit in the bottle has chastised him--but have you noticed since death put its mark on him that he has developed a dignity which elevates? and is it not possible that with this new idea of immortality may have come a new outlook upon life? alice. you are deceiving yourself. he is conjuring up something evil. and don't you believe what he says, for he lies with premeditation, and he knows the art of intriguing as no one else---curt. [_watching_ alice] why, alice, what does this mean? your hair has turned gray in these two nights! alice. no, my friend, it has long been gray, and i have simply neglected to darken it since my husband is as good as dead. twenty-five years in prison--do you know that this place served as a prison in the old days? curt. prison--well, the walls show it. alice. and my complexion! even the children took on prison color in here. curt. i find it hard to imagine children prattling within these walls. alice. there was not much prattling done either. and those two that died perished merely from lack of light. curt. what do you think is coming next? alice. the decisive blow at us two. i caught a familiar glimmer in his eye when you read out that telegram from judith. it ought, of course, to have been directed against her, but she, you know, is inviolate, and so his hatred sought you. curt. what are his intentions in regard to me, do you think? alice. hard to tell, but he possesses a marvellous skill in nosing out other people's secrets--and did you notice how, all day yesterday, he seemed to be living in your quarantine; how he drank a life-interest out of your existence; how he ate your children alive? a cannibal, i tell you--for i know him. his own life is going, or has gone---curt. i also have that impression of his being already on the other side. his face seems to phosphoresce, as if he were in a state of decay--and his eyes flash like will-o'-the-wisps over graves or morasses--here he comes! tell him you thought it possible he might be jealous. alice. no, he is too self-conceited. "show me the man of whom i need to be jealous!" those are his own words. curt. so much the better, for even his faults carry with them a certain merit--shall i get up and meet him anyhow? alice. no, be impolite, or he will think you false. and if he begins to lie, pretend to believe him. i know perfectly how to translate his lies, and get always at the truth with the help of my dictionary. i foresee something dreadful--but, curt, don't lose your self-control! my own advantage in our long struggle has been that i was always sober, and for that reason in full control of myself. he was always tripped by his whiskey--now we shall see! captain. [_in from the left in full uniform, with helmet, cloak, and white gloves. calm, dignified, but pale and hollow-eyed. moves forward with a tottering step and sinks down, his helmet and cloak still on, in a chair at the right of the stage, far from_ curt _and_ alice] good day. pardon me for sitting down like this, but i feel a little tired. alice _and_ curt. good day. welcome home. alice. how are you feeling? captain. splendid! only a little tired---alice. what news from the city? captain. oh, a little of everything. i saw the doctor, among other things, and he said it was nothing at all--that i might live twenty years, if i took care of myself. alice. [_to_ curt] now he is lying. [_to the_ captain] why, that's fine, my dear. captain. so much for that. _silence, during which the_ captain _is looking at_ alice _and_ curt _as if expecting them to speak_. alice. [_to_ curt] don't say a word, but let him begin--then he will show his cards. captain. [_to_ alice] did you say anything? alice. no, not a word. captain. [_dragging on the words_] well, curt! alice. [_to_ curt] there--now he is coming out. captain. well, i went to the city, as you know. [curt _nods assent_] mm-mm, i picked up acquaintances--and among others--a young cadet [_dragging_] in the artillery. [_pause, during which_ curt _shows some agitation_] as--we are in need of cadets right here, i arranged with the colonel to let him come here. this ought to please you, especially when i inform you that--he is--your own son! alice. [_to_ curt] the vampire--don't you see? curt. under ordinary circumstances that ought to please a father, but in my case it will merely be painful. captain. i don't see why it should! curt. you don't need to--it is enough that i don't want it. captain. oh, you think so? well, then, you ought to know that the young man has been ordered to report here, and that from now on he has to obey me. curt. then i shall force him to seek transfer to another regiment. captain. you cannot do it, as you have no rights over your son. curt. no? captain. no, for the court gave those rights to the mother. curt. then i shall communicate with the mother. captain. you don't need to. curt. don't need to? captain. no, for i have already done so. yah! [curt _rises but sinks back again_. alice. [_to_ curt] now he must die! curt. why, he _is_ a cannibal! captain. so much for that! [_straight to_ alice _and_ curt] did you say anything? alice. no--have you grown hard of hearing? captain. yes, a little--but if you come nearer to me i can tell you something between ourselves. alice. that is not necessary--and a witness is sometimes good to have for both parties. captain. you are right; witnesses are sometimes good to have! but, first of all, did you get that will? alice. [_hands him a document_] the regimental lawyer drew it up himself. captain. in your favor--good! [_reads the document and then tears it carefully into strips which he throws on the floor_] so much for that! yah! alice. [_to_ curt] did you ever see such a man? curt. that is no man! captain. well, alice, this was what i wanted to say---alice. [_alarmed_] go on, please. captain. [_calmly as before_] on account of your long cherished desire to quit this miserable existence in an unhappy marriage; on account of the lack of feeling with which you have treated your husband and children, and on account of the carelessness you have shown in the handling of our domestic economy, i have, during this trip to the city, filed an application for divorce in the city court. alice. oh--and your grounds? captain. [_calmly as before_] besides the grounds already mentioned, i have others of a purely personal nature. as it has been found that i may live another twenty years, i am contemplating a change from this unhappy marital union to one that suits me better, and i mean to join my fate to that of some woman capable of devotion to her husband, and who also may bring into the home not only youth, but--let us say--a little beauty! alice. [_takes the wedding-ring from her finger and throws it at the_ captain] you are welcome! captain. [_picks up the ring and puts it in his rest pocket_] she throws away the ring. the witness will please take notice. alice. [_rises in great agitation_] and you intend to turn me out in order to put another woman into my home? captain. yah! alice. well, then, we'll speak plain language! cousin curt, that man is guilty of an attempt to murder his wife. curt. an attempt to murder? alice. yes, he pushed me into the water. captain. without witnesses! alice. he lies again--judith saw it! captain. well, what of it? alice. she can testify to it. captain. no, she cannot, for she says that she didn't see anything. alice. you have taught the child to lie! captain. i didn't need to, for you had taught her already. alice. you have met judith? captain. yah! alice. oh, god! oh, god! captain. the fortress has surrendered. the enemy will be permitted to depart in safety on ten minutes' notice. [_places his watch on the table_] ten minutes--watch on the table! [stops _and puts one hand up to his heart_. alice. [_goes over to the_ captain _and takes his arm_] what is it? captain. i don't know. alice. do you want anything--a drink? captain. whiskey? no, i don't want to die--you! [_straightening himself up_] don't touch me! ten minutes, or the garrison will be massacred. [_pulls the sabre partly from the scabbard_] ten minutes! [_goes out through the background_. curt. what kind of man is this? alice. he is a demon, and no man! curt. what does he want with my son? alice. he wants him as hostage in order to be your master--he wants to isolate you from the authorities of the island--do you know that the people around here have named this island "little hell"? curt. i didn't know that--alice, you are the first woman who ever inspired me with compassion--all others have seemed to me to deserve their fate. alice. don't desert me now! don't leave me, for he will beat me--he has been doing so all these twenty-five years--in the presence of the children--and he has pushed me into the water---curt. having heard this, i place myself absolutely against him. i came here without an angry thought, without memory of his former slanders and attempts to humiliate me. i forgave him even when you told me that he was the man who had parted me from my children--for he was ill and dying--but now, when he wants to steal my son, he must die--he or i! alice. good! no surrender of the fortress! but blow it up instead, with him in it, even if we have to keep him company! i am in charge of the powder! curt. there was no malice in me when i came here, and i wanted to run away when i felt myself infected with your hatred, but now i am moved by an irresistible impulse to hate this man, as i hate everything that is evil. what can be done? alice. i have learned the tactics from him. drum up his enemies and seek allies. curt. just think--that he should get hold of my wife! why didn't those two meet a life-time ago? then there would have been a battle-royal that had set the earth quaking. alice. but now these souls have spied each other--and yet they must part. i guess what is his most vulnerable spot--i have long suspected it---curt. who is his most faithful enemy on the island? alice. the quartermaster. curt. is he an honest man? alice. he is. and he knows what i--i know too--he knows what the sergeant-major and the captain have been up to. curt. what they have been up to? you don't mean---alice. defalcations! curt. this is terrible! no, i don't want to have any finger in that mess! alice. ha-ha! you cannot hit an enemy. curt. formerly i could, but i can do so no longer. alice. why? curt. because i have discovered--that justice is done anyhow. alice. and you could wait for that? then your son would already have been taken away from you. look at my gray hairs--just feel how thick it still is, for that matter--he intends to marry again, and then i shall be free--to do the same--i am free! and in ten minutes he will be under arrest down below, right under us--[_stamps her foot on the floor_] right under us--and i shall dance above his head--i shall dance "the entry of the boyars"--[_makes a few steps with her arms akimbo_] ha-ha-ha-ha! and i shall play on the piano so that he can hear it. [_hammering on the piano_] oh, the tower is opening its gates, and the sentry with the drawn sabre will no longer be guarding me, but him--_malrough s'en va-t-en guerre_! him, him, him, the sentry is going to guard! curt. [_has been watching her with an intoxicated look in his eyes_] alice, are you, too, a devil? alice. [_jumps up on a chair and pulls down the wreaths_] these we will take along when we depart--the laurels of triumph! and fluttering ribbons! a little dusty, but eternally green--like my youth--i am not old, curt? curt. _with shining eyes_] you are a devil! alice. in "little hell"--listen! now i shall fix my hair --[_loosens her hair_], dress in two minutes--go to the quartermaster in two minutes--and then, up in the air with the fortress! curt. [_as before_] you are a devil! alice. that's what you always used to say when we were children. do you remember when we were small and became engaged to each other? ha-ha! you were bashful, of course---curt. [_seriously_] alice! alice. yes, you were! and it was becoming to you. do you know there are gross women who like modest men? and there are said to be modest men who like gross women--you liked me a little bit, didn't you? curt. i don't know where i am! alice. with an actress whose manners are free, but who is an excellent lady otherwise. yes! but now i am free, free, free! turn away and i'll change my waist! _she opens her waist_. curt _rushes up to her, grabs her in his arms, lifts her high up, and bites her throat so that she cries out. then he drops her on the couch and runs out to the left_. _curtain and intermission_. _same stage setting in early evening light. the sentry on the battery is still visible through the windows in the background. the laurel wreaths are hung over the arms of an easy-chair. the hanging lamp is lit. faint music_. _the_ captain, _pale and hollow-eyed, his hair showing touches of gray, dressed in a worn undress uniform, with riding-boots, sits at the writing-table and plays solitaire. he wears his spectacles. the entr'acte music continues after the curtain has been raised and until another person enters_. _the_ captain _plays away at his solitaire, bid with a sudden start now and then, when he looks up and listens with evident alarm_. _he does not seem able to make the solitaire come out, so he becomes impatient and gathers up the cards. then he goes to the left-hand window, opens it, and throws out the cards. the window (of the french type) remains open, rattling on its hinges_. _he goes over to the buffet, but is frightened by the noise made by the window, so that he turns around to see what it is. takes out three dark-coloured square whiskey bottles, examines them carefully--and throws them out of the window. takes out some boxes of cigars, smells at one, and throws them out of the window_. _next he takes off his spectacles, cleans them carefully, and tries how far he can see with them. then he throws them out of the window, stumbles against the furniture as if he could not see, and lights six candles in a candelabrum on the chiffonier. catches sight of the laurel wreaths, picks them up, and goes toward the window, but turns back. folds the wreaths carefully in the piano cover, fastens the corners together with pins taken from the writing-table, and puts the bundle on a chair. goes to the piano, strikes the keyboard with his fists, locks the piano, and throws the key out through the window. then he lights the candles on the piano. goes to the what-not, takes his wife's picture from it, looks at this and tears it to pieces, dropping the pieces on the floor. the window rattles on its hinges, and again he becomes frightened_. _then, after having calmed himself he takes the pictures of his son and daughter, kisses them in an off-hand way, and puts them into his pocket. all the rest of the pictures he sweeps down with his elbow and pokes together into a heap with his foot_. _then he sits down at the writing-table, tired out, and puts a hand up to his heart. lights the candle on the table and sighs; stares in front of himself as if confronted with unpleasant visions. rises and goes over to the chiffonier, opens the lid, takes out a bundle of letters tied together with a blue silk ribbon, and throws the bundle into the fireplace of the glazed brick oven. closes the chiffonier. the telegraph receiver sounds a single click. the_ captain _shrinks together in deadly fear and stands fixed to the spot, listening. but hearing nothing more from the instrument, he turns to listen in the direction of the door on the left. goes over and opens it, takes a step inside the doorway, and returns, carrying on his arm a cat whose back he strokes. then he goes out to the right. now the music ceases_. alice _enters from the background, dressed in a walking suit, with gloves and hat on; her hair is black; she looks around with surprise at the many lighted candles_. curt _enters from the left, nervous_. alice. it looks like christmas eve here. curt. well? alice. [_holds out her hand for him to kiss_] thank me! [curt _kisses her hand unwillingly_] six witnesses, and four of them solid as rock. the report has been made, and the answer will come here by telegraph--right here, into the heart of the fortress. curt. so! alice. you should say "thanks" instead of "so." curt. why has he lit so many candles? alice. because he is afraid of the dark, of course. look at the telegraph key--does it not look like the handle of a coffee mill? i grind, i grind, and the beans crack as when you pull teeth---curt. what has he been doing in the room here? alice. it looks as if he intended to move. down below, that's where you are going to move! curt. don't, alice--i think it's distressing! he was the friend of my youth, and he showed me kindness many times when i was in difficulty--he should be pitied! alice. and how about me, who have done nothing wrong, and who have had to sacrifice my career to that monster? curt. how about that career? was it so very brilliant? alice. [_enraged_] what are you saying? do you know who i am, what i have been? curt. now, now! alice. are you beginning already? curt. already? alice _throws her arms around_ curt's _neck and kisses him_. curt _takes her by the arms and bites her neck so that she screams_. alice. you bite me! curt. [_beyond himself_] yes, i want to bite your throat and suck your blood like a lynx. you have aroused the wild beast in me--that beast which i have tried for years to kill by privations and self-inflicted tortures. i came here believing myself a little better than you two, and now i am the vilest of all. since i first saw you--in all your odious nakedness--and since my vision became warped by passion, i have known the full strength of evil. what is ugly becomes beautiful; what is good becomes ugly and mean--come here and i'll choke you--with a kiss! [_he locks her in his arms_. alice. [_holds up her left hand_] behold the mark of the shackles that you have broken. i was a slave, and you set me free. curt. but i am going to bind you---alice. you? curt. i! alice. for a moment i thought you were---curt. pious? alice. yes, you prated about the fall of man---curt. did i? alice. and i thought you had come here to preach---curt. you thought so? in an hour we shall be in the city, and then you shall see what i am---alice. then we will go to the theatre to-night, just to show ourselves. the shame will be his if i run away, don't you see! curt. i begin to understand that prison is not enough---alice. no, it is not--there must be shame also. curt. a strange world! you commit a shameful act, and the shame falls on him. alice. well, if the world be so stupid---curt. it is as if these prison walls had absorbed all the corruption of the criminals, and it gets into you if you merely breathe this air. you were thinking of the theatre and the supper, i suppose. i was thinking of my son. alice. [_strikes him on the mouth with her glove_] fogey! [curt _lifts his hand as if to strike her_. alice. [_drawing back] tout beau_! curt. forgive me! alice. yes--on your knees! [curt _kneels down_] down on your face! [curt _touches the ground with his forehead_] kiss my foot! [curt _kisses her foot_] and don't you ever do it again! get up! curt. [_rising_] where have i landed? where am i? alice. oh, you know! curt. [_looking around with horror_] i believe almost---captain. [_enters from the right, looking wretched, leaning on a cane_] curt, may i have a talk with you--alone? alice. is it about that departure in safety? captain. [_sits down at the sewing-table_] curt, will you kindly sit down here by me a little while? and, alice, will you please grant me a moment--of peace! alice. what is up now? new signals! [_to_ curt] please be seated. [curt _sits down reluctantly_] and listen to the words of age and wisdom--and if a telegram should come--tip me off! [_goes out to the left_. captain. [_with dignity, after a pause_] can you explain a fate like mine, like ours? curt. no more than i can explain my own! captain. what can be the meaning of this jumble? curt. in my better moments i have believed that just this was the meaning--that we should not be able to catch a meaning, and yet submit---captain. submit? without a fixed point outside myself i cannot submit. curt. quite right, but as a mathematician you should be able to seek that unknown point when several known ones are given---captain. i have sought it, and--i have not found it! curt. then you have made some mistake in your calculations--do it all over again! captain. i should do it over again? tell me, where did you get your resignation? curt. i have none left. don't overestimate me. captain. as you may have noticed, my understanding of the art of living has been--elimination! that means: wipe out and pass on! very early in life i made myself a bag into which i chucked my humiliations, and when it was full i dropped it into the sea. i don't think any man ever suffered so many humiliations as i have. but when i wiped them out and passed on they ceased to exist. curt. i have noticed that you have wrought both your life and your environment out of your poetical imagination. captain. how could i have lived otherwise? how could i have endured? [_puts his hand over his heart_. curt. how are you doing? captain. poorly. [pause] then comes a moment when the faculty for what you call poetical imagination gives out. and then reality leaps forth in all its nakedness--it is frightful! [_he is now speaking in a voice of lachrymose senility, and with his lower jaw drooping_] look here, my dear friend--[_controls himself and speaks in his usual voice_] forgive me!--when i was in the city and consulted the doctor [_now the tearful voice returns_] he said that i was played out--[_in his usual voice_] and that i couldn't live much longer. curt. was _that_ what he said? captain. [_with tearful voice_] that's what he said! curt. so it was not true? captain. what? oh--no, that was not true. [_pause_. curt. was the rest of it not true either? captain. what do you mean? curt. that my son was ordered to report here as cadet? captain. i never heard of it. curt. do you know--your ability to wipe out your own misdeeds is miraculous! captain. i don't understand what you are talking of. curt. then you have come to the end! captain. well, there is not much left! curt. tell me, perhaps you never applied for that divorce which would bring your wife into disgrace? captain. divorce? no, i have not heard of it. curt, [_rising_] will you admit, then, that you have been lying? captain. you employ such strong words, my friend. all of us need forbearance. curt. oh, you have come to see that? captain. [_firmly, with clear voice_] yes, i have come to see that--and for this reason, curt, please forgive me! forgive everything! curt. that was a manly word! but i have nothing to forgive you. and i am not the man you believe me to be. no longer now! least of all one worthy of receiving your confessions! captain. [_with clear voice_] life seemed so peculiar--so contrary, so malignant--ever since my childhood--and people seemed so bad that i grew bad also---curt. [_on his feet, perturbed, and glancing at the telegraph instrument_] is it possible to close off an instrument like that? captain. hardly. curt. [_with increasing alarm_] who is sergeant-major östberg? captain. an honest fellow, but something of a busybody, i should say. curt. and who is the quartermaster? captain. he is my enemy, of course, but i have nothing bad to say of him. curt. [_looking out through the window, where a lantern is seen moving to and fro_] what are they doing with the lantern out on the battery? captain. do you see a lantern? curt. yes, and people moving about. captain. i suppose it is what we call a service squad. curt. what is that? captain. a few men and a corporal. probably some poor wretch that has to be locked up. curt. oh! [_pause_. captain. now, when you know alice, how do you like her? curt. i cannot tell--i have no understanding of people at all. she is as inexplicable to me as you are, or as i am myself. for i am reaching the age when wisdom makes this acknowledgment: i know nothing, i understand nothing; but when i observe an action, i like to get at the motive behind it. why did you push her into the water? captain. i don't know. it merely seemed quite natural to me, as she was standing on the pier, that she ought to be in the water. curt. have you ever regretted it? captain. never! curt. that's strange! captain. of course, it is! so strange that i cannot realise that i am the man who has been guilty of such a mean act. curt. have you not expected her to take some revenge? captain. well, she seems to have taken it in full measure; and that, too, seems no less natural to me. curt. what has so suddenly brought you to this cynical resignation? captain. since i looked death in the face, life has presented itself from a different viewpoint. tell me, if you were to judge between alice and myself, whom would you place in the right? curt. neither of you. but to both of you i should give endless compassion--perhaps a little more of it to you! captain. give me your hand, curt! curt. [_gives him one hand and puts the other one on the_ captain's _shoulder_] old boy! alice. [_in from the left, carrying a sunshade_] well, how harmonious! oh, friendship! has there been no telegram yet? curt. [_coldly_] no. alice. this delay makes me impatient, and when i grow impatient i push matters along--look, curt, how i give him the final bullet. and now he'll bite the grass! first, i load--i know all about rifle practice, the famous rifle practice of which less than 5,000 copies were sold--and then i aim--fire! [_she takes aim with her sunshade_] how is your new wife? the young, beautiful, unknown one? you don't know! but i know how my lover is doing. [_puts her arms around the neck of_ curt _and kisses him; he thrusts her away from himself_] he is well, although still a little bashful! you wretch, whom i have never loved--you, who were too conceited to be jealous--you never saw how i was leading you by the nose! _the_ captain _draws the sabre and makes a leap at her, aiming at her several futile blows that only hit the furniture_. alice. help! help! [curt _does not move_. captain. [_falls with the sabre in his hand_] judith, avenge me! alice. hooray! he's dead! [curt _withdraws toward the door in the background_. captain. [_gets on his feet_] not yet! [_sheathes the sabre and sits down in the easy-chair by the sewing-table_] judith! judith! alice. [_drawing nearer to_ curt] now i go--with you! curt. [_pushes her back with such force that she sinks to her knees_] go back to the hell whence you came! good-bye for ever! [_goes to the door_. captain. don't leave me curt; she will kill me! alice. don't desert me, curt--don't desert us! curt. good-bye! [_goes out_. alice. [_with a sudden change of attitude_] the wretch! that's a friend for you! captain. [_softly_] forgive me, alice, and come here--come quick! alice. [_over to the_ captain] that's the worst rascal and hypocrite i have met in my life! do you know, you are a man after all! captain. listen, alice! i cannot live much longer. alice. is that so? captain. the doctor has said so. alice. then there was no truth in the rest either? captain. no. alice. [_in despair_] oh, what have i done! captain. there is help for everything. alice. no, this is beyond helping! captain. nothing is beyond helping, if you only wipe it out and pass on. alice. but the telegram--the telegram! captain. which telegram? alice. [_on her knees beside the_ captain] are we then cast out? must this happen? i have sprung a mine under myself, under us. why did you have to tell untruths? and why should that man come here to tempt me? we are lost! your magnanimity might have helped everything, forgiven everything! captain. what is it that cannot be forgiven? what is it that i have not already forgiven you? alice. you are right--but there is no help for this. captain. i cannot guess it, although i know your ingenuity when it comes to villanies---alice. oh, if i could only get out of this, i should care for you--i should love you, edgar! captain. listen to me! where do i stand? alice. don't you think anybody can help us--well, no man can! captain. who could then help? alice. [_looking the_ captain _straight in the eye_] i don't know--think of it, what is to become of the children with their name dishonoured---captain. have you dishonoured that name? alice. not i! not i! and then they must leave school! and as they go out into the world, they will be lonely as we, and cruel as we--then you didn't meet judith either, i understand now? captain. no, but wipe it out! _the telegraph receiver clicks_. alice _flies up_. alice. [screams] now ruin is overtaking us! [_to the_ captain] don't listen! captain. [_quietly_] i am not going to listen, dear child--just calm yourself! alice. [_standing by the instrument, raises herself on tiptoe in order to look out through the window_] don't listen! don't listen! captain. [_holding his hands over his ears_] lisa, child, i am stopping up my ears. alice. [_on her knees, with lifted hands_] god, help us! the squad is coming--[_weeping and sobbing_] god in heaven! _she appears to be moving her lips as if in silent prayer_. _the telegraph receiver continues to click for a while and a long white strip of paper seems to crawl out of the instrument. then complete silence prevails once more_. alice. [_rises, tears off the paper strip, and reads it in silence. then she turns her eyes upward for a moment. goes over to the_ captain _and kisses him on the forehead_] that is over now! it was nothing! _sits down in the other chair, puts her handkerchief to her face, and breaks into a violent spell of weeping_. captain. what kind of secrets are these? alice. don't ask! it is over now! captain. as you please, child. alice. you would not have spoken like that three days ago--what has done it? captain. well, dear, when i fell down that first time, i went a little way on the other side of the grave. what i saw has been forgotten, but the impression of it still remains. alice. and it was? captain. a hope--for something better! alice. something better? captain. yes. that this could be the real life, i have, in fact, never believed: it is death--or something still worse! alice. and we---captain. have probably been set to torment each other--so it seems at least! alice. have we tormented each other enough? captain. yes, i think so! and upset things! [_looks around_] suppose we put things to rights? and clean house? alice. yes, if it can be done. captain. [_gets up to survey the room_] it can't be done in one day--no, it can't! alice. in two, then! many days! captain. let us hope so! [_pause. sits down again_] so you didn't get free this time after all! but then, you didn't get me locked up either! [alice _looks staggered_] yes, i know you wanted to put me in prison, but i wipe it out. i suppose you have done worse than that--[alice _is speechless_] and i was innocent of those defalcations. alice. and now you intend me to become your nurse? captain. if you are willing! alice. what else could i do? captain. i don't know! alice. [_sits down, numbed and crushed_] these are the eternal torments! is there, then, no end to them? captain. yes, if we are patient. perhaps life begins when death comes. alice. if it were so! [_pause_. captain. you think curt a hypocrite? alice. of course i do! captain. and i don't! but all who come near us turn evil and go their way. curt was weak, and the evil is strong! [_pause_] how commonplace life has become! formerly blows were struck; now you shake your fist at the most! i am fairly certain that, three months from now, we shall celebrate our silver wedding--with curt as best man--and with the doctor and gerda among the guests. the quartermaster will make the speech and the sergeant-major will lead the cheering. and if i know the colonel right, he will come on his own invitation--yes, you may laugh! but do you recall the silver wedding of adolph--in the fusiliers? the bride had to carry her wedding ring on the right hand, because the groom in a tender moment had chopped off her left ring finger with his dirk. [alice _puts her handkerchief to her mouth in order to repress her laughter_] are you crying? no, i believe you are laughing! yes, child, partly we weep and partly we laugh. which is the right thing to do?--don't ask me! the other day i read in a newspaper that a man had been divorced seven times--which means that he had been married seven times--and finally, at the age of ninety-eight, he ran away with his first wife and married her again. such is love! if life be serious, or merely a joke, is more than i can decide. often it is most painful when a joke, and its seriousness is after all more agreeable and peaceful. but when at last you try to be serious, somebody comes and plays a joke on you--as curt, for instance! do you want a silver wedding? [alice _remains silent_] oh, say yes! they will laugh at us, but what does it matter? we may laugh also, or keep serious, as the occasion may require. alice. well, all right! captain. silver wedding, then! [_rising_] wipe out and pass on! therefore, let us pass on! _curtain_. part ii characters edgar alice curt allan, _the son of_ curt judith, _the daughter of_ edgar the lieutenant _a rectangular drawing-room in white and gold. the rear wall is broken by severed french windows reaching down to the floor. these stand open, revealing a garden terrace outside. along this terrace, serving as a public promenade, runs a stone balustrade, on which are ranged pots of blue and white faience, with petunias and scarlet geraniums in them. beyond, in the background, can be seen the shore battery with a sentry pacing back and forth. in the far distance, the open sea_. _at the left of the drawing-room stands a sofa with gilded wood-work. in front of it are a table and chairs. at the right is a grand piano, a writing-table, and an open fireplace_. _in the foreground, an american easy-chair_. _by the writing-table is a standing lamp of copper with a table attached to it_. _on the walls are severed old-fashioned oil paintings_. allan _is sitting at the writing-table, engrossed in some mathematical problem_. judith _enters from the background, in summer dress, short skirt, hair in a braid down her back, hat in one hand and tennis racket in the other. she stops in the doorway_. allan _rises, serious and respectful_. judith. [_in serious but friendly tone_] why don't you come and play tennis? allan. [_bashful, struggling with his emotion_] i am very busy---judith. didn't you see that i had made my bicycle point toward the oak, and not away from it? allan. yes, i saw it. judith. well, what does it mean? allan. it means--that you want me to come and play tennis--but my duty--i have some problems to work out--and your father is a rather exacting teacher---judith. do you like him? allan. yes, i do. he takes such interest in all his pupils---judith. he takes an interest in everything and everybody. won't you come? allan. you know i should like to--but i must not! judith. i'll ask papa to give you leave. allan. don't do that. it will only cause talk. judith. don't you think i can manage him? he wants what i want. allan. i suppose that is because you are so hard. judith. you should be hard also. allan. i don't belong to the wolf family. judith. then you are a sheep. allan. rather that. judith. tell me why you don't want to come and play tennis? allan. you know it. judith. tell me anyhow. the lieutenant---allan. yes, you don't care for me at all, but you cannot enjoy yourself with the lieutenant unless i am present, so you can see me suffer. judith. am i as cruel as that? i didn't know it. allan. well, now you know it. judith. then i shall do better hereafter, for i don't want to be cruel, i don't want to be bad--in your eyes. allan. you say this only to fasten your hold on me. i am already your slave, but it does not satisfy you. the slave must be tortured and thrown to the wild beasts. you have already that other fellow in your clutches--what do you want with me then? let me go my own way, and you can go yours. judith. do you send me away? [allan _does not answer_] then i go! as second cousins, we shall have to meet now and then, but i am not going to bother you any longer. [allan _sits down at the table and returns to his problem_. judith. [_instead of going away, comes down the stage and approaches gradually the table where_ allan _is sitting_] don't be afraid, i am going at once--i wanted only to see how the master of quarantine lives--[_looks around_] white and gold--a bechstein grand--well, well! we are still in the fort since papa was pensioned--in the tower where mamma has been kept twenty-five years--and we are there on sufferance at that. you--you are rich---allan. [_calmly_] we are not rich. judith. so you say, but you are always wearing fine clothes --but whatever you wear, for that matter, is becoming to you. do you hear what i say? [_drawing nearer_. allan. [_submissively_] i do. judith. how can you hear when you keep on figuring, or whatever you are doing? allan. i don't use my eyes to listen with. judith. your eyes--have you ever looked at them in the mirror? allan. go away! judith. you despise me, do you? allan. why, girl, i am not thinking of you at all. judith. [_still nearer_] archimedes is deep in his figures when the soldier comes and cuts him down. [_stirs his papers about with the racket_. allan. don't touch my papers! judith. that's what archimedes said also. now you are thinking something foolish--you are thinking that i can not live without you--allan. why can't you leave me alone? judith. be courteous, and i'll help you with your examinations---allan. you? judith. yes, i know the examiners---allan. [_sternly_] and what of it? judith. don't you know that one should stand well with the teachers? allan. do you mean your father and the lieutenant? judith. and the colonel! allan. and then you mean that your protection would enable me to shirk my work? judith. you are a bad translator---allan. of a bad original---judith. be ashamed! allan. so i am--both on your behalf and my own! i am ashamed of having listened to you--why don't you go? judith. because i know you appreciate my company--yes, you manage always to pass by my window. you have always some errand that brings you into the city with the same boat that i take. you cannot go for a sail without having me to look after the jib. allan. but a young girl shouldn't say that kind of things! judith. do you mean to say that i am a child? allan. sometimes you are a good child, and sometimes a bad woman. me you seem to have picked to be your sheep. judith. you are a sheep, and that's why i am going to protect you. allan. [_rising_] the wolf makes a poor shepherd! you want to eat me--that is the secret of it, i suppose. you want to put your beautiful eyes in pawn to get possession of my head. judith. oh, you have been looking at my eyes? i didn't expect that much courage of you. allan _collects his papers and starts to go out toward the right_. judith _places herself in front of the door_. allan. get out of my way, or---judith. or? allan. if you were a boy--bah! but you are a girl. judith. and then? allan. if you had any pride at all, you would be gone, as you may regard yourself as shown the door. judith. i'll get back at you for that! allan. i don't doubt it! judith. [_goes enraged toward the background_] i--shall-get--back--at you for that! [_goes out_. curt. [_enters from the left_] where are you going, allan? allan. oh, is that you? curt. who was it that left in such hurry--so that the bushes shook? allan. it was judith. curt. she is a little impetuous, but a fine girl. allan. when a girl is cruel and rude, she is always said to be a fine girl. curt. don't be so severe, allan! are you not satisfied with your new relatives? allan. i like uncle edgar---curt. yes, he has many good sides. how about your other teachers--the lieutenant, for instance? allan. he's so uncertain. sometimes he seems to have a grudge against me. curt. oh, no! you just go here and make people "seem" this or that. don't brood, but look after your own affairs, do what is proper, and leave others to their own concerns. allan. so i do, but--they won't leave me alone. they pull you in--as the cuttlefish down at the landing--they don't bite, but they stir up vortices that suck---curt. you have some tendency to melancholia, i think. don't you feel at home here with me? is there anything you miss? allan. i have never been better off, but--there is something here that smothers me. curt. here by the sea? are you not fond of the sea? allan. yes, the open sea. but along the shores you find eelgrass, cuttlefish, jellyfish, sea-nettles, or whatever they are called. curt. you shouldn't stay indoors so much. go out and play tennis. allan. oh, that's no fun! curt. you are angry with judith, i guess? allan. judith? curt. you are so exacting toward people--it is not wise, for then you become isolated. allan. i am not exacting, but--it feels as if i were lying at the bottom of a pile of wood and had to wait my turn to get into the fire--and it weighs on me--all that is above weighs me down. curt. bide your turn. the pile grows smaller---allan. yes, but so slowly, so slowly. and in the meantime i lie here and grow mouldy. curt. it is not pleasant to be young. and yet you young ones are envied. allan. are we? would you change? curt. no, thanks! allan. do you know what is worse than anything else? it is to sit still and keep silent while the old ones talk nonsense--i know that i am better informed than they on some matters--and yet i must keep silent. well, pardon me, i am not counting you among the old. curt. why not? allan. perhaps because we have only just now become acquainted---curt. and because--your ideas of me have undergone a change? allan. yes. curt. during the years we were separated, i suppose you didn't always think of me in a friendly way? allan. no. curt. did you ever see a picture of me? allan. one, and it was very unfavourable. curt. and old-looking? allan. yes. curt. ten years ago my hair turned gray in a single night--it has since then resumed its natural color without my doing anything for it--let us talk of something else! there comes your aunt--my cousin. how do you like her? allan. i don't want to tell! curt. then i shall not ask you. alice. [_enters dressed in a very light-colored walking-suit and carrying a sunshade_] good morning, curt. [_gives him a glance signifying that_ allan _should leave_. curt. [_to_ allan] leave us, please. allan _goes out to the right_. alice _takes a seat on the sofa to the left_. curt _sits down on a chair near her_. alice. [_in some confusion_] he will be here in a moment, so you need not feel embarrassed. curt. and why should i? alice. you, with your strictness---curt. toward myself, yes---alice. of course--once i forgot myself, when in you i saw the liberator, but you kept your self-control--and for that reason we have a right to forget--what has never been. curt. forget it then! alice. however--i don't think _he_ has forgotten---curt. you are thinking of that night when his heart gave out and he fell on the floor--and when you rejoiced too quickly, thinking him already dead? alice. yes. since then he has recovered; but when he gave up drinking, he learned to keep silent, and now he is terrible. he is up to something that i cannot make out---curt. your husband, alice, is a harmless fool who has shown me all sorts of kindnesses---alice. beware of his kindnesses. i know them. curt. well, well---alice. he has then blinded you also? can you not see the danger? don't you notice the snares? curt. no. alice. then your ruin is certain. curt. oh, mercy! alice. think only, i have to sit here and see disaster stalking you like a cat--i point at it, but you cannot see it. curt. allan, with his unspoiled vision, cannot see it either. he sees nothing but judith, for that matter, and this seems to me a safeguard of our good relationship. alice. do you know judith? curt. a flirtatious little thing, with a braid down her back and rather too short skirts---alice. exactly! but the other day i saw her dressed up in long skirts--and then she was a young lady--and not so very young either, when her hair was put up. curt. she is somewhat precocious, i admit. alice. and she is playing with allan. curt. that's all right, so long as it remains play. alice. so _that_ is all right?--now edgar will be here soon, and he will take the easy-chair--he loves it with such passion that he could steal it. curt. why, he can have it! alice. let him sit over there, and we'll stay here. and when he talks--he is always talkative in the morning--when he talks of insignificant things, i'll translate them for you---curt. oh, my dear alice, you are too deep, far too deep. what could i have to fear as long as i look after my quarantine properly and otherwise behave decently? alice. you believe in justice and honour and all that sort of thing. curt. yes, and it is what experience has taught me. once i believed the very opposite--and paid dearly for it! alice. now he's coming! curt. i have never seen you so frightened before. alice. my bravery was nothing but ignorance of the danger. curt. danger? soon you'll have me frightened too! alice. oh, if i only could--there! _the_ captain _enters from the background, in civilian dress, black prince albert buttoned all the way, military cap, and a cane with silver handle. he greets them with a nod and goes straight to the easy-chair, where he sits down_. alice. [_to_ curt] let him speak first. captain. this is a splendid chair you have here, dear curt; perfectly splendid. curt. i'll give it to you, if you will accept it. captain. that was not what i meant---curt. but i mean it seriously. how much have i not received from you? captain. [_garrulously_] oh, nonsense! and when i sit here, i can overlook the whole island, all the walks; i can see all the people on their verandahs, all the ships on the sea, that are coming in and going out. you have really happened on the best piece of this island, which is certainly not an island of the blessed. or what do you say, alice? yes, they call it "little hell," and here curt has built himself a paradise, but without an eve, of course, for when she appeared, then the paradise came to an end. i say--do you know that this was a royal hunting lodge? curt. so i have heard. captain. you live royally, you, but, if i may say so myself, you have me to thank for it. alice. [_to_ curt] there--now he wants to steal you. curt. i have to thank you for a good deal. captain. fudge! tell me, did you get the wine cases? curt. yes. captain. and you are satisfied? curt. quite satisfied, and you may tell your dealer so. captain. his goods are always prime quality---alice. [_to_ curt] at second-rate prices, and you have to pay the difference. captain. what did you say, alice? alice. i? nothing! captain. well, when this quarantine station was about to be established, i had in mind applying for the position--and so i made a study of quarantine methods. alice. [_to_ curt] now he's lying! captain. [_boastfully_] and i did not share the antiquated ideas concerning disinfection which were then accepted by the government. for i placed myself on the side of the neptunists --so called because they emphasise the use of water---curt. beg your pardon, but i remember distinctly that it was i who preached water, and you fire, at that time. captain. i? nonsense! alice. [_aloud_] yes, i remember that, too. captain. you? curt. i remember it so much the better because---captain. [_cutting him short_] well, it's possible, but it does not matter. [_raising his voice_] however--we have now reached a point where a new state of affairs--[_to_ curt, _who wants to interrupt_] just a moment!--has begun to prevail--and when the methods of quarantining are about to become revolutionized. curt. by the by, do you know who is writing those stupid articles in that periodical? captain. [_flushing_] no, i don't know, but why do you call them stupid? alice. [_to_ curt] look out! it is he who writes them. curt. he?--[_to the_ captain] not very well advised, at least. captain. well, are you the man to judge of that? alice. are we going to have a quarrel? curt. not at all. captain. it is hard to keep peace on this island, but we ought to set a good example---curt. yes, can you explain this to me? when i came here i made friends with all the officials and became especially intimate with the regimental auditor--as intimate as men are likely to become at our age. and then, in a little while--it was shortly after your recovery--one after another began to grow cold toward me--and yesterday the auditor avoided me on the promenade. i cannot tell you how it hurt me! [_the_ captain _remains silent_] have you noticed any ill-feeling toward yourself? captain. no, on the contrary. alice. [_to_ curt] don't you understand that he has been stealing your friends? curt. [_to the_ captain] i wondered whether it might have anything to do with this new stock issue to which i refused to subscribe. captain. no, no--but can you tell me why you didn't subscribe? curt. because i have already put my small savings into your soda factory. and also because a new issue means that the old stock is shaky. captain. [_preoccupied_] that's a splendid lamp you have. where did you get it? curt. in the city, of course. alice. [_to_ curt] look out for your lamp! curt. [_to the_ captain] you must not think that i am ungrateful or distrustful, edgar. captain. no, but it shows small confidence to withdraw from an undertaking which you have helped to start. curt. why, ordinary prudence bids everybody save himself and what is his. captain. save? is there any danger then? do you think anybody wants to rob you? curt. why such sharp words? captain. were you not satisfied when i helped you to place your money at six per cent.? curt. yes, and even grateful. captain. you are not grateful--it is not in your nature, but this you cannot help. alice. [_to_ curt] listen to him! curt. my nature has shortcomings enough, and my struggle against them has not been very successful, but i do recognise obligations---captain. show it then! [_reaches out his hand to pick up a newspaper_] why, what is this? a death notice? [_reads_] the health commissioner is dead. alice. [_to_ curt] now he is speculating in the corpse---captain. [_as if to himself_] this is going to bring about certain--changes---curt. in what respect? captain. [_rising_] that remains to be seen. alice. [_to the_ captain] where are you going? captain. i think i'll have to go to the city--[_catches sight of a letter on the writing-table, picks it up as if unconsciously, reads the address, and puts it back_] oh, i hope you will pardon my absent-mindedness. curt. no harm done. captain. why, that's allan's drawing case. where is the boy? curt. he is out playing with the girls. captain. that big boy? i don't like it. and judith must not be running about like that. you had better keep an eye on your young gentleman, and i'll look after my young lady. [_goes over to the piano and strikes a few notes_] splendid tone in this instrument. a steinbech, isn't it? curt. a bechstein. captain. yes, you are well fixed. thank me for bringing you here. alice. [_to_ curt] he lies, for he tried to keep you away. captain. well, good-bye for a while. i am going to take the next boat. [_scrutinises the paintings on the walls as he goes out_. alice. well? curt. well? alice. i can't see through his plans yet. but--tell me one thing. this envelope he looked at--from whom is the letter? curt. i am sorry to admit--it was my one secret. alice. and he ferreted it out. can you see that he knows witchery, as i have told you before? is there anything printed on the envelope? curt. yes--"the citizens' union." alice. then he has guessed your secret. you want to get into the riksdag, i suppose. and now you'll see that he goes there instead of you. curt. has he ever thought of it? alice. no, but he is thinking of it now. i read it on his face while he was looking at the envelope. curt. that's why he has to go to the city? alice. no, he made up his mind to go when he read the death notice. curt. what has he to gain by the death of the health commissioner? alice. hard to tell! perhaps the man was an enemy who had stood in the way of his plans. curt. if he be as terrible as you say, then there is reason to fear him. alice. didn't you hear how he wanted to steal you, to tie your hands by means of pretended obligations that do not exist? for instance, he has done nothing to get you this position, but has, on the contrary, tried to keep you out of it. he is a man-thief, an insect, one of those wood-borers that eat up your insides so that one day you find yourself as hollow as a dying pine tree. he hates you, although he is bound to you by the memory of your youthful friendship---curt. how keen-witted we are made by our hatreds! alice. and stupid by our loves--blind and stupid! curt. oh, no, don't say that! alice. do you know what is meant by a vampire? they say it is the soul of a dead person seeking a body in which it may live as a parasite. edgar is dead--ever since he fell down on the floor that time. you see, he has no interests of his own, no personality, no initiative. but if he can only get hold of some other person he hangs on to him, sends down roots into him, and begins to flourish and blossom. now he has fastened himself on you. curt. if he comes too close i'll shake him off. alice. try to shake off a burr! listen: do you know why he does not want judith and allan to play? curt. i suppose he is concerned about their feelings. alice. not at all. he wants to marry judith to--the colonel! curt. [_shocked_] that old widower! alice. yes. curt. horrible! and judith? alice. if she could get the general, who is eighty, she would take him in order to bully the colonel, who is sixty. to bully, you know, that's the aim of her life. to trample down and bully--there you have the motto of _that_ family. curt. can this be judith? that maiden fair and proud and splendid? alice. oh, i know all about that! may i sit here and write a letter? curt. [_puts the writing-table in order_] with pleasure. alice. [_takes off her gloves and sits down at the writing-table_] now we'll try our hand at the art of war. i failed once when i tried to slay my dragon. but now i have mastered the trade. curt. do you know that it is necessary to load before you fire? alice. yes, and with ball cartridges at that! curt _withdraws to the right_. alice _ponders and writes_. allan _comes rushing in without noticing_ alice _and throws himself face downward on the sofa. he is weeping convulsively into a lace handkerchief_. alice. [_watches him for a while. then she rises and goes over to the sofa. speaks in a tender voice_] allan! allan _sits up disconcertedly and hides the handkerchief behind his back_. alice. [_tenderly, womanly, and with true emotion_] you should not be afraid of me, allan--i am not dangerous to you--what is wrong? are you sick? allan. yes. alice. in what way? allan. i don't know. alice. have you a headache? allan. no. alice. and your chest? pain? allan. yes. alice. pain--pain--as if your heart wanted to melt away. and it pulls, pulls---allan. how do you know? alice. and then you wish to die--that you were already dead--and everything seems so hard. and you can only think of one thing--always the same--but if two are thinking of the same thing, then sorrow falls heavily on one of them. [allan _forgets himself and begins to pick at the handkerchief_] that's the sickness which no one can cure. you cannot eat and you cannot drink; you want only to weep, and you weep so bitterly--especially out in the woods where nobody can see you, for at that kind of sorrow all men laugh--men who are so cruel! dear me! what do you want of her? nothing! you don't want to kiss her mouth, for you feel that you would die if you did. when your thoughts run to her, you feel as if death were approaching. and it is death, child--that sort of death--which brings life. but you don't understand it yet! i smell violets--it is herself. [_steps closer to_ allan _and takes the handkerchief gently away from him._] it is she, it is she everywhere, none but she! oh, oh, oh! [allan _cannot help burying his face in_ alice's _bosom_] poor boy! poor boy! oh, how it hurts, how it hurts! [_wipes off his tears with the handkerchief_] there, there! cry --cry to your heart's content. there now! then the heart grows lighter--but now, allan, rise up and be a man, or she will not look at you--she, the cruel one, who is not cruel. has she tormented you? with the lieutenant? you must make friends with the lieutenant, so that you two can talk of her. that gives a little ease also. allan. i don't want to see the lieutenant! alice. now look here, little boy, it won't be long before the lieutenant seeks you out in order to get a chance to talk of her. for--[allan _looks up with a ray of hope on his face_] well, shall i be nice and tell you? [allan _droops his head_] he is just as unhappy as you are. allan. [_happy_] no? alice. yes, indeed, and he needs somebody to whom he may unburden his heart when judith has wounded him. you seem to rejoice in advance? allan. does she not want the lieutenant? alice. she does not want you either, dear boy, for she wants the colonel. [allan _is saddened again_] is it raining again? well, the handkerchief you cannot have, for judith _is_ careful about her belongings and wants her dozen complete. [allan _looks dashed_] yes, my boy, such is judith. sit over there now, while i write another letter, and then you may do an errand for me. [_sits down at the writing-table and begins to write again_. lieutenant. [_enters from the background, with a melancholy face, but without being ridiculous. without noticing_ alice _he makes straight for_ allan] i say, cadet--[allan _rises and stands at attention_] please be seated. alice _watches them_. _the_ lieutenant _goes up to_ allan _and sits down beside him. sighs, takes out a lace handkerchief just like the other one, and wipes his forehead with it_. allan _stares greedily at the handkerchief_. _the_ lieutenant _looks sadly at_ allan. alice. _coughs_. _the_ lieutenant _jumps up and stands at attention_. alice. please be seated. lieutenant. i beg your pardon, madam---alice. never mind! please sit down and keep the cadet company--he is feeling a little lonely here on the island. [_writes_. lieutenant. [_conversing with_ allan _in low tone and uneasily_] it is awfully hot. allan. rather. lieutenant. have you finished the sixth book yet? allan. i have just got to the last proposition. lieutenant. that's a tough one. [_silence_] have you--[_seeking for words_] played tennis to-day? allan. no-o--the sun was too hot. lieutenant. [_in despair, but without any comical effect_] yes, it's awfully hot to-day! allan. [_in a whisper_] yes, it is very hot. [_silence_. lieutenant. have you--been out sailing to-day? allan. no-o, i couldn't get anybody to tend the jib. lieutenant. could you--trust me sufficiently to let me tend the jib? allan. [_respectfully as before_] that would be too great an honor for me, lieutenant. lieutenant. not at all, not at all! do you think--the wind might be good enough to-day--about dinner-time, say, for that's the only time i am free? allan. [_slyly_] it always calms down about dinner-time, and--that's the time miss judith has her lesson. lieutenant. [_sadly_] oh, yes, yes! hm! do you think---alice. would one of you young gentlemen care to deliver a letter for me? [allan _and the_ lieutenant _exchange glances of mutual distrust_]--to miss judith? [allan _and the_ lieutenant _jump up and hasten over to_ alice, _but not without a certain dignity meant to disguise their emotion_] both of you? well, the more safely my errand will be attended to. [_hands the letter to the_ lieutenant] if you please, lieutenant, i should like to have that handkerchief. my daughter is very careful about her things--there is a touch of pettiness in her nature--give me that handkerchief! i don't wish to laugh at you, but you must not make yourself ridiculous--needlessly. and the colonel does not like to play the part of an othello. [_takes the handkerchief_] away with you now, young men, and try to hide your feelings as much as you can. _the_ lieutenant _bows and goes out, followed closely by_ allan. alice. [_calls out_] allan! allan. [_stops unwillingly in the doorway_] yes, aunt. alice. stay here, unless you want to inflict more suffering on yourself than you can bear. allan. but he is going! alice. let him burn himself. but take care of yourself. allan. i don't want to take care of myself. alice. and then you cry afterward. and so i get the trouble of consoling you. allan. i want to go! alice. go then! but come back here, young madcap, and i'll have the right to laugh at you. [allan _runs after the_ lieutenant. [alice _writes again._ curt. [_enters_] alice, i have received an anonymous letter that is bothering me. alice. have you noticed that edgar has become another person since he put off the uniform? i could never have believed that a coat might make such a difference. curt. you didn't answer my question. alice. it was no question. it was a piece of information. what do you fear? curt. everything! alice. he went to the city. and his trips to the city are always followed by something dreadful. curt. but i can do nothing because i don't know from which quarter the attack will begin. alice. [_folding the letter_] we'll see whether i have guessed it. curt. will you help me then? alice. yes--but no further than my own interests permit. my own--that is my children's. curt. i understand that! do you hear how silent everything is--here on land, out on the sea, everywhere? alice. but behind the silence i hear voices--mutterings, cries! curt. hush! i hear something, too--no, it was only the gulls. alice. but i hear something else! and now i am going to the post-office--with this letter! _curtain_. _same stage setting_. allan _is sitting at the writing-table studying_. judith _is standing in the doorway. she wears a tennis hat and carries the handle-bars of a bicycle in one hand_. judith. can i borrow your wrench? allan. [_without looking up_] no, you cannot. judith. you are discourteous now, because you think i am running after you. allan. [_without crossness_] i am nothing at all, but i ask merely to be left alone. judith. [_comes nearer_] allan! allan. yes, what is it? judith. you mustn't be angry with me! allan. i am not. judith. will you give me your hand on that? allan. [_kindly_] i don't want to shake hands with you, but i am not angry--what do you want with me anyhow? judith. oh, but you're stupid! allan. well, let it go at that. judith. you think me cruel, and nothing else. allan. no, for i know that you are kind too--you _can_ be kind! judith. well--how can i help--that you and the lieutenant run around and weep in the woods? tell me, why do you weep? [allan _is embarrassed_] tell me now--i never weep. and why have you become such good friends? of what do you talk while you are walking about arm in arm? [allan _cannot answer_] allan, you'll soon see what kind i am and whether i can strike a blow for one i like. and i want to give you a piece of advice--although i have no use for tale-bearing. be prepared! allan. for what? judith. trouble. allan. from what quarter? judith. from the quarter where you least expect it. allan. well, i am rather used to disappointment, and life has not brought me much that was pleasant what's in store now? judith. [_pensively_] you poor boy--give me your hand! [allan _gives her his hand_] look at me! don't you dare to look at me? [allan _rushes out to the left in order to hide his emotion_. lieutenant. [_in from the background_] i beg your pardon! i thought that---judith. tell me, lieutenant, will you be my friend and ally? lieutenant. if you'll do me the honour---judith. yes--a word only--don't desert allan when disaster overtakes him. lieutenant. what disaster? judith. you'll soon see--this very day perhaps. do you like allan? lieutenant. the young man is my best pupil, and i value him personally also on account of his strength of character--yes, life has moments when strength is required [_with emphasis_] to bear up, to endure, to suffer, in a word! judith. that was more than one word, i should say. however, you like allan? lieutenant. yes. judith. look him up then, and keep him company. lieutenant. it was for that purpose i came here--for that and no other. i had no other object in my visit. judith. i had not supposed anything of that kind--of the kind you mean! allan went that way. [_pointing to the left_. lieutenant. [_goes reluctantly to the left_] yes--i'll do what you ask. judith. do, please. alice. [_in from the background_] what are you doing here? judith. i wanted to borrow a wrench. alice. will you listen to me a moment? judith. of course, i will. [alice _sits down on the sofa._ judith. [_remains standing_] but tell me quickly what you want to say. i don't like long lectures. alice. lectures? well, then--put up your hair and put on a long dress. judith. why? alice. because you are no longer a child. and you are young enough to need no coquetry about your age. judith. what does that mean? alice. that you have reached marriageable age. and your way of dressing is causing scandal. judith. then i shall do what you say. alice. you have understood then? judith. oh, yes. alice. and we are agreed? judith. perfectly. alice. on all points? judith. even the tenderest! alice. will you at the same time cease playing--with allan? judith. it is going to be serious then? alice. yes. judith. then we may just as well begin at once. _she has already laid aside the handle-bars. now she lets down the bicycle skirt and twists her braid into a knot which she fastens on top of her head with a hair-pin taken out of her mother's hair_. alice. it is not proper to make your toilet in a strange place. judith. am i all right this way? then i am ready. come now who dares! alice. now at last you look decent. and leave allan in peace after this. judith. i don't understand what you mean? alice. can't you see that he is suffering? judith. yes, i think i have noticed it, but i don't know why. i don't suffer! alice. that is _your_ strength. but the day will come--oh, yes, you shall know what it means. go home now, and don't forget--that you are wearing a long skirt. judith. must you walk differently then? alice. just try. judith. [_tries to walk like a lady_] oh, my feet are tied; i am caught, i cannot run any longer! alice. yes, child, now the walking begins, along the slow road toward the unknown, which you know already, but must pretend to ignore. shorter steps, and much slower--much slower! the low shoes of childhood must go, judith, and you have to wear boots. you don't remember when you laid aside baby socks and put on shoes, but i do! judith. i can never stand this! alice. and yet you must--must! judith. [_goes over to her mother and kisses her lightly on the cheek; then walks out with the dignified bearing of a lady, but forgetting the handle-bars_] good-bye then! curt. [_enters from the right_] so you're already here? alice. yes. curt. has _he_ come back? alice. yes. curt. how did he appear? alice. in full dress--so he has called on the colonel. and he wore two orders. curt. two? i knew he was to receive the order of the sword on his retirement. but what can the other one be? alice. i am not very familiar with those things, but there was a white cross within a red one. curt. it is a portuguese order then. let me see--tell me, didn't his articles in that periodical deal with quarantine stations in portuguese harbours? alice. yes, as far as i can recall. curt. and he has never been in portugal? alice. never. curt. but i have been there. alice. you shouldn't be so communicative. his ears and his memory are so good. curt. don't you think judith may have helped him to this honour? alice. well, i declare! there are limits--[rising] and you have passed them. curt. are we to quarrel now? alice. that depends on you. don't meddle with my interests. curt. if they cross my own, i have to meddle with them, although with a careful hand. here he comes! alice. and now it is going to happen. curt. what is--going to happen? alice. we shall see! curt. let it come to open attack then, for this state of siege is getting on my nerves. i have not a friend left on the island. alice. wait a minute! you sit on this side--he must have the easy-chair, of course--and then i can prompt you. captain. [_enters from the background, in full dress uniform, wearing the order of the sword and the portuguese order of christ_] good day! here's the meeting place. alice. you are tired--sit down. [_the_ captain, _contrary to expectation, takes a seat on the sofa to the left_] make yourself comfortable. captain. this is all right. you're too kind. alice. [_to_ curt] be careful--he's suspicious of us. captain. [_crossly_] what was that you said? alice. [_to_ curt] he must have been drinking. captain. [_rudely_] no-o, he has not. [_silence_] well--how have you been amusing yourselves? alice. and you? captain. are you looking at my orders? alice. no-o! captain. i guess not, because you are jealous--other-wise it is customary to offer congratulations to the recipient of honours. alice. we congratulate you. captain. we get things like these instead of laurel wreaths, such as they give to actresses. alice. that's for the wreaths at home on the walls of the tower---captain. which your brother gave you---alice. oh, how you talk! captain. before which i have had to bow down these twenty-five years--and which it has taken me twenty-five years to expose. alice. you have seen my brother? captain. rather! [alice _is crushed. silence_] and you, curt--you don't say anything, do you? curt. i am waiting. captain. well, i suppose you know the big news? curt. no. captain. it is not exactly agreeable for me to be the one who---curt. oh, speak up! captain. the soda factory has gone to the wall---curt. that's decidedly unpleasant! where does that leave you? captain. i am all right, as i sold out in time. curt. that was sensible. captain. but how about you? curt. done for! captain. it's your own fault. you should have sold out in time, or taken new stock. curt. so that i could lose that too. captain. no, for then the company would have been all right. curt. not the company, but the directors, for in my mind that new subscription was simply a collection for the benefit of the board. captain. and now i ask whether such a view of the matter will save your money? curt. no, i shall have to give up everything. captain. everything? curt. even my home, the furniture---captain. but that's dreadful! curt. i have experienced worse things. [_silence_. captain. that's what happens when amateurs want to speculate. curt. you surprise me, for you know very well that if i had not subscribed, i should have been boycotted. the supplementary livelihood of the coast population, toilers of the sea, inexhaustible capital, inexhaustible as the sea itself--philanthropy and national prosperity--thus you wrote and printed--and now you speak of it as speculation! captain. [_unmoved_] what are you going to do now? curt. have an auction, i suppose. captain. you had better. curt. what do you mean? captain. what i said! for there [_slowly_] are going to be some changes---curt. on the island? captain. yes--as, for instance,--your quarters are going to be exchanged for somewhat simpler ones. curt. well, well. captain. yes, the plan is to place the quarantine station on the outside shore, near the water. curt. my original idea! captain. [_dryly_] i don't know about that--for i am not familiar with your ideas on the subject. however it seems then quite natural that you dispose of the furniture, and it will attract much less notice--the scandal! curt. what? captain. the scandal! [_egging himself on_] for it is a scandal to come to a new place and immediately get into financial troubles which must result in a lot of annoyance to the relatives--particularly to the relatives. curt. oh, i guess i'll have to bear the worst of it. captain. i'll tell you one thing, my dear curt: if i had not stood by you in this matter, you would have lost your position. curt. that too? captain. it comes rather hard for you to keep things in order--complaints have been made against your work. curt. warranted complaints? captain. yah! for you are--in spite of your other respectable qualities--a careless fellow--don't interrupt me! you are a very careless fellow! curt. how strange! captain. however--the suggested change is going to take place very soon. and i should advise you to hold the auction at once or sell privately. curt. privately? and where could i find a buyer in this place? captain. well, i hope you don't expect me to settle down in the midst of your things? that would make a fine story--[_staccato_] hm!--especially when i--think of what happened--once upon a time---curt. what was that? are you referring to what did _not_ happen? captain. [_turning about_] you are so silent, alice? what is the matter, old girl? not blue, i hope? alice. i sit here and think---captain. goodness! are you thinking? but you have to think quickly, keenly, and correctly, if it is to be of any help! so do your thinking now--one, two, three! ha-ha! you can't! well, then, i must try--where is judith? alice. somewhere. captain. where is allan? [alice _remains silent_] where is the lieutenant? [alice _as before_] i say, curt--what are you going to do with allan now? curt. do with him? captain. yes, you cannot afford to keep him in the artillery now. curt. perhaps not. captain. you had better get him into some cheap infantry regiment--up in norrland, or somewhere. curt. in norrland? captain. yes, or suppose you turned him into something practical at once? if i were in your place, i should get him into some business office--why not? [curt _is silent_] in these enlightened times--yah! alice is so _uncommonly_ silent! yes, children, this is the seesawing seesaw board of life--one moment high up, looking boldly around, and the next way down, and then upward again, and so on--so much for that--[_to_ alice] did you say anything? [alice _shakes her head_] we may expect company here in a few days. alice. were you speaking to me? captain. we may expect company in a few days--notable company! alice. who? captain. behold--you're interested! now you can sit there and guess who is coming, and between guesses you may read this letter over again. [_hands her an opened letter_. alice. my letter? opened? back from the mail? captain. [_rising_] yes, as the head of the family and your guardian, i look after the sacred interests of the family, and with iron hand i shall cut short every effort to break the family ties by means of criminal correspondence. yah! [alice _is crushed_] i am not dead, you know, but don't take offence now because i am going to raise us all out of undeserved humility--undeserved on my own part, at least! alice. judith! judith! captain. and holofernes? i, perhaps? pooh! [_goes out through the background_. curt. who is that man? alice. how can i tell? curt. we are beaten. alice. yes--beyond a doubt. curt. he has stripped me of everything, but so cleverly that i can accuse him of nothing. alice. why, no--you owe him a debt of gratitude instead! curt. does he know what he is doing? alice. no, i don't think so. he follows his nature and his instincts, and just now he seems to be in favour where fortune and misfortune are being meted out. curt. i suppose it's the colonel who is to come here. alice. probably. and that is why allan must go. curt. and you find that right? alice. yes. curt. then our ways part. alice. [_ready to go_] a little--but we shall come together again. curt. probably. alice. and do you know where? curt. here. alice. you guess it? curt. that's easy! he takes the house and buys the furniture. alice. i think so, too. but don't desert me! curt. not for a little thing like that. alice. good-bye. [_goes_. curt. good-bye. _curtain_. _same stage setting, but the day is cloudy and it is raining outside_. alice _and_ curt _enter from the background, wearing rain coats and carrying umbrellas_. alice. at last i have got you to come here! but, i cannot be so cruel as to wish you welcome to your own home---curt. oh, why not? i have passed through three forced sales--and worse than that--it doesn't matter to me. alice. did he call you? curt. it was a formal command, but on what basis i don't understand. alice. why, he is not your superior! curt. no, but he has made himself king of the island. and if there be any resistance, he has only to mention the colonel's name, and everybody submits. tell me, is it to-day the colonel is coming? alice. he is expected--but i know nothing with certainty--sit down, please. curt. [_sitting down_] nothing has been changed here. alice. don't think of it! don't renew the pain! curt. the pain? i find it merely a little strange. strange as the man himself. do you know, when i made his acquaintance as a boy, i fled him. but he was after me. flattered, offered services, and surrounded me with ties--i repeated my attempt at escape, but in vain--and now i am his slave! alice. and why? he owes you a debt, but you appear as the debtor. curt. since i lost all i had, he has offered me help in getting allan through his examinations---alice. for which you will have to pay dearly! you are still a candidate for the riksdag? curt. yes, and, so far as i can see, there is nothing in my way. [_silence_. alice. is allan really going to leave to-day? curt. yes, if i cannot prevent it. alice. that was a short-lived happiness. curt. short-lived as everything but life itself, which lasts all too long. alice. too long, indeed!--won't you come in and wait in the sitting-room? even if it does not trouble you, it troubles me--these surroundings! curt. if you wish it---alice. i feel ashamed, so ashamed that i could wish to die--but i can alter nothing! curt. let us go then--as you wish it. alice. and somebody is coming too. [_they go out to the left_. _the_ captain _and_ allan _enter from the background, both in uniform and wearing cloaks_. captain. sit down, my boy, and let me have a talk with you. [_sits down in the easy-chair_. [allan _sits down on the chair to the left_. captain. it's raining to-day--otherwise i could sit here comfortably and look at the sea. [_silence_] well?--you don't like to go, do you? allan. i don't like to leave my father. captain. yes, your father--he is rather an unfortunate man. [_silence_] and parents rarely understand the true welfare of their children. that is to say--there are exceptions, of course. hm! tell me, allan, have you any communication with your mother? allan. yes, she writes now and then---captain. do you know that she is your guardian? allan. yes. captain. now, allan, do you know that your mother has authorised me to act in her place? allan. i didn't know that! captain. well, you know it now. and, therefore, all discussions concerning your career are done with--and you are going to norrland. allan. but i have no money. captain. i have arranged for what you need. allan. all i can do then is to thank you, uncle. captain. yes, _you_ are grateful--which everybody is not. hm!--[_raising his voice_] the colonel--do you know the colonel? allan. [_embarrassed_] no, i don't. captain. [_with emphasis_] the colonel--is my special friend--[_a little more hurriedly_] as you know, perhaps. hm! the colonel has wished to show his interest in my family, including my wife's relatives. through his intercession, the colonel has been able to provide the means needed for the completion of your course. now you understand the obligation under which you and your father are placed toward the colonel. have i spoken with sufficient plainness? [allan _bows_] go and pack your things now. the money will be handed to you at the landing. and now good-bye, my boy. [_holds out a finger to_ allan] good-bye then. [_rises and goes out to the right_. [allan, _alone, stands still, looking sadly around the room_. judith. [_enters from the background, wearing a hooded rain coat and carrying an umbrella; otherwise exquisitely dressed, in long skirt and with her hair put up_] is that you, allan! allan. [_turning around, surveys_ judith _carefully_] is that you, judith? judith. you don't know me any longer? where have you been all this time? what are you looking at? my long dress--and my hair--you have not seen me like this before? allan. no-o---judith. do i look like a married woman? [allan _turns away from her_. judith. [_earnestly_] what are you doing here? allan. i am saying good-bye. judith. what? you are going--away? allan. i am transferred to norrland. judith. [_dumfounded_] to norrland? when are you going? allan. to-day. judith. whose doing is this? allan. your father's. judith. that's what i thought! [_walks up and down the floor, stamping her feet_] i wish you had stayed over to-day. allan. in order to meet the colonel? judith. what do you know about the colonel?--is it certain that you are going? allan. there is no other choice. and now i want it myself. [_silence_. judith. why do you want it now? allan. i want to get away from here--out into the world! judith. it's too close here? yes, allan, i understand you--it's unbearable here--here, where they speculate--in soda and human beings! [silence. judith. [_with genuine emotion_] as you know, allan, i possess that fortunate nature which cannot suffer--but--now i am learning! allan. you? judith. yes--now it's beginning! [_she presses both hands to her breast_] oh, how it hurts--oh! allan. what is it? judith. i don't know--i choke--i think i'm going to die! allan. judith? judith. [_crying out_] oh! is this the way it feels? is this the way--poor boys! allan. i should smile, if i were as cruel as you are. judith. i am not cruel, but i didn't know better--you must not go! allan. i have to! judith. go then--but give me a keepsake! allan. what have i to give you? judith. [_with all the seriousness of deepest suffering_] you!--no, i can never live through this! [_cries out, pressing her breast with both hands_] i suffer, i suffer--what have you done to me? i don't want to live any longer! allan, don't go--not alone! let us go together--we'll take the small boat, the little white one--and we'll sail far out, with the main sheet made fast--the wind is high--and we sail till we founder out there, way out, where there is no eelgrass and no jelly-fish--what do you say?--but we should have washed the sails yesterday--they should be white as snow--for i want to see white in that moment--and you swim with your arm about me until you grow tired--and then we sink--[_turning around_] there would be style in that, a good deal more style than in going about here lamenting and smuggling letters that will be opened and jeered at by father--allan! [_she takes hold of both his arms and shakes him_] do you hear? allan. [_who has been watching her with shining eyes_] judith! judith! why were you not like this before? judith. i didn't know--how could i tell what i didn't know? allan. and now i must go away from you! but i suppose it is the better, the only thing! i cannot compete with a man--like---judith. don't speak of the colonel! allan. is it not true? judith. it is true--and it is not true. allan. can it become wholly untrue? judith. yes, so it shall--within an hour! allan. and you keep your word? i can wait, i can suffer, i can work--judith! judith. don't go yet! how long must i wait? allan. a year. judith. [_exultantly_] one? i shall wait a thousand years, and if you do not come then, i shall turn the dome of heaven upside down and make the sun rise in the west--hush, somebody is coming! allan, we must part--take me into your arms! [_they embrace each other_] but you must not kiss me. [_turns her head away_] there, go now! go now! allan _goes toward the background and puts on his cloak. then they rush into each other's arms so that_ judith _disappears beneath the cloak, and for a moment they exchange kisses_. allan _rushes out_. judith _throws herself face downward on the sofa and sobs_. allan. [_comes back and kneels beside the sofa_] no, i cannot go! i cannot go away from you--not now! judith. [_rising_] if you could only see how beautiful you are now! if you could only see yourself! allan. oh, no, a man cannot be beautiful. but you, judith! you--that you--oh, i saw that, when you were kind, another judith appeared--and she's mine!--but if you don't keep faith with me now, then i shall die! judith. i think i am dying even now--oh, that i might die now, just now, when i am so happy---allan. somebody is coming! judith. let them come! i fear nothing in the world hereafter. but i wish you could take me along under your cloak. [_she hides herself in play under his cloak_] and then i should fly with you to norrland. what are we to do in norrland? become a fusilier--one of those that wear plumes on their hats? there's style in that, and it will be becoming to you. [_plays with his hair._ allan _kisses the tips of her fingers, one by one--and then he kisses her shoe_. judith. what are you doing, mr. madcap? your lips will get black. [_rising impetuously_] and then i cannot kiss you when you go! come, and i'll go with you! allan. no, then i should be placed under arrest. judith. i'll go with you to the guard-room. allan. they wouldn't let you! we must part now! judith. i am going to swim after the steamer--and then you jump in and save me--and it gets into the newspapers, and we become engaged. shall we do that? allan. you can still jest? judith. there will always be time for tears--say good-bye now!--- _they rush into each other's arms; then_ allan _withdraws slowly through the door in the background,_ judith _following him; the door remains open after them; they embrace again outside, in the rain_. allan. you'll get wet, judith. judith. what do i care! _they tear themselves away from each other_. allan _leaves_. judith _remains behind, exposing herself to the rain and to the wind, which strains at her hair and her clothes while she is waving her handkerchief. then_ judith _runs back into the room and throws herself on the sofa, with her face buried in her hands_. alice. [_enters and goes over to_ judith] what is this?--get up and let me look at you. [judith _sits up_. alice. [_scrutinising her_] you are not sick--and i am not going to console you. [_goes out to the right_. _the_ lieutenant _enters from the background_. judith. [_gets up and puts on the hooded coat_] come along to the telegraph office, lieutenant. lieutenant. if i can be of any service--but i don't think it's quite proper---judith. so much the better! i want you to compromise me--but without any illusions on your part--go ahead, please! [_they go out through the background_. _the_ captain _and_ alice _enter from the right; he is in undress uniform_. captain. [_sits down in the easy-chair_] let him come in. alice _goes over to the door on the left and opens it, whereupon she sits down on the sofa_. curt. [_enters from the left_] you want to speak to me? captain. [_pleasantly, but somewhat condescendingly_] yes, i have quite a number of important things to tell you. sit down. curt. [_sits down on the chair to the left_] i am all ears. captain. well, then!--[_bumptiously_] you know that our quarantine system has been neglected during nearly a century--hm! alice. [_to_ curt] that's the candidate for the riksdag who speaks now. captain. but with the tremendous development witnessed by our own day in---alice. [_to_ curt] the communications, of course! captain.--all kinds of ways the government has begun to consider improvements. and for this purpose the board of health has appointed inspectors--hm! alice. [_to_ curt] he's giving dictation. captain. you may as well learn it now as later--i have been appointed an inspector of quarantines. [_silence_. curt. i congratulate--and pay my respects to my superior at the same time. captain. on account of ties of kinship our personal relations will remain unchanged. however--to speak of other things--at my request your son allan has been transferred to an infantry regiment in norrland. curt. but i don't want it. captain. your will in this case is subordinate to the mother's wishes--and as the mother has authorised me to decide, i have formed this decision. curt. i admire you! captain. is that the only feeling you experience at this moment when you are to part from your son? have you no other purely human feelings? curt. you mean that i ought to be suffering? captain. yes. curt. it would please you if i suffered. you wish me to suffer. captain. _you_ suffer?--once i was taken sick--you were present and i can still remember that your face expressed nothing but undisguised pleasure. alice. that is not true! curt sat beside your bed all night and calmed you down when your qualms of conscience became too violent--but when you recovered you ceased to be thankful for it---captain. [_pretending not to hear_ alice] consequently allan will have to leave us. curt. and who is going to pay for it? captain. i have done so already--that is to say, we--a syndicate of people interested in the young man's future. curt. a syndicate? captain. yes--and to make sure that everything is all right you can look over these subscription lists. [_hands him some papers_. curt. lists? [_reading the papers_] these are begging letters? captain. call them what you please. curt. have you gone begging on behalf of my son? captain. are you ungrateful again? an ungrateful man is the heaviest burden borne by the earth. curt. then i am dead socially! and my candidacy is done for! captain. what candidacy? curt. for the riksdag, of course. captain. i hope you never had any such notions--particularly as you might have guessed that i, as an older resident, intended to offer my own services, which you seem to underestimate. curt. oh, well, then that's gone, too! captain. it doesn't seem to trouble you very much. curt. now you have taken everything--do you want more? captain. have you anything more? and have you anything to reproach me with? consider carefully if you have anything to reproach me with. curt. strictly speaking, no! everything has been correct and legal as it should be between honest citizens in the course of daily life---captain. you say this with a resignation which i would call cynical. but your entire nature has a cynical bent, my dear curt, and there are moments when i feel tempted to share alice's opinion of you--that you are a hypocrite, a hypocrite of the first water. curt. [_calmly_] so that's alice's opinion? alice. [_to_ curt] it was--once. but not now, for it takes true heroism to bear what you have borne--or it takes something else! captain. now i think the discussion may be regarded as closed. you, curt, had better go and say good-bye to allan, who is leaving with the next boat. curt. [_rising_] so soon? well, i have gone through worse things than that. captain. you say that so often that i am beginning to wonder what you went through in america? curt. what i went through? i went through misfortunes. and it is the unmistakable right of every human being to suffer misfortune. captain. [_sharply_] there are self-inflicted misfortunes--were yours of that kind? curt. is not this a question of conscience? captain. [_brusquely_] do you mean to say you have a conscience? curt. there are wolves and there are sheep, and no human being is honoured by being a sheep. but i'd rather be that than a wolf! captain. you don't recognise the old truth, that everybody is the maker of his own fortune? curt. is _that_ a truth? captain. and you don't know that a man's own strength---curt. yes, i know that from the night when your own strength failed you, and you lay flat on the floor. captain. [_raising his voice_] a deserving man like myself --yes, look at me--for fifty years i have fought--against a world--but at last i have won the game, by perseverance, loyalty, energy, and--integrity! alice. you should leave that to be said by others! captain. the others won't say it because they are jealous. however--we are expecting company--my daughter judith will to-day meet her intended--where is judith? alice. she is out. captain. in the rain? send for her. curt. perhaps i may go now? captain. no, you had better stay. is judith dressed--properly? alice. oh, so-so--have you definite word from the colonel that he is coming? captain. [_rising_] yes--that is to say, he will take us by surprise, as it is termed. and i am expecting a telegram from him--any moment. [_goes to the right_] i'll be back at once. alice. there you see him as he is! can he be called human? curt. when you asked that question once before, i answered no. now i believe him to be the commonest kind of human being of the sort that possess the earth. perhaps we, too, are of the same kind--making use of other people and of favourable opportunities? alice. he has eaten you and yours alive--and you defend him? curt. i have suffered worse things. and this man-eater has left my soul unharmed--_that_ he couldn't swallow! alice. what "worse" have you suffered? curt. and _you_ ask that? alice. do you wish to be rude? curt. no, i don't wish to--and therefore--don't ask again! captain. [_enters from the right_] the telegram was already there, however--please read it, alice, for i cannot see--[_seats himself pompously in the easy-chair_] read it! you need not go, curt. alice _glances through the telegram quickly and looks perplexed_. captain. well? don't you find it pleasing? [alice _stares in silence at the_ captain. captain. [_ironically_] who is it from? alice. from the colonel. captain. [_with self-satisfaction_] so i thought--and what does the colonel say? alice. this is what he says: "on account of miss judith's impertinent communication over the telephone, i consider the relationship ended--for ever!" [_looks intently at the_ captain. captain. once more, if you please. alice. [_reads rapidly_] "on account of miss judith's impertinent communication over the telephone, i consider the relationship ended--for ever!" captain. [_turns pale_] it is judith! alice. and there is holofernes! captain. and what are you? alice. soon you will see! captain. this is your doing! alice. no! captain. [_in a rage_] this is your doing! alice. no! [_the_ captain _tries to rise and draw his sabre, but falls back, touched by an apoplectic stroke_] there you got what was coming to you! captain. [_with senile tears in his voice_] don't be angry at me--i am very sick---alice. are you? i am glad to hear it. curt. let us put him to bed. alice. no, i don't want to touch him. [_rings_. captain. [_as before_] you must not be angry at me! [_to_ curt] look after my children! curt. this is sublime! i am to look after his children, and he has stolen mine! alice. always the same self-deception! captain. look after my children! [_continues to mumble unintelligibly_] blub-blub-blub-blub. alice. at last that tongue is checked! can brag no more, lie no more, wound no more! you, curt, who believe in god, give him thanks on my behalf. thank him for my liberation from the tower, from the wolf, from the vampire! curt. not that way, alice! alice. [_with her face close to the_ captain's] where is your own strength now? tell me? where is your energy? [_the_ captain, _speechless, spits in her face_] oh, you can still squirt venom, you viper--then i'll tear the tongue out of your throat! [_cuffs him on the ear_] the head is off, but still it blushes!--o, judith, glorious girl, whom i have carried like vengeance under my heart--you, you have set us free, all of us!--? if you have more heads than one, hydra, we'll take them! [_pulls his beard_] think only that justice exists on the earth! sometimes i dreamed it, but i could never believe it. curt, ask god to pardon me for misjudging him. oh, there is justice! so i will become a sheep, too! tell him that, curt! a little success makes us better, but adversity alone turns us into wolves. _the_ lieutenant _enters from the background_. alice. the captain has had a stroke--will you please help us to roll out the chair? lieutenant. madam---alice. what is it? lieutenant. well, miss judith---alice. help us with this first--then you can speak of miss judith afterward. [_the_ lieutenant _rolls out the chair to the right_. alice. away with the carcass! out with it, and let's open the doors! the place must be aired! [_opens the doors in the background; the sky has cleared_] ugh! curt. are you going to desert him? alice. a wrecked ship is deserted, and the crew save their lives--i'll not act as undertaker to a rotting beast! drainmen and dissectors may dispose of him! a garden bed would be too good for that barrowful of filth! now i am going to wash and bathe myself in order to get rid of all this impurity--if i can ever cleanse myself completely! judith _is seen outside, by the balustrade, waving her handkerchief toward the sea_. curt. [_toward the background_] who is there? judith! [_calls out_] judith! judith.[_cries out as she enters_] he is gone! curt. who? judith. allan is gone! curt. without saying good-bye? judith. he did to me, and he sent his love to you, uncle. alice. oh, that was it! judith. [_throwing herself into_ curt's _arms_] he is gone! curt. he will come back, little girl. alice. or we will go after him! curt. [_with a gesture indicating the door on the right_] and leave him? what would the world---alice. the world--bah! judith, come into my arms! [judith _goes up to_ alice, _who kisses her on the forehead_] do you want to go after him? judith. how can you ask? alice. but your father is sick. judith. what do i care! alice. this is judith! oh, i love you, judith! judith. and besides, papa is never mean--and he doesn't like cuddling. there's style to papa, after all. alice. yes, in a way! judith. and i don't think he is longing for me after that telephone message--well, why should he pester me with an old fellow? no, allan, allan! [_throws herself into_ curt's _arms_] i want to go to allan! _tears herself loose again and runs out to wave her handkerchief_ [curt _follows her and waves his handkerchief also_. alice. think of it, that flowers can grow out of dirt! _the_ lieutenant _in from the right_. alice. well? lieutenant. yes, miss judith---alice. is the feeling of those letters that form her name so sweet on your lips that it makes you forget him who is dying? lieutenant. yes, but she said---alice. she? say rather judith then! but first of all--how goes it in there? lieutenant. oh, in there--it's all over! alice. all over? o, god, on my own behalf and that of all mankind, i thank thee for having freed us from this evil! your arm, if you please--i want to go outside and get a breath--breathe! [_the_ lieutenant _offers his arm_. alice. [_checks herself_] did he say anything before the end came? lieutenant. miss judith's father spoke a few words only. alice. what did he say? lieutenant. he said: "forgive them, for they know not what they do!" alice. inconceivable! lieutenant. yes, miss judith's father was a good and noble man. alice. curt! curt _enters_. alice. it is over! curt. oh! alice. do you know what his last words were? no, you can never guess it. "forgive them, for they know not what they do!" curt. can you translate it? alice. i suppose he meant that he had always done right and died as one that had been wronged by life. curt. i am sure his funeral sermon will be fine. alice. and plenty of flowers--from the non-commissioned officers. curt. yes. alice. about a year ago he said something like this: "it looks to me as if life were a tremendous hoax played on all of us!" curt. do you mean to imply that he was playing a hoax on us up to the very moment of death? alice. no--but now, when he is dead, i feel a strange inclination to speak well of him. curt. well, let us do so! lieutenant. miss judith's father was a good and noble man. alice. [_to_ curt] listen to that! curt. "they know not what they do." how many times did i not ask you whether he knew what he was doing? and you didn't think he knew. therefore, forgive him! alice. riddles! riddles! but do you notice that there is peace in the house now? the wonderful peace of death. wonderful as the solemn anxiety that surrounds the coming of a child into the world. i hear the silence--and on the floor i see the traces of the easy-chair that carried him away--and i feel that now my own life is ended, and i am starting on the road to dissolution! do you know, it's queer, but those simple words of the lieutenant--and his is a simple mind--they pursue me, but now they have become serious. my husband, my youth's beloved--yes, perhaps you laugh!--he _was_ a good and noble man--nevertheless! curt. nevertheless? and a brave one--as he fought for his own and his family's existence! alice. what worries! what humiliations! which he wiped out--in order to pass on! curt. he was one who had been passed by! and that is to say much! alice, go in there! alice. no, i cannot do it! for while we have been talking here, the image of him as he was in his younger years has come back to me--i have seen him, i see him--now, as when he was only twenty--i must have loved that man! curt. and hated him! alice. and hated!--peace be with him! _goes toward the right door and stops in front of it, folding her hands as if to pray_. _curtain_. (images generously made available by the internet archive, university of california (l.a.) plays by august strindberg third series swanwhite simoom debit and credit advent the thunderstorm after the fire translated from the swedish with an introduction by edwin björkman authorized edition new york charles scribner's sons 1921 contents introduction swanwhite simoom debit and credit advent the thunderstorm after the fire introduction the collection of plays contained in this volume is unusually representative, giving what might be called a cross-section of strindberg's development as a dramatist from his naturalistic revolt in the middle eighties, to his final arrival at resigned mysticism and swedenborgian symbolism. "swanwhite" was written in the spring of 1901, about the time when strindberg was courting and marrying his third wife, the gifted swedish actress harriet bosse. in the fall of 1902 the play appeared in book form, together with "the crown bride" and "the dream play," all of them being issued simultaneously, at berlin, in a german translation made by emil schering. schering, who at that time was in close correspondence with strindberg, says that the figure of _swanwhite_ had been drawn with direct reference to miss bosse, who had first attracted the attention of strindberg by her spirited interpretation of _biskra_ in "simoom." and schering adds that it was strindberg's bride who had a little previously introduced him to the work of maeterlinck, thereby furnishing one more of the factors determining the play. concerning the influence exerted upon him by the belgian playwright-philosopher, strindberg himself wrote in a pamphlet named "open letters to the intimate theatre" (stockholm, 1909): "i had long had in mind skimming the cream of our most beautiful folk-ballads in order to turn them into a picture for the stage. then maeterlinck came across my path, and under the influence of his puppet-plays, which are not meant for the regular stage, i wrote my swedish scenic spectacle, 'swanwhite.' it is impossible either to steal or to borrow from maeterlinck. it is even difficult to become his pupil, for there are no free passes that give entrance to his world of beauty. but one may be urged by his example into searching one's own dross-heaps for gold--and it is in that sense i acknowledge my debt to the master. "pushed ahead by the _impression_ made on me by maeterlinck, and borrowing his divining-rod for my purposes, i turned to such sources [_i.e._, of swedish folk-lore] as the works of geijer, afzelius, and dybeck. there i found a superabundance of princes and princesses. the stepmother theme i had discovered on my own hook as a _constant_--it figures in twenty-six different swedish folk-tales. in the same place i found the resurrection theme, as, for instance, it appears in the story of _queen dagmar_. then i poured it all into my separator, together with the _maids_, the _green gardener_ and the _young king_, and in a short while the cream began to flow--and for that reason the story is my own. but it has also been made so by the fact that i have lived through that tale in my own fancy--a spring in time of winter!" swedish critics have been unanimous in their praise of this play. john landquist, who has since become strindberg's literary executor, spoke of it once as "perhaps the most beautiful and most genuine fairy tale for old or young ever written in the swedish language." tor hedberg has marvelled at the charm with which _swanwhite_ herself has been endowed--"half child, half maid; knowing nothing, yet guessing all; playing with love as a while ago she was playing with her dolls." on the stage, too--in germany as well as in sweden--little _swanwhite_ has celebrated great triumphs. whether that figure, and the play surrounding it, will also triumph in english-speaking countries, remains still to be seen. but if, contrary to my hopes, it should fail to do so, i want, in advance, to shift the blame from the shoulders of the author to my own. in hardly any other work by strindberg do form and style count for so much. the play is, in its original shape, as poetical in form as in spirit--even to the extent of being strongly rhythmical in its prose, and containing many of the inversions which are so characteristic of swedish verse. it is not impossible to transfer these qualities into english, but my efforts to do so have had to be influenced by certain differences in the very _grain_ of the two languages involved. like all other languages, each possesses a natural basic rhythm. this rhythm varies frequently and easily in swedish, so that you may pass from iambic to trochaic metre without giving offence to the ear--or to that subtle rhythmical susceptibility that seems to be inherent in our very pulses. but the rhythm dearest and most natural to the genius of the swedish language seems to be the falling pulse-beat manifested in the true trochee. the swing and motion of english, on the other hand, is almost exclusively, commandingly iambic. and it was not until i made the iambic _rising_ movement prevail in my translation, that i felt myself approaching the impression made on me by the original. but for that very reason--because the genius of the new medium has forced me into making the movement of my style more monotonous--it is to be feared that the rhythmical quality of that movement may seem overemphasised. should such a criticism be advanced, i can only answer: i have tried several ways, and this is the only one that will _work_. "simoom" seems to have been written in 1888, in close connection with "creditors" and "pariah." and, like these, it shows the unmistakable influence of edgar allan poe, with whose works strindberg had become acquainted a short while before. the play was first printed in one of the three thin volumes of varied contents put out by strindberg in 1890 and 1891 under the common title of "pieces printed and unprinted." but, strange to say, it was not put on the stage (except in a few private performances) until 1902, although, from a purely theatrical viewpoint, strindberg--master of stagecraft though he was--had rarely produced a more effective piece of work. "debit and credit" belongs to the same general period as the previous play, but has in it more of nietzsche than of poe. its central figure is also a sort of superman, but as such he is not taken too seriously by his creator. the play has humour, but it is of a grim kind--one seems to be hearing the gritting of teeth through the laughter. like "simoom," however, it should be highly effective on the stage. it was first published in 1893, with three other one-act plays, the volume being named "dramatic pieces." "advent" was published in 1899, together with "there are crimes and crimes," under the common title of "in a higher court." its name refers, of course, to the ecclesiastical designation of the four weeks preceding christmas. the subtitle, literally rendered, would be "a mystery." but as this term has a much wider application in swedish than in english, i have deemed it better to observe the distinction which the latter language makes between mysteries, miracle-plays, and moralities. the play belongs to what strindberg called his "inferno period," during which he struggled in a state of semi-madness to rid himself of the neurasthenic depression which he regarded as a punishment brought about by his previous attitude of materialistic scepticism. it is full of swedenborgian symbolism, which, perhaps, finds its most characteristic expression in the two scenes laid in "the waiting room." the name selected by strindberg for the region where dwell the "lost" souls of men is not a mere euphemism. it signifies his conception of that place as a station on the road to redemption or annihilation. in its entirety the play forms a christmas sermon with a quaint blending of law and gospel. a prominent swedish critic, johan mortensen, wrote: "reading it, one almost gets the feeling that strindberg, the dread revolutionist, has, of a sudden, changed into a nice village school-teacher, seated at his desk, with his rattan cane laid out in front of him. he has just been delivering a lesson in christianity, and he has noticed that the attention of the children strayed and that they either failed to understand or did not care to take in the difficult matters he was dealing with. but they must be made to listen and understand. and so--with serious eyes, but with a sly smile playing around the corners of his mouth--he begins all over again, in that fairy-tale style which never grows old: 'once upon a time!'" in november, 1907, a young theatrical manager, august falck, opened the intimate theatre at stockholm. from the start strindberg was closely connected with the venture, and soon the little theatre, with its tiny stage and its auditorium seating only one hundred and seventy-five persons, was turned wholly into a strindberg stage, where some of the most interesting and daring theatrical experiments of our own day were made. with particular reference to the needs and limitations of this theatre, strindberg wrote a series of "chamber plays," four of which were published in 1907--each one of them appearing separately in a paper-covered duodecimo volume. the first of these plays to appear in book form--though not the first one to be staged--was "the thunder-storm," designated on the front cover as "opus i." two of the principal ideas underlying its construction were the abolition of intermissions--which, according to strindberg, were put in chiefly for the benefit of the liquor traffic in the theatre café--and the reduction of the stage-setting to quickly inter-changeable backgrounds and a few stage-properties. concerning the production of "the thunder-storm," at the intimate theatre, strindberg wrote subsequently that, in their decorative effects, the first and last scenes were rather failures. but he held the lack of space wholly responsible for this failure. his conclusion was that the most difficult problem of the small theatre would be to give the illusion of distance required by a scene laid in the open--particularly in an open place surrounded or adjoined by buildings. of the second act he wrote, on the other hand, that it proved a triumph of artistic simplification. the only furniture appearing on the stage consisted of a buffet, a piano, a dinner-table and a few chairs--that is, the pieces expressly mentioned in the text of the play. and yet the effect of the setting satisfied equally the demands of the eye and the reason. "the thunder-storm" might be called a drama of old age--nay, _the_ drama of man's inevitable descent through a series of resignations to the final dissolution. its subject-matter is largely autobiographical, embodying the author's experiences in his third and last marriage, as seen in retrospect--the anticipatory conception appearing in "swanwhite." however, justice to miss harriet bosse, who was mrs. strindberg from 1901 to 1904, requires me to point out that echoes of the dramatist's second marriage also appear, especially in the references to the postmarital relationship. "after the fire" was published as "opus ii" of the chamber-plays, and staged ahead of "the thunder-storm." its swedish name is _brända tomten_, meaning literally "the burned-over site." this name has previously been rendered in english as "the burned lot" and "the fire ruins." both these titles are awkward and ambiguous. the name i have now chosen embodies more closely the fundamental premise of the play. the subject-matter is even more autobiographical than that of "the thunder-storm"--almost as much so as "the bondwoman's son." the perished home is strindberg's own at the north tollgate street in stockholm, where he spent the larger part of his childhood and youth. the old _mason_, the _gardener_, the _stone-cutter_, and other figures appearing in the play are undoubtedly lifted straight out of real life--and so are probably also the exploded family reputation and the cheap table painted to represent ebony--although one may take for granted that the process has not taken place without a proper disguising of externals. there is one passage in this little play which i want to point out as containing one of the main keys to strindberg's character and art. it is the passage where _the stranger_--who, of course, is none but the author himself--says to his brother: "i have beheld life from every quarter, from every standpoint, from above and from below, but always it has seemed to me like a scene staged for my particular benefit." swanwhite (svanehvit) a fairy play 1902 characters the duke the stepmother swanwhite the prince signe } elsa } _maids_ tova } the kitchen gardener the fisherman the mother of swanwhite the mother of the prince the gaoler the equerry the butler the flower gardener two knights _an apartment in a mediæval stone castle. the walls and the cross-vaulted ceiling are whitewashed. in the centre of the rear wall is a triple-arched doorway leading to a balcony with a stone balustrade. there are draperies of brocade over the doorway. beyond the balcony appear the top branches of a rose-garden, laden with white and pink roses. in the background there can be seen a white, sandy beach and the blue sea_. _to the right of the main doorway is a small door which, when left open, discloses a vista of three closets, one beyond the other. the first one is stored with vessels of pewter arranged on shelves. the walls of the second closet are hung with all sorts of costly and ornate garments. the third closet contains piles and rows of apples, pears, melons, pumpkins, and so forth_. _the floors of all the rooms are inlaid with alternating squares of black and red. at the centre of the apartment stands a gilded dinner-table covered with a cloth; a twig of mistletoe is suspended above the table. a clock and a vase filled with roses stand on the table, near which are placed two gilded tabourets. two swallows' nests are visible on the rear wall above the doorway. a lion skin is spread on the floor near the foreground. at the left, well to the front, stands a white bed with a rose-coloured canopy supported by two columns at the head of the bed (and by none at the foot). the bed-clothing is pure white except for a coverlet of pale-blue silk. across the bed is laid a night-dress of finest muslin trimmed with lace. behind the bed stands a huge wardrobe containing linen, bathing utensils, and toilet things. a small gilded table in roman style (with round top supported by a single column) is placed near the bed; also a lamp-stand containing a roman lamp of gold. at the right is an ornamental chimney-piece. on the mantel stands a vase with a white lily in it_. _in the left arch of the doorway, a peacock is asleep on a perch, with its back turned toward the audience_. _in the right arch hangs a huge gilded cage with two white doves at rest_. _as the curtain rises, the three maids are seen in the doorways of the three closets, each one half hidden by the door-post against which she leans_. signe, _the false maid, is in the pewter-closet_, elsa _in the clothes-closet, and_ tova _in the fruit-closet_. _the_ duke _enters from the rear. after him comes the_ stepmother _carrying in her hand a wire-lashed whip_. _the stage is darkened when they enter_. * * * * * stepmother. swanwhite is not here? duke. it seems so! stepmother. so it seems, but--is it seemly? maids!--signe!--signe, elsa, tova! _the maids enter, one after the other, and stand in front of the_ stepmother. stepmother. where is lady swanwhite? signe _folds her arms across her breast and makes no reply_. stepmother. you do not know? what see you in my hand?--answer, quick! [_pause_] quick! do you hear the whistling of the falcon? it has claws of steel, as well as bill! what is it? signe. the wire-lashed whip! stepmother. the wire-lashed whip, indeed! and now, where is lady swan white? signe. how can i tell what i don't know? stepmother. it is a failing to be ignorant, but carelessness is an offence. were you not placed as guardian of your young mistress?--take off your neckerchief!--down on your knees! _the_ duke _turns his back on her in disgust_. stepmother. hold out your neck! and i'll put such a necklace on it that no youth will ever kiss it after this!--hold out your neck!--still more! signe. for christ's sake, mercy! stepmother. 'tis mercy that you are alive! duke. [_pulls out his sword and tries the edge of it, first on one of his finger-nails, and then on a hair out of his long beard_] her head should be cut off--put in a sack--hung on a tree---stepmother. so it should! duke. we are agreed! how strange! stepmother. it did not happen yesterday. duke. and may not happen once again. stepmother. [_to_ signe, _who, still on her knees, has been moving farther away_] stop! whither? [_she raises the whip and strikes_; signe _turns aside so that the lash merely cuts the air_.] swanwhite. [_comes forward from behind the bed and falls on her knees_] stepmother--here i am--the guilty one! she's not at fault. stepmother. say "mother"! you must call me "mother"! swanwhite. i cannot! one mother is as much as any human being ever had. stepmother. your father's wife must be your mother. swanwhite. my father's second wife can only be my stepmother. stepmother. you are a stiffnecked daughter, but my whip is pliant and will make you pliant too. [_she raises the whip to strike_ swanwhite. duke. [_raising his sword_] take heed of the head! stepmother. whose head? duke. your own! _the_ stepmother _turns pale at first, and then angry; but she controls herself and remains silent; long pause_. stepmother. [_beaten for the moment, she changes her tone_] then will your grace inform your daughter what is now in store for her? duke. [_sheathing his sword_] rise up, my darling child, and come into my arms to calm yourself. swanwhite. [_throwing herself into the arms of the_ duke] father!--you're like a royal oak-tree which my arms cannot encircle. but beneath your leafage there is refuge from all threatening showers. [_she hides her head beneath his immense beard, which reaches down to his waist_] and like a bird, i will be swinging on your branches--lift me up, so i can reach the top. _the_ duke _holds out his arm_. swanwhite. [_climbs up on his arm and perches herself on his shoulder_] now lies the earth beneath me and the air above--now i can overlook the rosery, the snowy beach, the deep-blue sea, and all the seven kingdoms stretched beyond. duke. then you can also see the youthful king to whom your troth is promised---swanwhite. no--nor have i ever seen him. is he handsome? duke. dear heart, it will depend on your own eyes how he appears to you. swanwhite. [_rubbing her eyes_] my eyes?--they cannot see what is not beautiful. duke. [_kissing her foot_] poor little foot, that is so black! poor little blackamoorish foot! _the_ stepmother _gives a sign to the maids, who resume their previous positions in the closet doors; she herself steals with panther-like movements out through the middle arch of the doorway_. swanwhite. [_leaps to the floor; the_ duke _places her on the table and sits down on a chair beside it_; swanwhite _looks meaningly after the_ stepmother] was it the dawn? or did the wind turn southerly? or has the spring arrived? duke. [_puts his hand over her mouth_] you little chatter-box! you joy of my old age--my evening star! now open wide your rosy ear, and close your little mouth's crimson shell. give heed, obey, and all will then be well with you. swanwhite. [_putting her fingers in her ears_] with my eyes i hear, and with my ears i see--and now i cannot see at all, but only hear. duke. my child, when still a cradled babe, your troth was plighted to the youthful king of rigalid. you have not seen him yet, such being courtly usage. but the time to tie the sacred knot is drawing near. to teach you the deportment of a queen and courtly manners, the king has sent a prince with whom you are to study reading out of books, gaming at chess, treading the dance, and playing on the harp. swanwhite. what is the prince's name? duke. that, child, is something you must never ask of him or anybody else. for it is prophesied that whosoever calls him by his name shall have to love him. swanwhite. is he handsome? duke. he is, because your eye sees beauty everywhere. swanwhite. but is he beautiful? duke. indeed he is. and now be careful of your little heart, and don't forget that in the cradle you were made a queen.--with this, dear child, i leave you, for i have war to wage abroad.--submit obediently to your stepmother. she's hard, but once your father loved her--and a sweet temper will find a way to hearts of stone. if, despite of promises and oaths, her malice should exceed what is permissible, then you may blow this horn [_he takes a horn of carved ivory from under his cloak_], and help will come. but do not use it till you are in danger--not until the danger is extreme.--have you understood? swanwhite. how is it to be understood? duke. this way: the prince is here, is in the court already. is it your wish to see the prince? swanwhite. is it my wish? duke. or shall i first bid you farewell? swanwhite. the prince is here already? duke. already here, and i--already there--far, far away where sleeps the heron of forgetfulness, with head beneath his wing. swanwhite. [_leaping into the lap of the_ duke _and burying her head in his beard_] mustn't speak like that! baby is ashamed! duke. baby should be spanked--who forgets her aged father for a little prince. fie on her! _a trumpet is heard in the distance_. duke. [_rises quickly, takes_ swanwhite _in his arms_, _throws her up into the air and catches her again_] fly, little bird, fly high above the dust, with lots of air beneath your wings!--and then, once more on solid ground!--i am called by war and glory--you, by love and youth! [_girding on his sword_] and now hide your wonder-horn, that it may not be seen by evil eyes. swanwhite. where shall i hide it? where? duke. the bed! swanwhite. [_hiding the horn in the bed-clothing_] there! sleep well, my little tooteroot! when it is time, i'll wake you up. and don't forget your prayers! duke. and child! do not forget what i said last: your stepmother must be obeyed. swanwhite. in all? duke. in all. swanwhite. but not in what is contrary to cleanliness!--two linen shifts my mother let me have each sennight; this woman gives but one! and mother gave me soap and water, which stepmother denies. look at my little footies! duke. keep clean within, my daughter, and clean will be the outside. you know that holy men, who, for the sake of penance, deny themselves the purging waters, grow white as swans, while evil ones turn raven-black. swanwhite. then i will be as white----! duke. into my arms! and then, farewell! swanwhite. [_throwing herself into his arms_] farewell, my great and valiant hero, my glorious father! may fortune follow you, and make you rich in years and friends and victories! duke. amen--and let your gentle prayers be my protection! [_he closes the visor of his golden helmet_. swanwhite. [_jumps up and plants a kiss on the visor_] the golden gates are shut, but through the bars i still can see your kindly, watchful eyes. [_knocking at the visor_] let up, let up, for little red riding-hood. no one at home? "well-away," said the wolf that lay in the bed! duke. [_putting her down on the floor_] sweet flower of mine, grow fair and fragrant! if i return--well--i return! if not, then from the starry arch above my eye shall follow you, and never to my sight will you be lost, for there above all-seeing we become, even as the all-creating lord himself. _goes out firmly, with a gesture that bids her not to follow._ swanwhite _falls on her knees in prayer for the_ duke; _all the rose-trees sway before a wind that passes with the sound of a sigh; the peacock shakes its wings and tail_. swanwhite. [_rises, goes to the peacock and begins to stroke its back and tail_] pavo, dear pavo, what do you see and what do you hear? is any one coming? who is it? a little prince? is he pretty and nice? you, with your many blue eyes, should be able to tell. [_she lifts up one of the bird's tail feathers and gazes intently at its "eye"_.] are you to keep your eyes on us, you nasty argus? are you to see that the little hearts of two young people don't beat too loudly?--you stupid thing--all i have to do is to close the curtain! [_she closes the curtain, which hides the bird, but not the landscape outside; then she goes to the doves_] my white doves--oh, so white, white, white--now you'll see what is whitest of all--be silent, wind, and roses, and doves--my prince is coming! _she looks out for a moment; then she withdraws to the pewter-closet, leaving the door slightly ajar so that through the opening she can watch the_ prince; _there she remains standing, visible to the spectators but not to the_ prince. prince. [_enters through the middle arch of the doorway. he wears armour of steel; what shows of his clothing is black. having carefully observed everything in the room, he sits down at the table, takes off his helmet and begins to study it. his back is turned toward the door behind which_ swanwhite _is hiding_] if anybody be here, let him answer! [_silence_] there is somebody here, for i can feel the warmth of a young body come billowing toward me like a southern wind. i can hear a breath--it carries the fragrance of roses--and, gentle though it be, it makes the plume on my helmet move. [_he puts the helmet to his ear_] 'tis murmuring as if it were a huge shell. it's the thoughts within my own head that are crowding each other like a swarm of bees in a hive. "zum, zum," say the thoughts--just like bees that are buzzing around their queen--the little queen of my thoughts and of my dreams! [_he places the helmet on the table and gazes at it_] dark and arched as the sky at night, but starless, for the black plume is spreading darkness everywhere since my mother's death--[_he turns the helmet around and gazes at it again_] but there, in the midst of the darkness, deep down--there, on the other side, i see a rift of light!--has the sky been split open?--and there, in the rift, i see--not a star, for it would look like a diamond--but a blue sapphire, queen of the precious stones--blue as the sky of summer--set in a cloud white as milk and curved as the dove's egg. what is it? my ring? and now another feathery cloud, black as velvet, passes by--and the sapphire is smiling--as if sapphires could smile! and there, the lightning flashed, but blue--heat-lightning mild, that brings no thunder!--what are you? who? and where? [_he looks at the back of the helmet_] not here! not there! and nowhere else! [_he puts his face close to the helmet_] as i come nearer, you withdraw. swanwhite _steals forward on tiptoe_. prince. and now there are two--two eyes--two little human eyes--i kiss you! [_he kisses the helmet_. swanwhite _goes up to the table and seats herself slowly opposite the_ prince. _the_ prince _rises, bows, with his hand to his heart, and gazes steadily at_ swanwhite. swanwhite. are you the little prince? prince. the faithful servant of the king, and yours! swanwhite. what message does the young king send his bride? prince. this is his word to lady swanwhite--whom lovingly he greets--that by the thought of coming happiness the long torment of waiting will be shortened. swanwhite. [_who has been looking at the_ prince _as if to study him_] why not be seated, prince? prince. if seated when you sit, then i should have to kneel when you stand up. swanwhite. speak to me of the king! how does he look? prince. how does he look? [_putting one of his hands up to his eyes_] i can no longer see him--how strange! swanwhite. what is his name? prince. he's gone--invisible---swanwhite. and is he tall? prince. [_fixing his glance on_ swanwhite] wait!--i see him now!--taller than you! swanwhite. and beautiful? prince. not in comparison with you! swanwhite. speak of the king, and not of me! prince. i do speak of the king! swanwhite. is his complexion light or dark? prince. if he were dark, on seeing you he would turn light at once. swanwhite. there's more of flattery than wit in that! his eyes are blue? prince. [_glancing at his helmet_] i think i have to look? swanwhite. [_holding out her hand between them_] oh, you--you! prince. you with _t h_ makes youth! swanwhite. are you to teach me how to spell? prince. the young king is tall and blond and blue-eyed, with broad shoulders and hair like a new-grown forest---swanwhite. why do you carry a black plume? prince. his lips are red as the ripe currant, his cheeks are white, and the lion's cub needn't be ashamed of his teeth. swanwhite. why is your hair wet? prince. his mind knows no fear, and no evil deed ever made his heart quake with remorse. swanwhite. why is your hand trembling? prince. we were to speak of the young king and not of me! swanwhite. so, you, you are to teach me? prince. it is my task to teach you how to love the young king whose throne you are to share. swanwhite. how did you cross the sea? prince. in my bark and with my sail. swanwhite. and the wind so high? prince. without wind there is no sailing. swanwhite. little boy--how wise you are!--will you play with me? prince. what i must do, i will. swanwhite. and now i'll show you what i have in my chest. [_she goes to the chest and kneels down beside it; then she takes out several dolls, a rattle, and a hobby-horse_] here's the doll. it's my child--the child of sorrow that can never keep its face clean. in my own arms i have carried her to the lavendrey, and there i have washed her with white sand--but it only made her worse. i have spanked her--but nothing helped. now i have figured out what's worst of all! prince. and what is that? swanwhite. [_after a glance around the room_] i'll give her a stepmother! prince. but how's that to be? she should have a mother first. swanwhite. i am her mother. and if i marry twice, i shall become a stepmother. prince. oh, how you talk! that's not the way! swanwhite. and you shall be her stepfather. prince. oh, no! swanwhite. you must be very kind to her, although she cannot wash her face.--here, take her--let me see if you have learned to carry children right. _the_ prince _receives the doll unwillingly_. swanwhite. you haven't learned yet, but you will! now take the rattle, too, and play with her. _the_ prince _receives the rattle_. swanwhite. that's something you don't understand, i see. [_she takes the doll and the rattle away from him and throws them back into the chest; then she takes out the hobby-horse_] here is my steed.--it has saddle of gold and shoes of silver.--it can run forty miles in an hour, and on its back i have travelled through sounding forest, across big heath and king's bridge, along high road and fearful alley, all the way to the lake of tears. and there it dropped a golden shoe that fell into the lake, and then came a fish, and after came a fisherman, and so i got the golden shoe back. that's all there was to that! [_she throws the hobby-horse into the chest; instead she takes out a chess-board with red and white squares, and chess-men made of silver and gold_] if you will play with me, come here and sit upon the lion skin. [_she seats herself on the skin and begins to put up the pieces_] sit down, won't you--the maids can't see us here! _the_ prince _sits down on the skin, looking very embarrassed_. swanwhite. it's like sitting in the grass--not the green grass of the meadow, but the desert grass which has been burned by the sun.--now you must say something about me! do you like me a little? prince. are we to play? swanwhite. to play? what care i for that?--oh--you were to teach me something! prince. poor me, what can i do but saddle a horse and carry arms--with which you are but poorly served. swanwhite. you are so sad! prince. my mother died quite recently. swanwhite. poor little prince!--my mother, too, has gone to god in heaven, and she's an angel now. sometimes in the nights i see her--do you also see yours? prince. no-o. swanwhite. and have you got a stepmother? prince. not yet. so little time has passed since she was laid to rest. swanwhite. don't be so sad! there's nothing but will wear away in time, you see. now i'll give you a flag to gladden you again--oh, no, that's right--this one i sewed for the young king. but now i'll sew another one for you!--this is the king's, with seven flaming fires--you shall have one with seven red roses on it--but first of all you have to hold this skein of yarn for me. [_she takes from the chest a skein of rose-coloured yarn and hands it to the_ prince] one, two, three, and now you'll see!--your hands are trembling--that won't do!--perhaps you want a hair of mine among the yarn?--pull one yourself! prince. oh, no, i couldn't---swanwhite. i'll do it, then, myself. [_she pulls a hair from her head and winds it into the ball of yarn_] what is your name? prince. you shouldn't ask. swanwhite. why not? prince. the duke has told you--hasn't he? swanwhite. no, he hasn't! what could happen if you told your name? might something dreadful happen? prince. the duke has told you, i am sure. swanwhite. i never heard of such a thing before--of one who couldn't tell his name! _the curtain behind which the peacock is hidden moves; a faint sound as of castanets is heard_. prince. what was that? swanwhite. that's pavo--do you think he knows what we are saying? prince. it's hard to tell. swanwhite. well, what's your name? _again the peacock makes the same kind of sound with his bill_. prince. i am afraid--don't ask again! swanwhite. he snaps his bill, that's all--keep your hands still!--did you ever hear the tale of the little princess that mustn't mention the name of the prince, lest something happen? and do you know----? _the curtain hiding the peacock is pulled aside, and the bird is seen spreading out his tail so that it looks as if all the "eyes" were staring at_ swanwhite _and the_ prince. prince. who pulled away the curtain? who made the bird behold us with its hundred eyes?--you mustn't ask again! swanwhite. perhaps i mustn't--down, pavo--there! _the curtain resumes its previous position_. prince. is this place haunted? swanwhite. you mean that things will happen--just like that? oh, well, so much is happening here--but i have grown accustomed to it. and then, besides--they call my stepmother a witch--there, now, i have pricked my finger! prince. what did you prick it with? swanwhite. there was a splinter in the yarn. the sheep have been locked up all winter--and then such things will happen. please see if you can get it out. prince. we must sit at the table then, so i can see. [_they rise and take seats at the table_. swanwhite. [_holding out one of her little fingers_] can you see anything? prince. what do i see? your hand is red within, and through it all the world and life itself appear in rosy colouring---swanwhite. now pull the splinter out--ooh, it hurts! prince. but i shall have to hurt you, too--and ask your pardon in advance! swanwhite. oh, help me, please! prince. [_squeezing her little finger and pulling out the splinter with his nails_] there is the cruel little thing that dared to do you harm. swanwhite. now you must suck the blood to keep the wound from festering. prince. [_sucking the blood from her finger_] i've drunk your blood--and so i am your foster-brother now. swanwhite. my foster-brother--so you were at once--or how do you think i could have talked to you as i have done? prince. if you have talked to me like that, how did i talk to you? swanwhite. just think, he didn't notice it!--and now i have got a brother of my own, and that is you!--my little brother--take my hand! prince. [_taking her hand_] my little sister! [_feels her pulse beating under his thumb_] what have you there, that's ticking--one, and two, and three, and four----? _continues to count silently after having looked at his watch_. swanwhite. yes, tell me what it is that ticks--so steady, steady, steady? it cannot be my heart, for that is here, beneath my breast--put your hand here, and you can feel it too. [_the doves begin to stir and coo_] what is it, little white ones? prince. and sixty! now i know what makes that ticking--it is the time! your little finger is the second-hand that's ticking sixty times for every minute that goes by. and don't you think there is a heart within the watch? swanwhite. [_handling the watch_] we cannot reach the inside of the watch--no more than of the heart--just feel my heart! signe. [_enters from the pewter-closet carrying a whip, which she puts down on the table_] her grace commands that the children be seated at opposite sides of the table. _the_ prince _sits down at the opposite end of the table. he and_ swanwhite _look at each other in silence for a while_. swanwhite. now we are far apart, and yet a little nearer than before. prince. it's when we part that we come nearest to each other. swanwhite. and you know that? prince. i have just learned it! swanwhite. now my instruction has begun. prince. you're teaching me! swanwhite. [_pointing to a dish of fruit_] would you like some fruit? prince. no, eating is so ugly. swanwhite. yes, so it is. prince. three maids are standing there--one in the pewter-closet, one among the clothes, and one among the fruits. why are they standing there? swanwhite. to watch us two--lest we do anything that is forbidden. prince. may we not go into the rosery? swanwhite. the morning is the only time when i can go into the rosery, for there the bloodhounds of my stepmother are kept. they never let me reach the shore--and so i get no chance to bathe. prince. have you then never seen the shore? and never heard the ocean wash the sand along the beach? swanwhite. no--never! here i can only hear the roaring waves in time of storm. prince. then you have never heard the murmur made by winds that sweep across the waters? swanwhite. it cannot reach me here. prince. [_pushing his helmet across the table to_ swanwhite] put it to your ear and listen. swanwhite. [_with the helmet at her ear_] what is that i hear? prince. the song of waves, the whispering winds swanwhite. no, i hear human voices--hush! my stepmother is speaking--speaking to the steward--and mentioning my name--and that of the young king, too! she's speaking evil words. she's swearing that i never shall be queen--and vowing that--you--shall take that daughter of her own--that loathsome lena---prince. indeed!--and you can hear it in the helmet? swanwhite. i can. prince. i didn't know of that. but my godmother gave me the helmet as a christening present. swanwhite. give me a feather, will you? prince. it is a pleasure--great as life itself. swanwhite. but you must cut it so that it will write. prince. you know a thing or two! swanwhite. my father taught me--- _the_ prince _pulls a black feather out of the plume on his helmet; then he takes a silver-handled knife from his belt and cuts the quill_. swanwhite _takes out an ink-well and parchment from a drawer in the table_. prince. who is lady lena? swanwhite. you mean, what kind of person? you want her, do you? prince. some evil things are brewing in this house---swanwhite. fear not! my father has bestowed a gift on me that will bring help in hours of need. prince. what is it called? swanwhite. it is the horn stand-by. prince. where is it hid? swanwhite. read in my eye. i dare not let the maids discover it. prince. [_gazing at her eyes_] i see! swanwhite. [_pushing pen, ink and parchment across the table to the_ prince] write it. _the_ prince _writes_. swanwhite. yes, that's the place. [_she writes again._ prince. what do you write? swanwhite. names--all pretty names that may be worn by princes! prince. except my own! swanwhite. yours, too! prince. leave that alone! swanwhite. here i have written twenty names--all that i know--and so your name must be there, too. [_pushing the parchment across the table_] read! _the_ prince _reads_. swanwhite. oh, i have read it in your eye! prince. don't utter it! i beg you in the name of god the merciful, don't utter it! swanwhite. i read it in his eye! prince. but do not utter it, i beg of you! swanwhite. and if i do? what then?--can lena tell, you think? your bride! your love! prince. oh, hush, hush, hush! swanwhite. [_jumps up and begins to dance_] i know his name--the prettiest name in all the land! _the_ prince _runs up to her, catches hold of her and covers her mouth with his hand_. swanwhite. i'll bite your hand; i'll suck your blood; and so i'll be your sister twice--do you know what that can mean? prince. i'll have two sisters then. swanwhite. [_throwing back her head_] o-ho! o-ho! behold, the ceiling has a hole, and i can see the sky--a tiny piece of sky, a window-pane--and there's a face behind it. is it an angel's?--see--but see, i tell you!--it's your face! prince. the angels are not boys, but girls. swanwhite. but it is you. prince. [_looking up_] 'tis a mirror. swanwhite. woe to us then! it is the witching mirror of my stepmother, and she has seen it all. prince. and in the mirror i can see the fireplace--there's a pumpkin hanging in it! swanwhite. [_takes from the fireplace a mottled, strangely shaped pumpkin_] what can it be? it has the look of an ear. the witch has heard us, too!--alas, alas! [_she throws the pumpkin into the fireplace and runs across the floor toward the bed; suddenly she stops on one foot, holding up the other_] oh, she has strewn the floor with needles--- [_she sits down and begins to rub her foot_. _the_ prince _kneels in front of_ swanwhite _in order to help her_. swanwhite. no, you mustn't touch my foot--you mustn't! prince. dear heart, you must take off your stocking if i am to help. swanwhite. [_sobbing_] you mustn't--mustn't see my foot! prince. but why? why shouldn't i? swanwhite. i cannot tell; i cannot tell. go--go away from me! to-morrow i shall tell you, but i can't to-day. prince. but then your little foot will suffer--let me pull the needle out! swanwhite. go, go, go!--no, no, you mustn't try!--oh, had my mother lived, a thing like this could not have happened!--mother, mother, mother! prince. i cannot understand--are you afraid of me----? swanwhite. don't ask me, please--just leave me--oh! prince. what have i done? swanwhite. don't leave me, please--i didn't mean to hurt you--but i cannot tell--if i could only reach the shore--the white sand of the beach---prince. what then? swanwhite. i cannot tell! i cannot tell! [_she hides her face in her hands. once more the peacock makes a rattling sound with his bill; the doves begin to stir; the three maids enter, one after the other; a gust of wind is heard, and the tops of the rose-trees outside swing back and forth; the golden clouds that have been hanging over the sea disappear, and the blue sea itself turns dark_. swanwhite. does heaven itself intend to judge us?--is ill-luck in the house?--oh, that my sorrow had the power to raise my mother from her grave! prince. [_.putting his hand on his sword_] my life for yours! swanwhite. no, don't--she puts the very swords to sleep!--oh, that my sorrow could bring back my mother! [_the swallows chirp in their nest_] what was that? prince. [_catching sight of the nest_] a swallow's nest! i didn't notice it before. swanwhite. nor i! how did it get there? when?--but all the same it augurs good--and yet the cold sweat of fear is on my brow--and i choke--look, how the rose itself is withering because that evil woman comes this way--for it is she who comes--- _the rose on the table is closing its blossom and drooping its leaves_. prince. but whence came the swallows? swanwhite. they were not sent by her, i'm sure, for they are kindly birds--now she is here! stepmother. [_enters from the rear with the walk of a panther; the rose on the table is completely withered_] signe--take the horn out of the bed! signe _goes up to the bed and takes the horn_. stepmother. where are you going, prince? prince. the day is almost done, your grace; the sun is setting, and my bark is longing to get home. stepmother. the day is too far gone--the gates are shut, the dogs let loose--you know my dogs? prince. indeed! you know my sword? stepmother. what is the matter with your sword? prince. it bleeds at times. stepmother. well, well! but not with women's blood, i trust?--but listen, prince: how would like to sleep in our blue room? prince. by god, it is my will to sleep at home, in my own bed---stepmother. is that the will of anybody else? prince. of many more. stepmother. how many?--more than these!--one, two, three--- _as she counts, the members of the household begin to pass by in single file across the balcony; all of them look serious; some are armed; no one turns his head to look into the room; among those that pass are the_ butler, _the_ steward, _the_ kitchener, _the_ gaoler, _the_ constable, _the_ equerry. prince. i'll sleep in your blue room. stepmother. that's what i thought.--so you will bid ten thousand good-nights unto your love--and so will swanwhite, too, i think! _a swan comes flying by above the rosery; from the ceiling a poppy flower drops down on the_ stepmother, _who falls asleep at once, as do the maids_. swanwhite. [_going up to the_ prince] good-night, my prince! prince. [_takes her hand and says in a low voice_] good-night!--oh, that it's granted me to sleep beneath one roof with you, my princess--your dreams by mine shall be enfolded--and then to-morrow we shall wake for other games and other---swanwhite. [_in the same tone_] you are my all on earth, you are my parent now--since she has robbed me of my puissant father's help.--look, how she sleeps! prince. you saw the swan? swanwhite. no, but i heard--it was my mother. prince. come, fly with me! swanwhite. no, that we mustn't!--patience! we'll meet in our dreams!--but this will not be possible unless--you love me more than anybody else on earth! oh, love me--you, you, you! prince. my king, my loyalty---swanwhite. your queen, your heart--or what am i? prince. i am a knight! swanwhite. but i am not. and therefore--therefore do i take you--my prince--- _she puts her hands up to her mouth with a gesture as if she were throwing a whispered name to him_. prince. oh, woe! what have you done? swanwhite. i gave myself to you through your own name--and with me, carried on _your_ wings, yourself came back to you! oh---[_again she whispers the name_. prince. [_with a movement of his hand as if he were catching the name in the air_] was that a rose you threw me? [_he throws a kiss to her_. swanwhite. a violet you gave me--that was you--your soul! and now i drink you in--you're in my bosom, in my heart--you're mine! prince. and you are mine! who is the rightful owner, then? swanwhite. both! prince. both! you and i!--my rose! swanwhite. my violet! prince. my rose! swanwhite. my violet! prince. i _love_ you! swanwhite. _you_ love _me_! prince. you _love_ me! swanwhite. _i_ love _you_! _the stage grows light again. the rose on the table recovers and opens. the faces of the_ stepmother _and the three maids are lighted up and appear beautiful, kind, and happy. the_ stepmother _lifts up her drowsy head and, while her eyes remain closed, she seems to be watching the joy of the two young people with a sunny smile_. swanwhite. look, look! the cruel one is smiling as at some memory from childhood days. see how signe the false seems faith and hope embodied, how the ugly tova has grown beautiful, the little elsa tall. prince. our love has done it. swanwhite. so that is love? blessed be it by the lord! the lord omnipotent who made the world! [_she falls on her knees, weeping_. prince. you weep? swanwhite. because i am so full of joy. prince. come to my arms and you will smile. swanwhite. there i should die, i think. prince. well, smile and die! swanwhite. [_rising_] so be it then! [_the_ prince _takes her in his arms._ stepmother. [_wakes up; on seeing the_ prince _and_ swanwhite _together, she strikes the table with the whip_] i must have slept!--oho! so we have got that far!--the blue room did i say?--i meant the blue tower!--there the prince is to sleep with the duke of exeter's daughter!--maids! _the maids wake up_. stepmother. show the prince the shortest way to the blue tower. and should he nevertheless lose his way, you may summon the castellan and the gaoler, the equerry and the constable. prince. no need of that! wherever leads my course--through fire or water, up above the clouds or down in the solid earth--there shall i meet my swanwhite, for she is with me where i go. so now i go to meet her--in the tower! can you beat that for witchcraft, witch?--too hard, i think, for one who knows not love! [_he goes out followed by the maids_. stepmother. [_to_ swanwhite] not many words are needed--tell your wishes--but be brief! swanwhite. my foremost, highest wish is for some water with which to lave my feet. stepmother. cold or warm? swanwhite. warm--if i may. stepmother. what more? swanwhite. a comb to ravel out my hair. stepmother. silver or gold? swanwhite. are you--are you kind? stepmother. silver or gold? swanwhite. wood or horn will do me well enough. stepmother. what more? swanwhite. a shift that's clean. stepmother. linen or silk? swanwhite. just linen. stepmother. good! so i have heard your wishes. now listen to mine! i wish that you may have no water, be it warm or cold! i wish that you may have no comb, of any kind, not even of wood or horn--much less of gold or silver. that's how kind i am! i wish that you may wear no linen --but get you at once into the closet there to cover up your body with that dingy sark of homespun! such is my word!--and if you try to leave these rooms--which you had better not, as there are traps and snares around--then you are doomed--or with my whip i'll mark your pretty face so that no prince or king will ever look at you again!--then get yourself to bed! _she strikes the table with her whip again, rises and goes out through the middle arch of the doorway; the gates, which have gilded bars, squeak and rattle as she closes and locks them_. _curtain_. _the same scene as before, but the golden gates at the rear are shut. the peacock and the doves are sleeping. the golden clouds in the sky are as dull in colour as the sea itself and the land that appears in the far distance_. swanwhite _is lying on the bed; she has on a garment of black homespun_. _the doors to the three closets are open. in each doorway stands one of the maids, her eyes closed and in one of her hands a small lighted lamp of roman pattern_. _a swan is seen flying above the rosery, and trumpet-calls are heard, like those made by flocks of migrating wild swans_. _the_ mother of swanwhite, _all in white, appears outside the gates. over one arm she carries the plumage of a swan and on the other one a small harp of gold. she hangs the plumage on one of the gates, which opens of its own accord and then closes in the same way behind her_. _she enters the room and places the harp on the table. then she looks around and becomes aware of_ swanwhite. _at once the harp begins to play. the lamps carried by the maids go out one by one, beginning with that farthest away. then the three doors close one by one, beginning with the innermost_. _the golden clouds resume their former radiance_. _the_ mother _lights one of the lamps on the stand and goes up to the bed, beside which she kneels_. _the harp continues to play during the ensuing episode_. _the_ mother _rises, takes_ swanwhite _in her arms, and places her, still sleeping, in a huge arm-chair. then she kneels down and pulls off_ swanwhite's _stockings. having thrown these under the bed, she bends over her daughter's feet as if to moisten them with her tears. after a while she wipes them with a white linen cloth and covers them with kisses. finally she puts a sandal on each foot which then appears shining white_. _then the_ mother _rises to her feet again, takes out a comb of gold, and begins to comb_ swanwhite's _hair. this finished, she carries_ swanwhite _back to the bed. beside her she places a garment of white linen which she takes out of a bag_. _having kissed_ swanwhite _on the forehead, she prepares to leave. at that moment a white swan is seen to pass by outside, and one hears a trumpet-call like the one heard before. shortly afterward the_ mother of the prince, _also in white, enters through the gate, having first hung her swan plumage on it_. swanwhite's mother. well met, my sister! how long before the cock will crow? prince's mother. not very long. the dew is rising from the roses, the corn-crake's call is heard among the grass, the morning breeze is coming from the sea. swanwhite's mother. let us make haste with what we have on hand, my sister. prince's mother. you called me so that we might talk of our children. swanwhite's mother. once i was walking in a green field in the land that knows no sorrow. there i met you, whom i had always known, yet had not seen before. you were lamenting your poor boy's fate, left to himself here in the vale of sorrow. you opened up your heart to me, and my own thoughts, that dwell unwillingly below, were sent in search of my deserted daughter--destined to marry the young king, who is a cruel man, and evil. prince's mother. then i spoke, while you listened: "may worth belong to worth; may love, the powerful, prevail; and let us join these lonely hearts, in order that they may console each other!" swanwhite's mother. since then heart has kissed heart and soul enfolded soul. may sorrow turn to joy, and may their youthful happiness bring cheer to all the earth! prince's mother. if it be granted by the powers on high! swanwhite's mother. that must be tested by the fire of suffering. prince's mother. [_taking in her hand the helmet left behind by the_ prince] may sorrow turn to joy--this very day, when he has mourned his mother one whole year! _she exchanges the black feathers on the helmet for white and red ones_. swanwhite's mother. your hand, my sister--let the test begin! prince's mother. here is my hand, and with it goes my son's! now we have pledged them---swanwhite's mother. in decency and honour! prince's mother. i go to open up the tower. and let the young ones fold each other heart to heart. swanwhite's mother. in decency and honour! prince's mother. and we shall meet again in those green fields where sorrow is not known. swanwhite's mother. [_pointing to_ swanwhite] listen! she dreams of him!--oh foolish, cruel woman who thinks that lovers can be parted!--now they are walking hand in hand within the land of dreams, 'neath whispering firs and singing lindens--they sport and laugh---prince's mother. hush! day is dawning--i can hear the robins calling, and see the stars withdrawing from the sky--farewell, my sister! [_she goes out, taking her swan plumage with her._ swanwhite's mother. farewell! _she passes her hand over_ swanwhite _as if blessing her, then she takes her plumage and leaves, closing the gate after her_. _the clock on the table strikes three. the harp is silent for a moment; then it begins to play a new melody of even greater sweetness than before_. swanwhite _wakes up and looks around; listens to the harp; gets up from the bed; draws her hands through her hair; looks with pleasure at her own little feet, now spotlessly clean, and notices finally the while linen garment on the bed. she sits down at the table in the place she occupied during the evening. she acts as if she were looking at somebody sitting opposite her at the table, where the_ prince _was seated the night before. she looks straight into his eyes, smiles a smile of recognition, and holds out one of her hands. her lips move at times as if she were speaking, and then again she seems to be listening to an answer_. _she points meaningly to the white and red feathers on the helmet, and leans forward as if whispering. then she puts her head back and breathes deeply as if to fill her nostrils with some fragrance. having caught something in the air with one of her hands, she kisses the hand and then pretends to throw something back across the table. she picks up the quill and caresses it as if it were a bird; then she writes and pushes the parchment across the table. her glances seem to follow "his" pen while the reply is being written, and at last she takes back the parchment, reads it, and hides it in her bosom_. _she strokes her black dress as if commenting on the sad change in her appearance. whereupon she smiles at an inaudible answer, and finally bursts into hearty laughter_. _by gestures she indicates that her hair has been combed. then she rises, goes a little distance away from the table, and turns around with a bashful expression to hold out one of her feet. in that attitude she stays for a moment while waiting for an answer. on hearing it she becomes embarrassed and hides her foot quickly under her dress_. _she goes to the chest and takes out the chess-board and the chess-men, which she places on the lions skin with a gesture of invitation. then she lies down beside the board, arranges the men, and begins to play with an invisible partner_. _the harp is silent for a moment before it starts a new melody_. _the game of chess ends and_ swanwhite _seems to be talking with her invisible partner. suddenly she moves away as if he were coming too close to her. with a deprecating gesture she leaps lightly to her feet. then she gazes long and reproachfully at him. at last she snatches up the white garment and hides herself behind the bed_. _at that moment the_ prince _appears outside the gates, which he vainly tries to open. then he raises his eyes toward the sky with an expression of sorrow and despair_. swanwhite. [_coming forward_] who comes with the morning wind? prince. your heart's beloved, your prince, your all! swanwhite. whence do you come, my heart's beloved? prince. from dreamland; from the rosy hills that hide the dawn; from whispering firs and singing lindens. swanwhite. what did you do in dreamland, beyond the hills of dawn, my heart's beloved? prince. i sported and laughed; i wrote her name; i sat upon the lion's skin and played at chess. swanwhite. you sported and you played--with whom? prince. with swanwhite. swanwhite. it is he!--be welcome to my castle, my table, and my arms! prince. who opens up the golden gates? swanwhite. give me your hand!--it is as chilly as your heart is warm. prince. my body has been sleeping in the tower, while my soul was wandering in dreamland--in the tower it was cold and dark. swanwhite. in my bosom will i warm your hand--i'll warm it by my glances, by my kisses! prince. oh, let the brightness of your eyes be shed upon my darkness! swanwhite. are you in darkness? prince. within the tower there was no light of sun or moon. swanwhite. rise up, o sun! blow, southern wind! and let thy bosom gently heave, o sea!--ye golden gates, do you believe that you can part two hearts, two hands, two lips--that can by nothing be divided? prince. indeed, by nothing! _two solid doors glide together in front of the gates so that_ swanwhite _and the_ prince _can no longer see each other_. swanwhite. alas! what was the word we spoke, who heard it, and who punished us? prince. i am not parted from you, my beloved, for still the sound of my voice can reach you. it goes through copper, steel, and stone to touch your ear in sweet caress. when in my thoughts you're in my arms. i kiss you in my dreams. for on this earth there is not anything that can part us. swanwhite. not anything! prince. i see you, though my eyes cannot behold you. i taste you, too, because with roses you are filling up my mouth---swanwhite. but in my arms i want you! prince. i am there. swanwhite. no! against my heart i want to feel the beat of yours--upon your arm i want to sleep--oh, let us, let us, dearest god--oh, let us have each other! _the swallows chirp. a small white feather falls to the ground_. swanwhite _picks it up and discovers it to be a key. with this she opens gates and doors. the_ prince _comes in_. swanwhite _leaps into his arms. he kisses her on the mouth_. swanwhite. you do not kiss me! prince. yes, i do! swanwhite. i do not feel your kisses! prince. then you love me not! swanwhite. hold me fast! prince. so fast that life may part! swanwhite. oh, no, i breathe! prince. give me your soul! swanwhite. here!--give me yours! prince. it's here!--so i have yours, and you have mine! swanwhite. i want mine back! prince. mine, too, i want! swanwhite. then you must seek it! prince. lost, both of us! for i am you, and you are me! swanwhite. we two are one! prince. god, who is good, has heard your prayer! we have each other! swanwhite. we have each other, yet i have you not. i cannot feel the pressure of your hand, your lip's caress--i cannot see your eyes, nor hear your voice--you are not here! prince. yes, i am here! swanwhite. yes, here below. but up above, in dreamland, i would meet you. prince. then let us fly upon the wings of sleep---swanwhite. close to your heart! prince. in my embrace! swanwhite. within your arms! prince. this is the promised bliss! swanwhite. eternal bliss, that has no flaw and knows no end! prince. no one can part us. swanwhite. no one! prince. are you my bride? swanwhite. my bridegroom, you? prince. in dreamland--but not here! swanwhite. where are we? prince. here below! swanwhite. here, where the sky is clouded, where the ocean roars, and where each night the earth sheds tears upon the grass while waiting for the dawn; where flies are killed by swallows, doves by hawks; where leaves must fall and turn to dust; where eyes must lose their light and hands their strength! yes, here below! prince. then let us fly! swanwhite. yes, let us fly! _the_ green gardener _appears suddenly behind the table. all his clothes are green. he wears a peaked cap, a big apron, and knee-breeches. at his belt hang shears and a knife. he carries a small watering-can in one hand and is scattering seeds everywhere_. prince. who are you? gardener. i sow, i sow! prince. what do you sow? gardener. seeds, seeds, seeds. prince. what kind of seeds? gardener. annuals and biennials. one pulls this way, two pull that. when the bridal suit is on, the harmony is gone. one and one make one, but one and one make also three. one and one make two, but two make three. then do you understand? prince. you mole, you earthworm, you who turn your forehead toward the ground and show the sky your back--what is there you can teach me? gardener. that you are a mole and earthworm, too. and that because you turn your back on the earth, the earth will turn its back on you. [_he disappears behind the table_. swanwhite. what was it? who was he? prince. that was the green gardener. swanwhite. green, you say? was he not blue? prince. no, he was green, my love. swanwhite. how can you say what is not so? prince. my heart's beloved, i have not said a thing that was not so. swanwhite. alas, he does not speak the truth! prince. whose voice is this? not that of swanwhite! swanwhite. who is this my eyes behold? not my prince, whose very name attracted me like music of the neck, or song of mermaids heard among green waves--who are you? you stranger with the evil eyes--and with grey hair! prince. you did not see it until now--my hair, that turned to grey within the tower, in a single night, when i was mourning for my swanwhite, who is no longer here. swanwhite. yes, here is swanwhite. prince. no, i see a black-clad maid, whose face is black---swanwhite. have you not seen before that i was clad in black? you do not love me, then! prince. you who are standing there, so grim and ugly--no! swanwhite. then you have spoken falsely. prince. no--for then another one was here! now--you are filling up my mouth with noisome nettles. swanwhite. your violets smell of henbane now--faugh! prince. thus i am punished for my treason to the king! swanwhite. i wish that i had waited for your king! prince. just wait, and he will come. swanwhite. i will not wait, but go to meet him. prince. then i will stay. swanwhite. [_going toward the background_] and this is love! prince. [_beside himself_] where is my swanwhite? where, where, where? the kindest, loveliest, most beautiful? swanwhite. seek her! prince. 'twould not avail me here below. swanwhite. elsewhere then! [_she goes out_. _the_ prince _is alone. he sits down at the table, covers his face with his hands, and weeps. a gust of wind passes through the room and sets draperies and curtains fluttering. a sound as of a sigh is heard from the strings of the harp. the_ prince _rises, goes to the bed, and stands there lost in contemplation of its pillow in which is a depression showing_ swanwhite's _head in profile. he picks up the pillow and kisses it. a noise is heard outside. he seats himself at the table again_. _the doors of the closets fly open. the three_ maids _become visible, all with darkened faces. the_ stepmother _enters from the rear. her face is also dark_. stepmother. [_in dulcet tones_] good morning, my dear prince! how have you slept? prince. where is swanwhite? stepmother. she has gone to marry her young king. is there no thought of things like that in your own mind, my prince? prince. i harbour but a single thought---stepmother. of little swanwhite? prince. she is too young for me, you mean? stepmother. grey hairs and common sense belong together as a rule--i have a girl with common sense---prince. and i grey hairs? stepmother. he knows it not, believes it not! come, maids! come, signe, elsa, tova! let's have a good laugh at the young suitor and his grey hairs! _the_ maids _begin to laugh. the_ stepmother _joins in_. prince. where is swanwhite? stepmother. follow in her traces--here is one! [_she hands him a parchment covered with writing_. prince. [_reading_] and she wrote this? stepmother. you know her hand--what has it written? prince. that she hates me, and loves another--that she has played with me; that she will throw my kisses to the wind, and to the swine my heart--to die is now my will! now i am dead! stepmother. a knight dies not because a wench has played with him. he shows himself a man and takes another. prince. another? when there is only one? stepmother. no, two, at least! my magdalene possesses seven barrels full of gold. prince. seven? stepmother. and more. [_pause_. prince. where is swanwhite? stepmother. my magdalene is skilled in many crafts---prince. including witchcraft? stepmother. she knows how to bewitch a princeling. prince. [_gazing at the parchment_] and this was written by my swanwhite? stepmother. my magdalene would never write like that. prince. and she is kind? stepmother. kindness itself! she does not play with sacred feelings, nor seek revenge for little wrongs, and she is faithful to the one she likes. prince. then she must be beautiful. stepmother. not beautiful! prince. she is not kind then.--tell me more of her! stepmother. see for yourself. prince. where? stepmother. here. prince. and this has swanwhite written----? stepmother. my magdalene had written with more feeling prince. what would she have written? stepmother. that---prince. speak the word! say "love," if you are able! stepmother. lub! prince. you cannot speak the word! stepmother. lud! prince. oh, no! stepmother. my magdalene can speak it. may she come? prince. yes, let her come. stepmother. [_rising and speaking to the_ maids] blindfold the prince. then in his arms we'll place a princess that is without a paragon in seven kingdoms. signe _steps forward and covers the eyes of the_ prince _with a bandage_. stepmother. [_clapping her hands_] well--is she not coming? _the peacock makes a rattling noise with his bill; the doves begin to coo_. stepmother. what is the matter? does my art desert me? where is the bride? _four_ maids _enter from the rear, carrying baskets of white and pink roses. music is heard from above. the_ maids _go up to the bed and scatter roses over it_. _then come_ two knights _with closed visors. they take the_ prince _between them toward the rear, where they meet the false_ magdalene, _escorted by two ladies. the bride is deeply veiled_. _with a gesture of her hand the_ stepmother _bids all depart except the bridal couple. she herself leaves last of all, after she has closed the curtains and locked the gates_. prince. is this my bride? false magdalene. who is your bride? prince. i have forgot her name. who is your bridegroom? false magdalene. he whose name may not be mentioned. prince. tell, if you can. false magdalene. i can, but will not. prince. tell, if you can! false magdalene. tell my name first! prince. it's seven barrels full of gold, and crooked back, and grim, and hare-lipped! what's my name? tell, if you can! false magdalene. prince greyhead! prince. you're right! _the_ false magdalene _throws, off her veil, and_ swanwhite _stands revealed_. swanwhite. [_dressed in a white garment, with a wreath of roses on her hair_] who am i now? prince. you are a rose! swanwhite. and you a violet! prince. [_taking off the bandage_] you are swanwhite! swanwhite. and you--are---prince. hush! swanwhite. you're mine! prince. but you--you left me--left my kisses---swanwhite. i have returned--because i love you! prince. and you wrote cruel words---swanwhite. but cancelled them--because i love you.! prince. you told me i was false. swanwhite. what matters it, when you are true--and when i love you? prince. you wished that you were going to the king. swanwhite. but went to you instead, because i love you! prince. now let me hear what you reproach me with. swanwhite. i have forgotten it--because i love you! prince. but if you love me, then you are my bride. swanwhite. i am! prince. then may the heavens bestow their blessing on our union! swanwhite. in dreamland! prince. with your head upon my arm! _the_ prince _leads_ swanwhite _to the bed, in which he places his sword. then she lies down on one side of the sword, and he on the other. the colour of the clouds changes to a rosy red. the rose-trees murmur. the harp plays softly and sweetly_. prince. good night, my queen! swanwhite. good morning, o my soul's beloved!--i hear the beating of your heart--i hear it sigh like billowing waters, like swift-flying steeds, like wings of eagles--give me your hand! prince. and yours!--now we take wing---stepmother. [_enters with the_ maids, _who carry torches; all four have become grey-haired_] i have to see that my task is finished ere the duke returns. my daughter. magdalene, is plighted to the prince--while swanwhite lingers in the tower--[_goes to the bed_] they sleep already in each other's arms--you bear me witness, maids! _the_ maids _approach the bed_. stepmother. what do i see? each one of you is grey-haired! signe. and so are you, your grace! stepmother. am i? let me see! elsa _holds a mirror in front of her_. stepmother. this is the work of evil powers!--and then, perhaps, the prince's hair is dark again?--bring light this way! _the_ maids _hold their torches so that the light from them falls on the sleeping couple_. stepmother. such is the truth, indeed!--how beautiful they look!--but--the sword! who placed it there--the sword that puts at naught their plighted troth? _she tries to take away the sword, but the_ prince _clings to it without being wakened_. signe. your grace--here's deviltry abroad! stepmother. what is it? signe. this is not lady magdalene. stepmother. who is it, then? my eyes need help. signe. 'tis lady swanwhite. stepmother. swanwhite?--can this be some delusion of the devil's making, or have i done what i least wished? _the_ prince _turns his head in his sleep so that his lips meet those of_ swanwhite. stepmother. [_touched by the beautiful sight_] no sight more beautiful have i beheld!--two roses brought together by the wind; two falling stars that join in downward flight--it is too beautiful!--youth, beauty, innocence, and love! what memories, sweet memories--when i was living in my father's home--when i was loved by _him_, the youth whom never i called mine--what did i say i was? signe. that you were loved by him, your grace. stepmother. then i did speak the mighty word. be-loved--so he named me once--"beloved"--ere he started for the war--[_lost in thoughts_] it was the last of him.--and so i had to take the one i couldn't bear.--my life is drawing to its close, and i must find my joy in happiness denied myself! i should rejoice--at others' happiness--some kind of joy, at least--at other people's love--some kind of love, at least--but there's my magdalene? what joy for her? o, love omnipotent--eternally creative lord--how you have rendered soft this lion heart! where is my strength? where is my hatred--my revenge? [_she seats herself and looks long at the sleeping couple_] a song runs through my mind, a song of love that _he_ was singing long ago, that final night-[_she rises as if waking out of a dream and flies into a rage; her words come with a roar_] come hither, men! here, steward, castellan, and gaoler--all of you! [_she snatches the sword out of the bed and throws it along the floor toward the rear_] come hither, men! _noise is heard outside; the men enter as before_. stepmother. behold! the prince, the young king's vassal, has defiled his master's bride! you bear me witness to the shameful deed! put chains and fetters on the traitor and send him to his rightful lord! but in the spiked cask put the hussy. [_the_ prince and swanwhite _wake up_] equerry! gaoler! seize the prince! _the_ equerry _and the_ gaoler _lay hands on the_ prince. prince. where is my sword? i fight not against evil, but for innocence! stepmother. whose innocence? prince. my bride's. stepmother. the hussy's innocence! then prove it! swanwhite. oh, mother, mother! _the white swan flies by outside_. stepmother. maids, bring shears! i'll cut the harlot's hair! signe _hands her a pair of shears_. stepmother. [_takes hold of_ swanwhite _by the hair and starts to cut it, but she cannot bring the blades of the shears together]_ now i'll cut off your beauty and your love! [_suddenly she is seized with panic, which quickly spreads to the men and the three_ maids] is the enemy upon us? why are you trembling? signe. your grace, the dogs are barking, horses neighing--it means that visitors are near. stepmother. quick, to the bridges, all of you! man the ramparts! fall to with flame and water, sword and axe! _the_ prince _and_ swanwhite _are left alone_. gardener. [_appears from behind the table; in one hand he carries a rope, the_ duke's _horn in the other_] forgiveness for those who sin; for those who sorrow, consolation; and hope for those who are distressed! swanwhite. my father's horn! then help is near! but--the prince? gardener. the prince will follow me. a secret passage, underground, leads to the shore. there lies his bark. the wind is favourable! come! [_the_ gardener _and the_ prince _go out._ swanwhite _alone, blows the horn. an answering signal is heard in the distance. the_ gaoler _enters with the spiked cask_. swanwhite _blows the horn again. the answer is heard much nearer_. _the_ duke _enters. he and_ swanwhite _are alone on the stage_. duke. my own beloved heart, what is at stake? swanwhite. your own child, father!--look--the spiked cask over there! duke. how has my child transgressed? swanwhite. the prince's name i learned, by love instructed--spoke it--came to hold him very dear. duke. that was no capital offence. what more? swanwhite. at his side i slept, the sword between us---duke. and still there was no capital offence, though i should hardly call it wise--and more? swanwhite. no more! duke. [_to the_ gaoler, _pointing to the spiked cask_] away with it! [_to_ swanwhite] well, child, where is the prince? swanwhite. he's sailing homeward in his bark. duke. now, when the tide is battering the shore?--alone? swanwhite. alone! what is to happen? duke. the lord alone can tell! swanwhite. he's in danger? duke. who greatly dares has sometimes luck. swanwhite. he ought to have! duke. he will, if free from guilt! swanwhite. he is! more than i am! stepmother. [_entering_] how came you here! duke. a shortcut brought me--i could wish it had been shorter still. stepmother. had it been short enough, your child had never come to harm. duke. what kind of harm? stepmother. the one for which there is no cure. duke. and you have proofs? stepmother. i've valid witnesses. duke. then call my butler. stepmother. he does not know. duke. [_shaking his sword at her_] call my butler! _the_ stepmother _trembles. then she claps her hands four times together_. _the_ butler _enters_. duke. have made a pie of venison, richly stuffed with onions, parsley, fennel, cabbage--and at once! _the_ butler _steals a sidelong glance at the_ stepmother. duke. what are you squinting at? be quick! _the_ butler _goes out_. duke. [_to the_ stepmother] now call the master of my pleasure-garden. stepmother. he does not know! duke. and never will! but he must come! call, quick! _the_ stepmother _claps her hands six times_. _the_ flower gardener _enters_. duke. three lilies bring: one white, one red, one blue. _the_ gardener _looks sideways at the_ stepmother. duke. your head's at stake! _the_ gardener _goes out_. duke. summon your witnesses! _the_ stepmother _claps her hands once_. signe _enters_. duke. tell what you know--but choose your words! what have you seen? signe. i have seen lady swanwhite and the prince together in one bed. duke. with sword between? signe. without. duke. i can't believe it!--other witnesses? _the_ two knights _enter_. duke. were these the groomsmen?--tell your tale. first knight. the lady magdalene i have escorted to her bridal couch. second knight. the lady magdalene i have escorted to her bridal couch. duke. what's that? a trick, i trow--that caught the trickster!--other witnesses? elsa _enters_. duke. tell what you know. elsa. i swear by god, our righteous judge, that i have seen the prince and lady swanwhite fully dressed and with a sword between them. duke. one for, and one against--two not germane.--i leave it to the judgment of the lord!--the flowers will speak for him. tova. [_enters_] my gracious master--noble lord! duke. what do you know? tova. i know my gracious mistress innocent. duke. o, child--so you know that! then teach us how to know it too. tova. when i am saying only what is true---duke. no one believes it! but when signe tells untruth, we must believe!--and what does swanwhite say herself? her forehead's purity, her steady glance, her lips' sweet innocence--do they not speak aloud of slander? and "slander" is the verdict of a father's eye.--well then--almighty god on high shall give his judgment, so that human beings may believe! _the_ flower gardener _enters carrying three lilies placed in three tall and narrow vases of glass. the_ duke _places the flowers in a semicircle on the table. the_ butler _enters with a huge dish containing a steaming pie_. duke. [_placing the dish within the semicircle formed by the three flowers_] the white one stands for whom? all. [_except_ swanwhite. _and the_ stepmother] for swanwhite. duke. the red one stands for whom? all. [as _before_] the prince. duke. for whom the blue one? all. [as _before_] the youthful king. duke. well, tova--child who still has faith in innocence because you too are innocent--interpret now for us the judgment of the lord--tell us the gentle secrets of these flowers. tova. the evil part i cannot utter. duke. i will. what's good i'll leave for you.--as the steam from the blood of the prurient beast rises upward--as upward the smell of the passionate spices is mounting--what see you? tova. [_gazing at the three lilies_] the white one folds its blossom to protect itself against defilement. that is swanwhite's flower. all. swanwhite is innocent. tova. the red one, too--the prince's lily--closes its head--but the blue one, which stands for the king, flings wide its gorge to drink the lust-filled air. duke. you've told it right! what more is there to see? tova. i see the red flower bend its head in reverent love before the white one, while the blue one writhes with envious rage. duke. you've spoken true!--for whom is swanwhite then? tova. for the prince, because more pure is his desire, and therefore stronger, too. all. [_except_ swanwhite _and the_ stepmother] swanwhite for the prince! swanwhite. [_throwing herself into her father's arms_] o, father! duke. call back the prince! let every trump and bugle summon him. hoist sail on every bark! but first of all--the spiked cask is for whom? _all remain silent_. duke. then i will say it: for the duchess; for the arch-liar and bawd!--know, evil woman, that though nothing else be safe against your tricks, they cannot conquer love!--go--quick--begone! _the_ stepmother _makes a gesture which for a moment seems to stun the_ duke. duke. [_draws his sword and turns the point of it toward the_ stepmother, _having first seated_ swanwhite _on his left shoulder_] a-yi, you evil one! my pointed steel will outpoint all your tricks! _the_ stepmother _withdraws backward, dragging her legs behind her like a panther_. duke. now for the prince! _the_ stepmother _stops on the balcony, rigid as a statue. she opens her mouth as if she were pouring out venom_. _the peacock and the doves fall down dead. then the_ stepmother _begins to swell. her clothes become inflated to such an extent that they hide her head and bust entirely. they seem to be flaming with a pattern of interwoven snakes and branches. the sun is beginning to rise outside. the ceiling sinks slowly into the room, while smoke and fire burst from the fireplace_. duke. [_raising the cross-shaped handle of his sword toward the_ stepmother] pray, people, pray to christ, our saviour! all. christ have mercy! _the ceiling resumes its ordinary place. the smoke and fire cease. a noise is heard outside, followed by the hum of many voices_. duke. what new event is this? swanwhite. i know! i see!--i hear the water dripping from his hair; i hear the silence of his heart, the breath that comes no more--i see that he is dead! duke. where do you see--and whom? swanwhite. where?--but i see it! duke. i see nothing. swanwhite. as they must come, let them come quick! _four little girls enter with baskets out of which they scatter white lilies and hemlock twigs over the floor. after them come four pages ringing silver bells of different pitch. then comes a priest carrying a large crucifix. then, the golden bier, with the body of the_ prince, _covered by a white sheet, on which rest white and pink roses. his hair is dark again. his face is youthful, rosy, and radiantly beautiful. there is a smile on his lips_. _the harp begins to play. the sun rises completely. the magic bubble around the_ stepmother _bursts, and she appears once more in her customary shape_. _the bier is placed in the middle of the floor, so that the rays of the rising sun fall on it_. swanwhite _throws herself on her knees beside the bier and covers the_ prince's _face with kisses_. _all present put their hands to their faces and weep_. _the_ fisherman _has entered behind the bier_. duke. the brief tale tell us, fisherman---fisherman. does it not tell itself, my noble lord?--the young prince had already crossed the strait, when, seized by violent longing for his love, he started to swim back, in face of tide and wave and wind--because his bark seemed rudder-less.--i saw his young head breast the billows, i heard him cry her name--and then his corpse was gently dropped upon the white sand at my feet. his hair had turned to grey that night when he slept in the tower; sorrow and wrath had blanched his cheeks; his lips had lost their power of smiling.--now, when death o'ertook him, beauty and youth came with it. like wreaths his darkening locks fell round his rosy cheeks; he smiled--and see!--is smiling still. the people gathered on the shore, awed by the gentle spectacle--and man said unto man: lo, this is love! swanwhite. [_lying down beside the body of the_ prince] he's dead; his heart will sing no more; his eyes no longer will light up my life; his breath will shed its dew on me no more. he smiles, but not toward me--toward heaven he smiles. and on his journey i shall bear him company. duke. kiss not a dead man's lips--there's poison in them! swanwhite. sweet poison if it bring me death--that death in which i seek my life! duke. they say, my child, the dead cannot gain union by willing it; and what was loved in life has little worth beyond. swanwhite. and love? should then its power not extend to the other side of death? duke. our wise men have denied it. swanwhite. then he must come to me--back to this earth. o gracious lord, please let him out of heaven again! duke. a foolish prayer! swanwhite. i cannot pray--woe's me! the evil eye still rules this place. duke. you're thinking of the monster which the sunbeams pricked. the stake for her--let her without delay be burned alive! swanwhite. burn her?--alive?--oh, no! let her depart in peace! duke. she must be burned alive! you, men, see that the pyre is raised close to the shore, and let the winds play with her ashes! swanwhite. [_on her knees before the_ duke] no, no--i pray you, though she was my executioner: have mercy on her! stepmother. [_enters, changed, freed from the evil powers that have held her in their spell_] mercy! who spoke the sacred word? who poured her heart in prayer for me? swanwhite. i did--your daughter--mother! stepmother. o, god in heaven, she called me mother!--who taught you that? swanwhite. love did! stepmother. then blessed be love which can work miracles like that!--but, child, then it must also have the power to make the dead return out of the darkling realms of death!--i cannot do it, having not received the grace of love. but you! swanwhite. poor me--what can i do? stepmother. you can forgive, and you can love--well, then, my little lady almighty, you can do anything!--be taught by me who have no power at all. go, cry the name of your beloved, and put your hand above his heart! then, with the help of the supreme one--calling none but him for helper--your beloved will hear your voice--if you believe! swanwhite. i do believe--i will it--and--i pray for it! _she goes up to the_ prince, _places one of her hands over his heart, and raises the other toward the sky. then she bends down over him and whispers something into his ear. this she repeats three times in succession. at the third whisper the_ prince _wakes up_. swanwhite _throws herself at his breast. all kneel in praise and thanksgiving. music_. _curtain_. simoom (samum) 1890 characters biskra, _an arabian girl_ yusuf, _her lover_ guimard, _a lieutenant of zouaves_ _the action takes place in algeria at the present time_. simoom _the inside of a marabout, or shrine. in the middle of the floor stands a sarcophagus forming the tomb of the mohammedan saint (also called "marabout") who in his lifetime occupied the place. prayer-rugs are scattered over the floor. at the right in the rear is an ossuary, or charnel-house._ _there is a doorway in the middle of the rear wall. it is closed with a gate and covered by a curtain. on both sides of the doorway are loopholes. here and there on the floor are seen little piles of sand. an aloe plant, a few palm leaves and some alfa grass are thrown together on one spot_. * * * * * first scene biskra _enters. the hood of her burnous is pulled over her head so that it almost covers her face. she carries a guitar at her back. throwing herself down in a kneeling position on one of the rugs, she begins to pray with her arms crossed over her breast. a high wind is blowing outside_. biskra. lâ ilâhâ illâ 'llâh! yusuf. [_enters quickly_] the simoom is coming! where is the frank? biskra. he'll be here in a moment. yusuf. why didn't you stab him when you had a chance? biskra. because he is to do it himself. if i were to do it, our whole tribe would be killed, for i am known to the franks as ali, the guide, though they don't know me as biskra, the maiden. yusuf. he is to do it himself, you say? how is that to happen? biskra. don't you know that the simoom makes the brains of the white people dry as dates, so that they have horrible visions which disgust them with life and cause them to flee into the great unknown? yusuf. i have heard of such things, and in the last battle there were six franks who took their own lives before the fighting began. but do not place your trust in the simoom to-day, for snow has fallen in the mountains, and the storm may be all over in half an hour.--biskra! do you still know how to hate? biskra. if i know how to hate?--my hatred is boundless as the desert, burning as the sun, and stronger than my love. every hour of joy that has been stolen from me since the murder of ali has been stored up within me like the venom back of a viper's tooth, and what the simoom cannot do, that i can do. yusuf. well spoken, biskra, and the task shall be yours. ever since my eyes first fell upon you, my own hatred has been withering like alfa grass in the autumn. take strength from me and become the arrow to my bow. biskra. embrace me, yusuf, embrace me! yusuf. not here, within the presence of the sainted one; not now--later, afterward, when you have earned your reward! biskra. you proud sheikh! you man of pride! yusuf. yes--the maiden who is to carry my offspring under her heart must show herself worthy of the honour. biskra. i--no one but i--shall bear the offspring of yusuf! i, biskra--the scorned one, the ugly one, but the strong one, too! yusuf. all right! i am now going to sleep beside the spring.--do i need to teach you more of the secret arts which you learned from sidi-sheikh, the great marabout, and which you have practised at fairs ever since you were a child? biskra. of that there is no need. i know all the secrets needed to scare the life out of a cowardly frank.--the dastard who sneaks upon the enemy and sends the leaden bullet ahead of himself! i know them all--even the art of letting my voice come out of my belly. and what is beyond my art, that will be done by the sun, for the sun is on the side of yusuf and biskra. yusuf. the sun is a friend of the moslem, but not to be relied upon. you may get burned, girl!--take a drink of water first of all, for i see that your hands are shrivelled, and--- _he lifts up one of the rugs and steps down into a sort of cellar, from which he brings back a bowl filled with water; this he hands to_ biskra. biskra. [_raising the bowl to her mouth_] and my eyes are already beginning to see red--my lungs are parching--i hear--i hear--do you see how the sand is sifting through the roof--the strings of my guitar are crooning--the simoom is here! but the frank is not! yusuf. come down here, biskra, and let the frank die by himself. biskra. first hell, and then death! do you think i'll weaken? [_pours the water on one of the sand piles_] i'll water the sand, so that revenge may grow out of it, and i'll dry up my heart. grow, o hatred! burn, o sun! smother, o wind! yusuf. hail to you, mother of ben yusuf--for you are to bear the son of yusuf, the avenger--you! _the wind is increasing. the curtain in front of the door begins to flap. a red glimmer lights up the room, but changes into yellow during the ensuing scene_. biskra. the frank is coming, and--the simoom is here!--go! yusuf. in half an hour you shall see me again. [_pointing toward a sand pile_] there is your hour-glass. heaven itself is measuring out the time for the hell of the infidels! [_goes down into the cellar_. second scene biskra. guimard _enters looking very pale; he stumbles, his mind is confused, and he speaks in a low voice_. guimard. the simoom is here!--what do you think has become of my men? biskra. i led them west to east. guimard. west--to east!--let me see!--that's straight east--and west!--oh, put me on a chair and give me some water! biskra. [_leads_ guimard _to one of the sand piles and makes him lie down on the floor with his feet on the sand_] are you comfortable now? guimard. [_staring at her_] i feel all twisted up. put something under my head. biskra. [_piling the sand higher under his feet_] there's a pillow for your head. guimard. head? why, my feet are down there--isn't that my feet? biskra. of course! guimard. i thought so. give me a stool now--under my head. biskra. [_pulls out the aloe plant and pushes it under guimard's legs_] there's a stool for you. guimard. and then water!--water! biskra. [_fills the empty bowl with sand and hands it to_ guimard] drink while it's cold. guimard. [_putting his lips to the bowl_] it is cold--and yet it does not still my thirst! i cannot drink it--i abhor water--take it away! biskra. there's the dog that bit you! guimard. what dog? i have never been bitten by a dog. biskra. the simoom has shrivelled up your memory--beware the delusions of the simoom! don't you remember the mad greyhound that bit you during the last hunt at bab-el-wad? guimard. the hunt at bab-el-wad? that's right!--was it a beaver-coloured----? biskra. bitch? yes.--there you see. and she bit you in the calf. can't you feel the sting of the wound? guimard. [_reaches out a hand to feel his calf and pricks himself on the aloe_] yes, i can feel it.--water! water! biskra. [_handing him the sand-filled bowl_] drink, drink! guimard. no, i cannot! holy mother of god--i have rabies! biskra. don't be afraid! i shall cure you, and drive out the demon by the help of music, which is all-powerful. listen! guimard. [_screaming_] ali! ali! no music; i can't stand it! and how could it help me? biskra. if music can tame the treacherous spirit of the snake, don't you think it may conquer that of a mad dog? listen! [_she sings and accompanies herself on the guitar_] biskra-biskra, biskra-biskra, biskra-biskra! simoom! simoom! yusuf. [_responding from below_] simoom! simoom! guimard. what is that you are singing, ali? biskra. have i been singing? look here--now i'll put a palm-leaf in my mouth. [_she puts a piece of leaf between her teeth; the song seems to be coming from above_] biskra-biskra, biskra-biskra, biskra-biskra! yusuf. [_from below_] simoom! simoom! guimard. what an infernal jugglery! biskra. now i'll sing! biskra and yusuf. [_together_] biskra-biskra, biskra-biskra, biskra-biskra! simoom! guimard. [_rising_] what are you, you devil who are singing with two voices? are you man or woman? or both? biskra. i am ali, the guide. you don't recognise me because your senses are confused. but if you want to be saved from the tricks played by sight and thought, you must believe in me--believe what i say and do what i tell you. guimard. you don't need to ask me, for i find everything to be as you say it is. biskra. there you see, you worshipper of idols! guimard. i, a worshipper of idols? biskra. yes, take out the idol you carry on your breast. guimard _takes out a locket_. biskra. trample on it now, and then call on the only god, the merciful one, the compassionate one! guimard. [_hesitating_] saint edward--my patron saint? biskra. can he protect you? can he? guimard. no, he cannot!--[_waking up_] yes, he can! biskra. let us see! _she opens the gate; the curtain flaps and the grass on the floor moves_. guimard. [_covering his mouth_] close the door! biskra. throw down the idol! guimard. no, i cannot. biskra. do you see? the simoom does not bend a hair on me, but you, the infidel one, are killed by it! throw down the idol! guimard. [_throws the locket on the floor_] water! i die! biskra. pray to the only one, the merciful and compassionate one! guimard. how am i to pray? biskra. repeat after me. guimard. speak on! biskra. there is only one god: there is no other god but he, the merciful, the compassionate one! guimard. "there is only one god: there is no other god but he, the merciful, the compassionate one." biskra. lie down on the floor. guimard _lies down unwillingly_. biskra. what do you hear? guimard. i hear the murmuring of a spring. biskra. there you see! god is one, and there is no other god but he, the merciful and compassionate one!--what do you see? guimard. i can hear a spring murmur--i can see the light of a lamp--in a window with green shutters--on a white street---biskra. who is sitting at the window? guimard. my wife--elise! biskra. who is standing behind the curtain with his arm around her neck? guimard. that's my son, george. biskra. how old is your son? guimard. four years on the day of saint nicholas. biskra. and he can already stand behind the curtain with his arm around the neck of another man's wife? guimard. no, he cannot--but it is he! biskra. four years old, you say, and he has a blond mustache? guimard. a blond mustache, you say?--oh, that's--my friend jules. biskra. who is standing behind the curtain with his arm around your wife's neck? guimard. oh, you devil! biskra. do you see your son? guimard. no, i don't see him any longer. biskra. [_imitates the tolling of bells on the guitar_] what do you see now? guimard. i see bells ringing--i taste dead bodies--their smell in my mouth is like rancid butter--faugh! biskra. can't you hear the priest chanting the service for a dead child? guimard. wait!--i cannot hear--[_wistfully_] but do you want me to?--there!--i can hear it! biskra. do you see the wreath on the coffin they are carrying? guimard. yes---biskra. there are violet ribbons on it--and there are letters printed in silver--"farewell, my darling george--from your father." guimard. yes, that's it! [_he begins to cry_] my george! o george, my darling boy!--elise--wife--can't you console me?--oh, help me! [_he is groping around_] elise, where are you? have you left me? answer! call out the name of your love! a voice. [_coming from the roof_] jules! jules! guimard. jules! but my name is--what is my name? it is charles! and she is calling jules! elise--my beloved wife--answer me--for your spirit is here--i can feel it--and you promised never to love anybody else--- _the_ voice _is heard laughing_. guimard. who is laughing? biskra. elise--your wife. guimard. oh, kill me! i don't want to live any longer! life sickens me like sauerkraut at saint-doux--you there--do you know what saint-doux is? lard! [_he tries to spit_] not a drop of saliva left!--water--water--or i'll bite you! _the wind outside has risen to a full storm_. biskra. [_puts her hand to her mouth and coughs_] now you are dying, frank! write down your last wishes while there is still time--where is your note-book? guimard. [_takes out a note-book and a pencil_] what am i to write? biskra. when a man is to die, he thinks of his wife--and his child! guimard. [_writes_] "elise--i curse you! simoom--i die----" biskra. and then sign it, or it will not be valid as a testament. guimard. what shall i sign? biskra. write: lâ ilâha illâ 'llâh. guimard. [_writing_] it is written.--and can i die now? biskra. now you can die--like a craven soldier who has deserted his people! and i am sure you'll get a handsome burial from the jackals that will chant the funeral hymn over your corpse. [_she drums the signal for attack on the guitar_] can you hear the drums--the attack has begun--on the faithful, who have the sun and the simoom on their side--they are now advancing--from their hiding-places--[_she makes a rattling noise on the guitar_] the franks are firing along the whole line--they have no chance to load again--the arabs are firing at their leisure--the franks are flying! guimard. [_rising_] the franks never flee! biskra. the franks will flee when they hear the call to retreat. [_she blows the signal for "retreat" on a flute which she has produced from under her burnoose_. guimard. they are retreating--that's the signal--and i am here--[_he tears off his epaulets_] i am dead! [_he falls to the ground_. biskra. yes, you are dead!--and you don't know that you have been dead a long time. [_she goes to the ossuary and takes from it a human skull_. guimard. have i been dead? [_he feels his face with his hands_. biskra. long! long!--look at yourself in the mirror here! [_she holds up the skull before him_. guimard. ah! that's me! biskra. can't you see your own high cheek-bones? can't you see the eyes that the vultures have picked out? don't you know that gap on the right side of the jaw where you had a tooth pulled? can't you see the hollow in the chin where, grew the beard that your elise was fond of stroking? can't you see where used to be the ear that your george kissed at the breakfast-table? can't you see the mark of the axe--here in the neck--which the executioner made when he cut off the deserter's head--- guimard, _who has been watching her movements and listening to her words with evident horror, sinks down dead_. biskra. [_who has been kneeling, feels his pulse; then she rises and sings_] simoom! simoom! [_she opens both gates; the curtain flutters like a banner in the wind; she puts her hand up to her mouth and falls over backward, crying_] yusuf! third scene biskra. guimard (_dead_). yusuf _comes out of the cellar_. yusuf. [_having examined the body of_ guimard, _he looks for_ biskra] biskra! [_he discovers her and takes her up in his arms_] are you alive? biskra. is the frank dead? yusuf. if he is not, he will be. simoom! simoom! biskra. then i live! but give me some water! yusuf. [_carrying her toward the cellar_] here it is!--and now yusuf is yours! biskra. and biskra will be your son's mother, o yusuf, great yusuf! yusuf. my strong biskra! stronger than the simoom! _curtain_. debit and credit (debet och kredit) an act 1893 characters axel, _doctor of philosophy and african explorer_ thure, _his brother, a gardener_ anna, _the wife of_ thure miss cecilia the fiancé _of_ cecilia lindgren, _doctor of philosophy and former school-teacher_ miss marie the court chamberlain the waiter debit and credit _a well-furnished hotel room. there are doors on both sides_. first scene thure _and his_ wife. thure. there's some style to this room, isn't there? but then the fellow who lives here is stylish, too. wife. yes, so i understand. of course, i've never seen your brother, but i've heard a whole lot. thure. oh, gossip! _my_ brother, the doctor, has gone right across africa, and that's something everybody can't do. so it doesn't matter how many drinks he took as a young chap---wife. yes, your brother, the doctor! who is nothing but a school-teacher, for that matter---thure. no, he's a doctor of philosophy, i tell you---wife. well, that's nothing but one who teaches. and that's just what my brother is doing in the school at åby. thure. your brother is all right, but he is nothing but a public-school teacher, and that's not the same as a doctor of philosophy--which isn't a boast either. wife. well, no matter what he is or what you call him, he has cost us a whole lot. thure. of course it has been rather costly, but then he has brought us a lot of pleasure, too. wife. fine pleasures! when we've got to lose house and home for his sake! thure. that's so--but then we don't know yet if his slip-up on the loan had some kind of cause that he couldn't help. i guess it isn't so easy to send registered letters from darkest africa. wife. whether he has any excuses or not doesn't change the matter a bit. but if he wants to do something for us--it's nothing more than he owes us. thure. well, we'll see, we'll see!--anyhow, have you heard they've already given him four decorations? wife. well, that doesn't help us any. i guess it'll only make him a little more stuck-up. oh, no, it'll be some time before i get over that the sheriff had to come down on us with the papers--and bring in other people as witnesses--and then--the auction--and all the neighbours coming in and turning all we had upside down. and do you know what made me sorer than all the rest? thure. the black---wife. yes, it was that my sister-in-law should bid in my black silk dress for fifteen crowns. think of it--fifteen crowns! thure. you just wait--just wait a little! we might get you a new silk dress---wife. [_weeping_] but it'll never be the same one--the one my sister-in-law bid in. thure. we'll get another one then!--now, just look at that gorgeous hat over there! i guess it must be one of those royal chamberlains who's talking with axel now. wife. what do i care about that! thure. why, don't you think it's fun that a fellow who has the same name as you and i gets to be so respected that the king's own household people have to visit him? if i remember right, you were happy for a whole fortnight when your brother, the school-teacher, had been asked to dine at the bishop's. wife. i can't remember anything of the kind. thure. of course you can't! wife. but i do remember the fifteenth of march, when we had to leave our place for his sake, and we hadn't been married more than two years, and i had to carry away the child on my own arm--oh!--and then, when the steamer came with all the passengers on board just as we had to get out--all the cocked hats in the world can't make me forget that! and, for that matter, what do you think a royal chamberlain cares about a plain gardener and his wife when they've just been turned out of house and home? thure. look here! what do you think this is? look at all his decorations!--look at this one, will you! _he takes an order out of its case, holds it in the palm of his hand, and pats it as if it were a living thing_. wife. oh, that silly stuff! thure. don't you say anything against them, for you never can tell where you'll end. the gardener at staring was made a director and a knight on the same day. wife. well, what does that help us? thure. no, of course not--it doesn't help us--but these things here [_pointing to the orders_] may help us a whole lot in getting another place.--however, i think we've waited quite a while now, so we'd better sit down and make ourselves at home. let me help you off with your coat--come on now! wife. [_after a slight resistance_] so you think we're going to be welcome, then? i have a feeling that our stay here won't last very long. thure. tut, tut! and i think we're going to have a good dinner, too, if i know axel right. if he only knew that we're here--but now you'll see! [_he presses a button and a_ waiter _enters_] what do you want--a sandwich, perhaps? [_to the_ waiter] bring us some sandwiches and beer.--wait a moment! get a drink for me--the real stuff, you know! [_the_ waiter _goes out_] you've got to take care of yourself, don't you know. second scene thure _and his_ wife. axel. the chamberlain. axel. [_to the_ chamberlain] at five, then--in full dress, i suppose? chamberlain. and your orders! axel. is it necessary? chamberlain. absolutely necessary, if you don't want to seem rude, and that's something which you, as a democrat, want least of all. good-bye, doctor! axel. good-bye. _in leaving, the_ chamberlain _bows slightly to_ thure _and his_ wife, _neither of whom returns the salute_. third scene axel. thure _and his_ wife. axel. oh, is that you, old boy?--it seems an eternity since i saw you last. and this is your wife?--glad to see you! thure. thanks, brother! and i wish you a happy return after your long trip. axel. yes, that was something of a trip--i suppose you have read about it in the papers---thure. oh, yes, i've read all about it. [_pause_] and then father sent you his regards. axel. oh, is he still sore at me? thure. well, you know the old man and his ways. if only you hadn't been a member of that expedition, you know, he would have thought it one of the seven wonders of the world. but as you were along, of course, it was nothing but humbug. axel. so he's just the same as ever! simply because i am _his_ son, nothing i ever do can be of any value. it means he can't think very much of himself either.--well, so much for that! and how are you getting along nowadays? thure. not very well, exactly! there's that old loan from the bank, you know---axel. yes, that's right! well, what happened to it? thure. oh, what happened was that i had to pay it. axel. that's too bad! but we'll settle the matter as soon as we have a chance. _the_ waiter _comes in with_ thure's _order on a tray_. axel. what's that? thure. oh, it was only me who took the liberty of ordering a couple of sandwiches---axel. right you were! but i think we ought to have some wine, so i could drink the health of my sister-in-law, as i couldn't get to the wedding. thure. oh, no--not for us! not so early in the morning! thanks very much! axel. [_signals to the_ waiter, _who goes out_] i should have asked you to stay for dinner, but i have to go out myself. can you guess where i am going? thure. you don't mean to say you're going to the palace? axel. exactly--i am asked to meet the monarch himself. thure. lord preserve us!--what do you think of that, anna? _his_ wife _turns and twists on her chair as if in torment, quite unable to answer_. axel. i suppose the old man will turn republican after this, when he hears that his majesty cares to associate with me. thure. see here, axel--you'll have to pardon me for getting back to something that's not very pleasant--but it has to be settled. axel. is it that blessed old loan? thure. yes, but it isn't only that. to put it plain--we've had to stand an execution for your sake, and now we're absolutely cleaned out. axel. that's a fine state of affairs! but why in the world didn't you get the loan renewed? thure. well, that's it! how was i to get any new sureties when you were away? axel. couldn't you go to my friends? thure. i did. and the result was--what it was. can you help us out now? axel. how am i going to help you now? now when all my creditors are getting after me? and it won't do for me to start borrowing when they are just about to make a position for me. there's nothing that hurts you more than to borrow money. just wait a little while, and we'll get it all straightened out. thure. if we're to wait, then everything's up with us. this is just the time to get hold of a garden--this is the time to start digging and sowing, if you are to get anything up in time. can't you get a place for us? axel. where am i to get hold of a garden? thure. among your friends. axel. my friends keep no gardens. now, don't you hamper me when i try to get up on firm ground! when i am there i'll pull you up, too. thure. [_to his_ wife] he doesn't want to help us, anna! axel. i cannot--not this moment! do you think it reasonable that i, who am seeking a job myself, should have to seek one for you, too? what would people be saying, do you think? "there, now," they would say, "we've got not only him but his relatives to look after!" and then they would drop me entirely. thure. [_looks at his watch; then to his wife_] we've got to go. axel. why must you go so soon? thure. we have to take the child to a doctor. axel. for the lord's sake, have you a child, too? wife. yes, we have. and a sick child, which lost its health when we had to move out into the kitchen so that the auction could be held. axel. and all this for my sake! it's enough to drive me crazy! for my sake! so that i might become a famous man!--and what is there i can do for you?--do you think it would have been better if i had stayed at home?--no, worse--for then i should have been nothing but a poor teacher, who certainly could not have been of any use to you whatever.--listen, now! you go to the doctor, but come back here after a while. in the meantime i'll think out something. thure. [_to his_ wife] do you see now, that he wants to help us? wife. yes, but can he do it? that's the question. thure. he can do anything he wants. axel. don't rely too much on it--or the last state may prove worse than the first.--oh, merciful heavens, to think that you have a sick child, too! and for my sake! thure. oh, i guess it isn't quite as bad as it sounds. wife. yes, so you say, who don't know anything about it---thure. well, axel, we'll see you later then. lindgren _appears in the doorway_. wife. [_to_ thure] did you notice he didn't introduce us--to the chamberlain? thure. oh, shucks, what good would that have been? [_they go out_. fourth scene axel. lindgren, _who is shabbily dressed, unshaved, apparently fond of drinking, and looking as if he had just got out of bed_. axel _is startled for a moment at the sight of_ lindgren. lindgren. you don't recognise me? axel. yes, now i do. but you have changed a great deal. lindgren. oh, you think so? axel. yes, i do, and i am surprised to find that these years can have had such an effect---lindgren. three years may be pretty long.--and you don't ask me to sit down? axel. please--but i am rather in a hurry. lindgren. you have always been in a hurry. [_he sits down; pause._ axel. why don't you say something unpleasant? lindgren. it's coming, it's coming! [_he wipes his spectacles; pause._ axel. how much do you need? lindgren. three hundred and fifty. axel. i haven't got it, and i can't get it. lindgren. oh, sure!--you don't mind if i help myself to a few drops? _he pours out a drink from the bottle brought by the_ waiter _for_ thure. axel. won't you have a glass of wine with me instead? lindgren. no--why? axel. because it looks bad to be swilling whisky like that. lindgren. how very proper you have become! axel. not at all, but it hurts my reputation and my credit. lindgren. oh, you have credit? then you can also give me a lift, after having brought me down. axel. that is to say: you are making demands? lindgren. i am only reminding you that i am one of your victims. axel. then, because of the gratitude i owe you, i shall bring these facts back to your mind: that you helped me through the university at a time when you had plenty of money; that you helped to get my thesis printed---lindgren. that i taught you the methods which determined your scientific career; that i, who then was as straight as anybody, exercised a favourable influence on your slovenly tendencies; that, in a word, i made you what you are; and that, finally, when i applied for an appropriation to undertake this expedition, you stepped in and took it. axel. no, i got it. because i, and not you, was held to be the man for the task. lindgren. and that settled me! thus, one shall be taken, and the other left!--do you think that was treating me fairly? axel. it was what the world calls "ungrateful," but the task was achieved, and by it science was enriched, the honour of our country upheld, and new regions opened for the use of coming generations. lindgren. here's to you!--you have had a lot of oratorical practice--but have you any idea how unpleasant it feels to play the part of one used up and cast off? axel. i imagine it must feel very much like being conscious of ingratitude, and i can only congratulate you at not finding yourself in a position as unpleasant as my own.--but let us return to reality. what can i do for you? lindgren. what do you think? axel. for the moment--nothing. lindgren. and in the next moment you are gone again. which means that this would be the last i saw of you. [_he pours out another drink_. axel. will you do me the favour of not finishing the bottle? i don't want the servants to suspect me of it. lindgren. oh, go to hell! axel. you don't think it's pleasant for me to have to call you down like this, do you? lindgren. say--do you want to get me a ticket for the banquet to-night? axel. i am sorry to say that i don't think you would be admitted. lindgren. because--axel. you are drunk! lindgren. thanks, old man!--well, will you let me have a look at your botanical specimens, then? axel. no, i am going to describe them myself for the academy. lindgren. how about your ethnographical stuff? axel. no, that's not my own. lindgren. will you--let me have twenty-five crowns? axel. as i haven't more than twenty myself, i can only give you ten. lindgren. rotten! axel. thus stand the affairs of the man everybody envies. do you think there is anybody in whose company i might feel happy? not one! those that are still down hate me for climbing up, and those already up fear one coming from below. lindgren. yes, you are very unfortunate! axel. i am! and i can tell you that after my experience during the last half-hour, i wouldn't mind changing place with you. what a peaceful, unassailable position he holds who has nothing to lose! what a lot of interest and sympathy those that are obscure and misunderstood and over-looked always arouse! you have only to hold out your hand and you get a coin. you have only to open your arms, and there are friends ready to fall into them. and then what a powerful party behind you--formed of the millions who are just like you! you enviable man who don't realise your own good fortune! lindgren. so you think me that far down, and yourself as high up as all that?--tell me, you don't happen to have read to-day's paper? [_he takes a newspaper from his pocket_. axel. no, and i don't care to read it either. lindgren. but you ought to do it for your own sake. axel. no, i am not going to do it--not even for _your_ sake. it is as if you said: "come here and let me spit at you." and then you are silly enough to demand that i shall come, too.--do you know, during these last minutes i have become more and more convinced that if i had ever come across you in the jungle, i should beyond all doubt have picked you off with my breech-loader? lindgren. i believe it--beast of prey that you are! axel. it isn't safe to settle accounts with one's friends, or with persons with whom one has been intimate, for it is hard to tell in advance who has most on the debit side. but as you are bringing in a bill, i am forced to look it over.--you don't think it took me long to discover that back of all your generosity lay an unconscious desire to turn me into the strong arm which you lacked--to make me do for you what you couldn't do for yourself? i had imagination and initiative--you had nothing but money and--"pull." so i am to be congratulated that you didn't eat me, and i may be excused for eating you--my only choice being to eat or be eaten! lindgren. you beast of prey! axel. you rodent, who couldn't become a beast of prey--although that was just what you wished! and what you want at this moment is not so much to rise up to me as to pull me down to where you are.--if you have anything of importance to add, you had better hurry up, for i am expecting a visit. lindgren. from your fiancée? axel. so you have snooped that out, too? lindgren. sure enough! and i know what marie, the deserted one, thinks and says--i know what has happened to your brother and his wife---axel. oh, you know my fiancée? for, you see, it so happens that i am not yet engaged! lindgren. no, but i know _her_ fiancé. axel. what does that mean? lindgren. why, she has been running around with another fellow all the time--so you didn't know that? axel. [_as he listens for something going on outside_] oh, yes, i knew of it, but i thought she was done with him--see here, if you'll come back in a quarter of an hour, i'll try to get things arranged for you in some way or another. lindgren. is that a polite way of showing me the door? axel. no, it's an attempt to meet an old obligation. seriously! lindgren. well, then i'll go--and come back--good-bye for a while. fifth scene axel. lindgren. _the_ waiter. _then the_ fiancé, _dressed in black, with a blue ribbon in the lapel of his coat_. waiter. there's a gentleman here who wants to see you. axel. let him come in. _the_ waiter _goes out, leaving the door open behind him. the_ fiancé _enters_. lindgren. [_observing the newcomer closely_] well, good-bye. axel--and good luck! [_he goes out_. axel. good-bye. sixth scene axel. _the_ fiancé [_much embarrassed_] axel. with whom have i the honour----? fiancé. my name is not a name in the same way as yours, doctor, and my errand concerns a matter of the heart---axel. oh, do you happen to be--you know miss cecilia? fiancé. i am the man. axel. [_hesitating for a moment; then with decision_] please be seated. [_he opens the door and beckons the_ waiter. _the_ waiter _enters_. axel. [_to the_ waiter] have my bill made out, see that my trunk is packed, and bring me a carriage in half an hour. waiter. [_bowing and leaving_] yes, doctor. axel. [_goes up to the_ fiancé _and sits down on a chair beside him_] now let's hear what you have to say? fiancé. [_after a pause, with unction_] there were two men living in the same city, one rich and the other poor. the rich man had sheep and cattle in plenty. the poor man owned nothing but one ewe lamb---axel. what does that concern me? fiancé. [_as before_] one ewe lamb, which he had bought and was trying to raise. axel. oh, life's too short. what do you want? are you and miss cecilia still engaged? fiancé. [_changing his tone_] i haven't said a word about miss cecilia, have i? axel. well, sir, you had better get down to business, or i'll show you the door. but be quick about it, and get straight to the point, without any frills---fiancé. [_holding out his snuff-box_] may i? axel. no, thanks. fiancé. a great man like you has no such little weaknesses, i suppose? axel. as you don't seem willing to speak, i shall. of course, it is none of your business, but it may do you good to learn of it, as you don't seem to know it: i am regularly engaged to miss cecilia, who formerly was your fiancée. fiancé. [_startled_] who was? axel. because she has broken with you. fiancé. i know nothing about it. axel. [_taking a ring from the pocket of his waistcoat]_ that's strange, but now you do know. and here you can see the ring she has given me. fiancé. so she has broken with me? axel. yes, as she couldn't be engaged to two men at the same time, and as she had ceased to care for you, she had to break with you. i might have told you all this in a more decent fashion, if you hadn't stepped on my corns the moment you came in. fiancé. i didn't do anything of the kind. axel. cowardly and disingenuous--cringing and arrogant at the same time! fiancé. [_gently_] you are a hard man, doctor. axel. no, but i may become one. you showed no consideration for my feelings a moment ago. you sneered, which i didn't. and that's the end of our conversation. fiancé. [_with genuine emotion_] i feared that you might take away from me my only lamb--but you wouldn't do that, you who have so many---axel. suppose i wouldn't--are you sure she would stay with you anyhow? fiancé. put yourself in my place, doctor---axel. yes, if you'll put yourself in mine. fiancé. i am a poor man---axel. so am i! but judging by what i see and hear, you have certain bliss waiting for you in the beyond. that's more than i have.--and, furthermore, i have taken nothing away from you: i have only received what was offered me. just as you did! fiancé. and i who had been dreaming of a future for this young woman--a future full of brightness---axel. pardon me a piece of rudeness, but you began it: are you so sure that the future of this young woman will not turn out a great deal brighter by my side? fiancé. you are now reminding me of my humble position as a worker---axel. no, i am reminding you of that young woman's future, which you have so much at heart. and as i am told that she has ceased to care for you, but does care for me, i am only taking the liberty to dream of a brighter future for her with the man she loves than with the man she doesn't love. fiancé. you are a strong man, you are, and we little ones were born to be your victims! axel. see here, my man, i have been told that you got the better of another rival for cecilia's heart, and that you were not very scrupulous about the means used for the purpose. how do you think that _victim_ liked you? fiancé. he was a worthless fellow. axel. from whom you saved the girl! and now i save her from you! good-bye! seventh scene axel. _the_ fiancé. cecilia. fiancé. cecilia! cecilia _draws back from him_. fiancé. you seem to know your way into this place? axel. [_to the_ fiancé] you had better disappear! cecilia. i want some water! fiancé. [_picking up the whisky bottle from the table_] the bottle seems to be finished!--beware of that man, cecilia! axel. [_pushing the_ fiancé _out through the door_] oh, your presence is wholly superfluous--get out! fiancé. beware of that man, cecilia! [_he goes out_. eighth scene axel. cecilia. axel. that was a most unpleasant incident, which you might have spared me--both by breaking openly with him and by not coming to my room. cecilia. [_weeping_] so i am to be scolded, too? axel. well, the responsibility had to be fixed, and now, when that's done--we can talk of something else.--how are you, to begin with? cecilia. so, so! axel. not well, that means? cecilia. how are you? axel. fine--only a little tired. cecilia. are you going with me to see my aunt this after-noon? axel. no, i cannot, for i have to drive out. cecilia. and that's more fun, of course. you go out such a lot, and i--never! axel. hm! cecilia. why do you say "hm"? axel. because your remark made an unpleasant impression on me. cecilia. one gets so many unpleasant impressions these days---axel. for instance? cecilia. by reading the papers. axel. so you have been reading those scandalous stories about me! and you believe them? cecilia. one doesn't know what to believe. axel. so you really suspect me of being the unscrupulous fellow pictured in those stories? and as you are nevertheless willing to marry me, i must assume that you are moved by purely practical considerations and not by any personal attraction. cecilia. you speak so harshly, as if you didn't care for me at all! axel. cecilia--are you willing to leave this place with me in fifteen minutes? cecilia. in fifteen minutes! for where! axel. london. cecilia. i am not going with you until we are married. axel. why? cecilia. why should we leave like that, all of a sudden? axel. because--it's suffocating here! and if i stay, they'll drag me down so deep that i'll never get up again. cecilia. how strange! are you as badly off as that? axel. do you come with me, or do you not? cecilia. not until we are married--for afterward you would never marry me. axel. so that's your faith in me!--will you sit down for a moment, then, while i go in and write a couple of letters? cecilia. am i to sit here alone, with all the doors open? axel. well, don't lock the door, for then we are utterly lost. [_he goes out to the left_. cecilia. don't be long! _she goes up to the door leading to the hallway and turns the key in the lock_. ninth scene cecilia _alone for a moment. then_ marie _enters_. cecilia. wasn't the door locked? marie. not as far as i could see!--so it was meant to be locked? cecilia. i haven't the honour? marie. nor have i. cecilia. why should you? marie. how refined! oh, i see! so it's you! and i am the victim--for a while! cecilia. i don't know you. marie. but i know you pretty well. cecilia. [_rises and goes to the door at the left_] oh, you do? [_opening the door and speaking to_ axel] come out here a moment! tenth scene cecilia. marie. axel. axel. [_entering; to_ marie] what do you want here? marie. oh, one never can tell. axel. then you had better clear out. marie. why? axel. because what there was between us came to an end three years ago. marie. and now there is another one to be thrown on the scrap heap? axel. did i ever give you any promises that were not kept? have i ever owed you anything? have i ever said a word about marriage? have we had any children together? have i been the only one to receive your favours? marie. but now you mean to be the only one? with that one over there! cecilia. [_goes up to_ marie] what do you mean?--i don't know you! marie. no, but there was a time when you did know me. and i remember that when we met in the streets we called each other by our first names. [_to_ axel] and now you are going to marry her? no, you know, you are really too good for that! axel. [_to_ cecilia] have you known that woman before? cecilia. no. marie. you ought to be ashamed of yourself? i simply didn't recognise you at first because of your swell clothes--- axel _gazes intently at_ cecilia. cecilia. [_to_ axel] come--i'll go with you! axel. [_preoccupied_] in a moment! just wait a while! i am only going in to write another letter--but now we'll close the door first of all. marie. no, thank you, i don't want to be locked in as she was a while ago. axel. [_interested_] was the door locked? cecilia. [_to_ marie] you don't dare say that the door was locked! marie. as you expected it to be locked, i suppose you had tried to lock it and had not succeeded---axel. [_observes_ cecilia; _then to_ marie] it always seemed to me that you were a nice girl, marie. will you let me have my letters back now? marie. no. axel. what are you going to do with them? marie. i hear that i can sell them, now when you have become famous. axel. and get your revenge at the same time? marie. exactly. axel. is it lindgren----? marie. yes!--and here he is now himself. eleventh scene cecilia. marie. axel. lindgren. lindgren. [_enters in high spirits_] well, what a lot of skirts! and marie, too--like the cuckoo that's in every nest! now listen, axel! axel. i hear you even when i don't see you. you're in a fine humour--what new misfortune has befallen me? lindgren. i was only a little sour this morning because i hadn't had a chance to get wound up. but now i've had a bite to eat--well, you see--at bottom you don't owe me anything at all. for what i did, i did out of my heart's goodness, and it has brought me both honour and pleasure--and what you got was a gift and no loan! axel. now you are altogether too modest and generous. lindgren. not at all! however, one favour calls for another. would you mind becoming my surety on this note? axel _hesitates_. lindgren. well, you needn't be afraid that i'm going to put you in the same kind of fix as your brother did---axel. what do you mean? it was i who put him---lindgren. yes, to the tune of two hundred crowns--but he got your name as surety for five years' rent---axel. [_in a low voice_] jesus christ! lindgren. what's that?--hm--hm! axel. [_looking at his watch_] just wait a few minutes--i have only to write a couple of letters. cecilia _starts to go with him_. axel. [_holds her back_] just a few minutes, my dear--[_he kisses her on the forehead_] just a few minutes! [_he goes toward the left_. lindgren. here's the note--you might sign it while you are at it. axel. give it to me! [_he goes out with an air of determination_. twelfth scene cecilia. marie. lindgren. lindgren. well, girls, are you on good terms again? marie. oh, yes, and before we get away, we'll be on still better terms. cecilia _makes a face_. marie. i should like to have some fun to-day. lindgren. come along with me! i'll have money! marie. no! cecilia _sits down with evident anxiety near the door through which_ axel _disappeared--as if seeking support in that direction_. lindgren. let's take in the fireworks to-night--then we can see how a great man looks in red light--what do you say to that, cissie dear? cecilia. oh, i'll be sick if i have to stay here longer! marie. well, it wouldn't be the first time. lindgren. scrap, girls, and i'll watch you! fight till the fur flies--won't you? thirteenth scene cecilia. marie. lindgren. thure _and his_ wife _enter_. lindgren. well, well! old friends! how are you? thure. all right. lindgren. and the child? thure. the child? lindgren. oh, you have forgotten it?--are you equally forgetful about names? thure. names? lindgren. signatures!--he must be writing an awful lot in there! thure. is my brother, the doctor, in there? lindgren. i don't know if the doctor is there, but your brother went in there a while ago.--and, for that matter, we might find out. [_he knocks at the door_] silent as the grave! [_knocks again_] then i'll walk right in. [_he goes out; everybody appears restless and anxious_. cecilia. what can it mean? marie. well, we'll see now. thure. what has happened here? wife. something is up!--you'll see he doesn't help us! lindgren. [_returns, carrying in his hand a small bottle and some letters_] what does it say? [_he reads the label on the bottle_] cyanide of potassium!--how stupid! what a sentimental idiot--to kill himself for so little--[_everybody cries out_] so you were no beast of prey, my dear axel!--but-[_he stares through the open door into the adjoining room_]--he's not there--and his things are gone, too. so he has skipped out! and the bottle has never been opened! that means--he meant to kill himself, but changed his mind!--and these are his posthumous writings. "to miss cecilia"--seems to contain some round object--probably an engagement ring--there you are!--"to my brother thure" [_he holds up the letter to the light_]--with a piece of blue paper inside--must be a note--for the amount involved! you're welcome! _the_ fiancé _appears in the doorway at the right_. thure. [_who has opened his letter_] do you see that he helped us after all---wife. oh, in that way! lindgren. and here's my note--without his name--he's a strong one, all right! _diable!_ marie. then the fireworks will be called off, i suppose? fiancé. was there nothing for me? lindgren. yes, i think there was a fiancée--somewhere over there!--i tell you, that fellow is a wonder at clearing up tangled affairs!--of course, it makes me mad to think that i let myself be fooled--but i'll be darned if i don't think i would have done just as he did!--and so would you, perhaps?--or what do you think? _curtain_. advent (advent) a miracle play 1899 characters _the_ judge _the_ old lady, _wife of the judge_ amelia adolph _the_ neighbour eric thyra _being the same person_ _the_ other one _the_ franciscan _the_ playmate _the_ witch _the_ prince _subordinate characters, shadows, etc._ act i. the vineyard with the mausoleum act ii. the drawing-room act iii. the wine-cellar the garden act iv. the cross-roads the "waiting-room" the cross-roads act v. the drawing-room the "waiting-room" act i _the background represents a vineyard. at the left stands a mausoleum. it consists of a small whitewashed brick building with a door and a pointed window that lacks mullions and panes. the roof is made of red tiles. a cross crowns the gable. clematis vines with purple-coloured, cross-shaped flowers cover the front wall, at the foot of which appear a number of other flowers_. _a peach-tree carrying fruit stands near the foreground. be-neath it sit the_ judge _and the_ old lady. _the_ judge _wears a green cap with a peak, yellow knee-breeches, and--a blue coat--all dating back to_ 1820. _the_ old lady _wears a kerchief on her head and carries a stick, spectacles, and snuff-box. she has the general appearance of a "witch." at the right is a small expiatory chapel containing an image of the holy virgin. the fence in front of it is hung with wreaths and nosegays. a prie-dieu is placed against the fence_. judge. life's eve has at last brought the sunshine which its morning promised us. early rains and late rains have blessed meadow and field. and soon the songs of the vintagers will be heard all over the country. old lady. don't talk like that; somebody might hear you. judge. who could be listening here, and what harm could it do to thank god for all good gifts? old lady. it's better not to mention one's good fortune lest misfortune overhear it. judge. what of it? was i not born with a caul? old lady. take care, take care! there are many who envy us, and evil eyes are watching us. judge. well, let them! that's the way it has always been. and yet i have prospered. old lady. so far, yes. but i don't trust our neighbour. he has been going around the village saying that we have cheated him out of his property--and much more of the same kind which i don't care to repeat. of course, it doesn't matter when one has a clean conscience and can point to a spotless life. slander cannot hurt me. i go to confession and mass, and i am prepared to close my eyes whenever my hour may strike in order to open them again when i shall stand face to face with my judge. and i know also what i am going to answer then. judge. what are you going to answer? old lady. like this: i was not without fault, o lord, but even if i was but a poor, sinful human creature, i was nevertheless a little better than my neighbour. judge. i don't know what has brought you to these thoughts just now, and i don't like them. perhaps it is the fact that the mausoleum is to be consecrated in a few days? old lady. perhaps that is it, for, as a rule, i don't give much thought to death. i have still every tooth left in my mouth, and my hair is as plentiful as when i was a bride. judge. yes, yes--you have eternal youth, you as well as i, but just the same we shall have to pass away. and as fortune has smiled on us, we have wanted to avail ourselves of the privilege of resting in ground belonging to ourselves and so we have built this little tomb for ourselves here, where every tree knows us, where every flower will whisper of our labours, and our troubles, and our struggles---old lady. yes, struggles against envious neighbours and ungrateful children---judge. there you said it: ungrateful children.--have you seen anything of adolph? old lady. no, i haven't seen him since he started out this morning to raise the money for the rent. judge. the money which he will never get--and i still less. but he knows now that the time of grace is up, for this is the third quarter rent that he has failed to pay. old lady. yes, out with him into the world, and let him learn to work instead of sitting here and playing at son-in-law. i'll keep amelia and the children---judge. do you think amelia will let herself be separated from adolph? old lady. i think so, when it is a question whether her children are to inherit anything from us or not--no, look! there it is again! _on the wall of the mausoleum appears a spot of sunlight like those which children are fond of producing with a small mirror_.[1] _it is vibrating as if it were reflected by running water_. judge. what is it? what is it? old lady. on the mausoleum. don't you see? judge. it's the reflection of the sun on the river. it means---old lady. it means that we'll see the light of the sun for a long time to come---judge. on the contrary. but that's all one. the best pillow for one's head is a good conscience, and the reward of the righteous never fails.--there's our neighbour now. neighbour. [_enters_] good evening, judge. good evening, madam. judge. good evening, neighbour. how goes it? it wasn't yesterday we had the pleasure. and how are your vines, i should have asked? neighbour. the vines, yes--there's mildew on them, and the starlings are after them, too. judge. well, well! there's no mildew on my vines, and i have neither seen nor heard of any starlings. neighbour. fate does not distribute its gifts evenly: one shall be taken and the other left. old lady. i suppose there are good reasons for it? neighbour. i see! the reward of the righteous shall not fail, and the wicked shall not have to wait for their punishment. judge. oh, no malice meant! but you have to admit, anyhow, that it's queer: two parcels of land lie side by side, and one yields good harvests, the other poor ones---neighbour. one yields starlings and the other not: that's what i find queerer still. but, then, everybody wasn't born with a caul, like you, judge. judge. what you say is true, and fortune _has_ favoured me. i am thankful for it, and there are moments when i feel proud of it as if i had deserved it.--but listen, neighbour--you came as if you had been sent for.--that leasehold of mine is vacant, and i wanted to ask you if you care to take it. [footnote 1: in sweden such spots are called "sun-cats."] _the_ old lady _has in the meantime left her seat and gone to the mausoleum, where she is busying herself with the flowers_. neighbour. oh, the leasehold is vacant. hm! since when? judge. since this morning. neighbour. hm! so!--that means your son-in-law has got to go? judge. yes, that good-for-nothing doesn't know how to manage. neighbour. tell me something else, judge. haven't you heard that the state intends to build a military road across this property? judge. oh, i have heard some rumours to that effect, but i don't think it's anything but empty talk. neighbour. on the contrary, i have read it in the papers. that would mean condemnation proceedings, and the loser would be the holder of the lease. judge. i cannot think so, and i would never submit to it. i to leave this spot where i expect to end my days in peace, and where i have prepared a final resting-place to escape lying with all the rest---neighbour. wait a minute! one never knows what may prove one's final resting-place. my father, who used to own this property, also expected to be laid to rest in his own ground, but it happened otherwise. as far as the leasehold is concerned, i must let it go. judge. as you please. on my part the proposition was certainly disinterested, as you are a man without luck. for it is no secret that you fail in everything you undertake, and people have their own thoughts about one who remains as solitary and friendless as you. isn't it a fact that you haven't a single friend? neighbour. yes, it's true. i have not a single friend, and that doesn't look well. it is something i cannot deny. judge. but to turn to other matters--is it true, as the legend has it, that this vineyard once was a battle-field, and that this explains why the wine from it is so fiery? neighbour. no, that isn't what i have heard. my father told me that this had been a place of execution, and that the gallows used to stand where the mausoleum is now. judge. oh, how dreadful! why did you tell me? neighbour. because you asked, of course.--and the last man to be hanged on this spot was an unrighteous judge. and now he lies buried here, together with many others, among them being also an innocent victim of his iniquity. judge. what kind of stories are those! [_he calls out_] caroline! neighbour. and that's why his ghost has to come back here. have you never seen him, judge? judge. i have never seen anything at all! neighbour. but i have seen him. as a rule, he appears at the time when the grapes are harvested, and then they hear him around the wine-press down in the cellar. judge. [_calling out_] caroline! old lady. what is it? judge. come here! neighbour. and he will never be at peace until he has suffered all the torments his victim had to pass through. judge. get away from here! go! neighbour. certainly, judge! i didn't know you were so sensitive. [_he goes out_. old lady. what was the matter? judge. oh, he told a lot of stories that upset me. but-but--he is plotting something evil, that fellow! old lady. didn't i tell you so! but you always let your tongue run whenever you see anybody--what kind of foolish superstition was he giving you? judge. i don't want to talk of it. the mere thought of it makes me sick. i'll tell you some other time.--there's adolph now! adolph. [_entering_] good evening! judge. [_after a pause_] well? adolph. luck is against me. i have not been able to get any money. judge. i suppose there are good reasons for it? adolph. i can see no reason why some people should fare well and others badly. judge. oh, you can't?--well, look into your own heart; search your own thoughts and actions, and you'll find that you have yourself to blame for your misfortunes. adolph. perhaps i may not call myself righteous in every respect, but at least i have no serious crimes on my conscience. old lady. you had better think well---adolph. i don't think that's needful, for my conscience is pretty wakeful---judge. it can be put to sleep---adolph. can it? of course i have heard of evil-doers growing old in crime, but as a rule their consciences wake up just before death; and i have even heard of criminals whose consciences have awakened after death. judge. [_agitated_] so that they had to come back, you mean? have you heard that story, too? it's strange that everybody seems to have heard it except me---old lady. what are you talking about? stick to business instead. adolph. yes, i think that's wiser, too. and, as the subject has been broached, i want to tell you what i propose---judge. look here, my boy! i think it a good deal more appropriate that i should tell you what i have decided. it is this: that from this day you cease to be my tenant, and that before the sun sets you must start out to look for work. adolph. are you in earnest? judge. you ought to be ashamed! i am not in the habit of joking. and you have no cause for complaint, as you have been granted respite twice. adolph. while my crops have failed three times. can i help that? judge. nor have i said so. but i can help it still less. and you are not being judged by me. here is the contract--here's the broken agreement. was that agreement broken by me? oh, no! so i am without responsibility and wash my hands of the matter. adolph. this may be the law, but i had thought there ought to be some forbearance among relatives--especially as, in the natural course of events, this property should pass on to your offspring. old lady. well, well: the natural course of events! he's going around here wishing the life out of us! but you just look at me: i am good for twenty years more. and i am _going_ to live just to spite you! judge. [_to_ adolph] what rudeness--what a lack of all human feeling--to ask a couple of old people outright: are you not going to die soon? you ought to be ashamed of yourself, i say! but now you have broken the last tie, and all i can say is: go your way, and don't let yourself be seen here any more! adolph. that's plain talk! well, i'll go, but not alone---old lady. so-o--you imagined that amelia, our own child, should follow you out on the highways, and that all you would have to do would be to unload one child after another on us! but we have already thought of that and put a stop to it---adolph. where is amelia? where? old lady. you may just as well know. she has gone on; a visit to the convent of the poor clares--only for a visit. so now you know it's of no use to look for her here. adolph. some time you will have to suffer for your cruelty in depriving a man in distress of his only support. and if you break up our marriage, the penalty of that breach will fall on you. judge. you should be ashamed of putting your own guilt on those that are innocent! go now! and may you hunger and thirst, with every door closed to you, until you have learned gratitude! adolph. the same to you in double measure!--but let me only bid my children good-bye, and i will go. judge. as you don't want to spare your children the pain of leave-taking, i'll do so--have already done it, in fact. adolph. that, too! then i believe you capable of all the evil that has been rumoured. and now i know what our neighbour meant when he said that you couldn't--endure the sun! judge. not another word! or you will feel the heavy hand of law and justice--- _he raises his right hand so that the absence of its forefinger becomes visible_. adolph. [_takes hold of the hand and examines it_] the hand of justice!--the hand of the perjurer whose finger stuck to the bible when he took his false oath! woe unto you! woe! for the day of retribution is at hand, and your deeds will rise like corpses out of these hillsides to accuse you. old lady. what is that he is saying? it feels as if he were breathing fire at us!--go, you lying spirit, and may hell be your reward! adolph. may heaven reward you--according to your deserts--and may the lord protect my children! [_he goes out_. judge. what was that? who was it that spoke? it seemed to me as if the voice were coming out of some huge underground hall. old lady. did you hear it, too? judge. god help us, then!--do you remember what he said about the sun? that struck me as more peculiar than all the rest. how could he know--that it is so? ever since my birth the sun has always burned me, and they have told me this is so because my mother suffered from sunstroke before i was born--but that you also---old lady. [_frightened_] hush! talk of the devil, and--isn't the sun down? judge. of course it is down! old lady. how can that spot of sunlight remain on the mausoleum, then? [_the spot moves around_. judge. jesus maria! that's an omen! old lady. an omen, you say! and on the grave! that doesn't happen every day--and only a few chosen people who are full of living faith in the highest things--- [_the spot of light disappears_. judge. there is something weird about the place to-night, something ghastly.--but what hurt me most keenly was to hear that good-for-nothing wishing the life out of us in order to get at the property. do you know what i--well, i wonder if i dare to speak of it---old lady. go on! judge. have you heard the story that this spot here used to be a place of execution? old lady. so you have found that out, too? judge. yes--and you knew it?--well, suppose we gave this property to the convent? that would make the ground sacred, and it would be possible to rest in peace in it. the income might go to the children while they are growing up, and it would mean an additional gain, as adolph would be fooled in his hope of inheriting from us. i think this a remarkably happy solution of a difficult problem: how to give away without losing anything by it. old lady. your superior intelligence has again asserted itself, and i am quite of your opinion. but suppose condemnation proceedings should be started--what would happen then? judge. there is plenty of time to consider that when it happens. in the meantime, let us first of all, and as quietly as possible, get the mausoleum consecrated---franciscan. [_enters_] the peace of the lord be with you, judge, and with you, madam! judge. you come most conveniently, father, to hear something that concerns the convent---franciscan. i am glad of it. _the spot of light appears again on the mausoleum_. old lady. and then we wanted to ask when the consecration of the mausoleum might take place. franciscan. [_staring at her_] oh, is that so? judge. look, father--look at that omen---old lady. yes, the spot must be sacred, indeed---franciscan. that's a will-o'-the-wisp. old lady. is it not a good sign? does it not carry some kind of message? does it not prompt a pious mind to stop and consider? would it not be possible to turn this place into a refuge for desert wanderers who are seeking---franciscan. madam, let me speak a word to you in private. [_he moves over to the right._ old lady. [_following him_] father? franciscan. [_speaking in a subdued voice_] you, madam, enjoy a reputation in this vicinity which you don't deserve, for you are the worst sinner that i know of. you want to buy your pardon, and you want to steal heaven itself, you who have already stolen from the lord. old lady. what is it i hear? franciscan. when you were sick and near death you made a vow to the lord that in case of recovery you would give a monstrance of pure gold to the convent church. your health was restored and you gave the holy vessel, but it was of silver--gilded. not for the sake of the gold, but because of your broken vow and your deception, you are already damned. old lady. i didn't know it. the goldsmith has cheated me. franciscan. you are lying, for i have the goldsmith's bill. old lady. is there no pardon for it? franciscan. no! for it is a mortal sin to cheat god. old lady. woe is me! franciscan. the settlement of your other crimes will have to take place within yourself. but if you as much as touch a hair on the heads of the children, then you shall learn who is their protector, and you shall feel the iron rod. old lady. the idea--that this infernal monk should dare to say such things to me! if i am damned--then i want to be damned! ha, ha! franciscan. well, you may be sure that there will be no blessing for your house and no peace for yourself until you have suffered every suffering that you have brought on others.--may i speak a word with you, judge? _the_ judge _approaches_. old lady. yes, give him what he deserves, so that one may be as good as the other. franciscan. [_to the_ judge] where did you get the idea of building your tomb where the gallows used to stand? judge. i suppose i got it from the devil! franciscan. like the idea of casting off your children and robbing them of their inheritance? but you have also been an unrighteous judge--you have violated oaths and accepted bribes. judge. i? franciscan. and now you want to erect a monument to yourself! you want to build yourself an imperishable house in heaven! but listen to me: this spot will never be consecrated, and you may consider it a blessing if you are permitted to rest in common ground among ordinary little sinners. there is a curse laid on this soil, because blood-guilt attaches to it and because it is ill-gotten. judge. what am i to do? franciscan. repent, and restore the stolen property. judge. i have never stolen. everything has been legally acquired. franciscan. that, you see, is the worst part of all--that you regard your crimes as lawful. yes, i know that you even consider yourself particularly favoured by heaven because of your righteousness. but now you will soon see what harvest is in store for you. thorns and thistles will grow in your vineyard. helpless and abandoned you shall be, and the peace of your old age will turn into struggle and strife. judge. the devil you say! franciscan. don't call him--he'll come anyhow! judge. let him come! because we believe, we have no fear! franciscan. the devils believe also, and tremble!--farewell! [_he goes out_. judge. [_to his wife_] what did he say to you? old lady. you think i'll tell? what did he have to say to you? judge. and you think i'll tell? old lady. are you going to keep any secrets from me? judge. and how about you? it's what you have always done, but i'll get to the bottom of your tricks some time. old lady. just wait a little, and i'll figure out where you keep the money that is missing. judge. so you are hiding money, too! now there is no longer any use in playing the hypocrite--just let yourself be seen in all your abomination, you witch! old lady. i think you have lost your reason--not that it was much to keep! but you might at least preserve an appearance of decency, if you can---judge. and you might preserve your beauty--if you can! and your perennial youth--ha, ha, ha! and your righteousness! you must have known how to bewitch people, and hoodwink them, for now i see how horribly ugly and old you are. old lady. [_on whom the spot of light now appears_] woe! it is burning me! judge. there i see you as you really are! [_the spot jumps to the_ judge] woe! it is burning me now! old lady. and how you look! [_both withdraw to the right_. [_the_ neighbour _and_ amelia _enter from the left_. neighbour. yes, child, there is justice, both human and divine, but we must have patience. amelia. i am willing to believe that justice is done, in spite of all appearances to the contrary. but i cannot love my mother, and i have never been able to do so. there is something within me that keeps telling me that she is not only indifferent to me but actually hostile. neighbour. so you have found it out? amelia. why--she hates me, and a mother couldn't do that! neighbour. well, well! amelia. and i suffer from not being able to do my duty as a child and love her. neighbour. well, as _that_ has made you suffer, then you will soon--in the hour of retribution--learn the great secret of your life. amelia. and i could stand everything, if she were only kind to my children. neighbour. don't fear on that account, for her power is now ended. the measure of her wickedness has been heaped full and is now overflowing. amelia. do you think so? but this very day she tore my adolph away from me, and now she has humiliated me still further by dressing me as a servant girl and making me do the work in the kitchen. neighbour. patience! amelia. yes, so you say! oh, i can understand deserved suffering, but to suffer without cause---neighbour. my dear child, the prisoners in the penitentiary are suffering justly, so there is no honour in that; but to be permitted to suffer unjustly, that's a grace and a trial of which steadfast souls bring home golden fruits. amelia. you speak so beautifully that everything you say seems true to me.--hush! there are the children--and i don't want them to see me dressed like this. _she and the_ neighbour _take up a position where they are hidden by a tall shrub_. eric _and_ thyra _enter; the spot of light rests now on one of them and now on the other_. eric. look at the sun spot! thyra. oh, you beautiful sun! but didn't he go to bed a while ago? eric. perhaps he is allowed to stay up longer than usual because he has been very good all day. thyra. but how could the sun be good? now you are stupid, eric. eric. of course the sun can be good--doesn't he make the grapes and the peaches? thyra. but if he is so good, then he might also give us a peach. eric. so he will, if we only wait a little. aren't there any on the ground at all? thyra. [_looking_] no, but perhaps we might get one from the tree. eric. no, grandmother won't let us. thyra. grandmother has said that we mustn't shake the tree, but i thought we could play around the tree so that one might fall down anyhow--of itself. eric. now you are stupid, thyra. that would be exactly the same thing. [_looking up at the tree_] oh, if only a peach would fall down! thyra. none will fall unless you shake. eric. you mustn't talk like that, thyra, for that is a sin. thyra. let's pray god to let one fall. eric. one shouldn't pray god for anything nice--that is, to eat!--oh, little peach, won't you fall? i want you to fall! [_a peach falls from the tree, and_ eric _picks it up_] there, what a nice tree! thyra. but now you must give me half, for it was i who said that the tree had to be shaken---old lady. [_enters with a big birch rod_] so you have been shaking the tree--now you'll see what you'll get, you nasty children---eric. no, grandmother, we didn't shake the tree! old lady. so you are lying, too. didn't i hear thyra say that the tree had to be shaken? come along now, and i'll lock you up in the cellar where neither sun nor moon is to be seen---amelia. [_coming forward_] the children are innocent, mother. old lady. that's a fine thing--to stand behind the bushes listening, and then to teach one's own children how to lie besides! neighbour. [_appearing_] nothing has been spoken here but the truth, madam. old lady. two witnesses behind the bushes--exactly as if we were in court. but i know the tricks, i tell you, and what i have heard and seen is sufficient evidence for me.--come along, you brats! amelia. this is sinful and shameful--- _the_ neighbour _signals to_ amelia _by putting his finger across his lips_. amelia. [_goes up to her children_] don't cry, children! obey grandmother now--there is nothing to be afraid of. it is better to suffer evil than to do it, and i know that you are innocent. may god preserve you! and don't forget your evening prayer! _the_ old lady _goes out with the children_. amelia. belief comes so hard, but it is sweet if you can achieve it. neighbour. is it so hard to believe that god is good--at the very moment when his kind intentions are most apparent? amelia. give me a great and good word for the night, so that i may sleep on it as on a soft pillow. neighbour. you shall have it. let me think a moment.--this is it: isaac was to be sacrificed---amelia. oh, no, no! neighbour. quiet, now!--isaac was to _be_ sacrificed, but he never was! amelia. thank you! thank you! and good night! _she goes out to the right_. neighbour. good night, my child! [_he goes slowly out by a path leading to the rear_. the procession of shadows _enters from the mausoleum and moves without a sound across the stage toward the right; between every two figures there is a distance of five steps_: death _with its scythe and hour-glass_. the lady in white--_blond, tall, and slender; on one of her fingers she wears a ring with a green stone that seems to emit rays of light_. the goldsmith, _with the counterfeit monstrance_. the beheaded sailor, _carrying his head in one hand_. the auctioneer, _with hammer and note-book_. the chimney-sweep, _with rope, scraper, and broom_. the fool, _carrying his cap with the ass's ears and bells at the top of a pole, across which is placed a signboard with the word "caul" on it_. the surveyor, _with measuring rod and tripod_. the magistrate, _dressed and made up like the_ judge; _he carries a rope around his neck; and his right hand is raised to show that the forefinger is missing_. _the stage is darkened at the beginning of the procession and remains empty while it lasts_. _when it is over, the_ judge _enters from the left, followed by the_ old lady. judge. why are you playing the ghost at this late hour? old lady. and how about yourself? judge. i couldn't sleep. old lady. why not? judge. don't know. thought i heard children crying in the cellar. old lady. that's impossible. oh, no, i suppose you didn't dare to sleep for fear i might be prying in your hiding-places. judge. and you feared i might be after yours! a pleasant old age this will be for philemon and baucis! old lady. at least no gods will come to visit us. judge. no, i shouldn't call them gods. _at this moment the_ procession _begins all over again, starting from the mausoleum as before and moving in silence toward the right_. old lady. o mary, mother of god, what is this? judge. merciful heavens! [_pause_] old lady. pray! pray for us! judge. i have tried, but i cannot. old lady. neither can i! the words won't come--and no thoughts! [_pause_] judge. how does the lord's prayer begin? old lady. i can't remember, but i knew it this morning. [_pause_] who is the woman in white? judge. it is she--amelia's mother--whose very memory we wanted to kill. old lady. are these shadows or ghosts, or nothing but our own sickly dreams? judge. [_takes up his pocket-knife_] they are delusions sent by the devil. i'll throw cold steel after them.--open the knife for me, caroline! i can't, don't you see? old lady. yes, i see--it isn't easy without a forefinger.--but i can't either! [_she drops the knife_] judge. woe to us! steel won't help here! woe! there's the beheaded sailor! let us get away from here! old lady. that's easy to say, but i can't move from the spot. judge. and i seem to be rooted to the ground.--no, i am not going to look at it any longer! [_he covers his eyes with one hand_. old lady. but what is it? mists out of the earth, or shadows cast by the trees? judge. no, it's our own vision that plays us false. there i go now, and yet i am standing here. just let me get a good night's sleep, and i'll laugh at the whole thing!--the devil! is this masquerade never going to end? old lady. but why do you look at it then? judge. i see it right through my hand--i see it in the dark, with my eyelids closed! old lady. but now it's over. _the_ procession _has passed out_. judge. praised be--why, i can't get the word out!--i wonder if it will be possible to sleep to-night? perhaps we had better send for the doctor? old lady. or father colomba, perhaps? judge. he can't help, and he who could won't!--well, let the other one do it then! the other one _enters from behind the lady chapel. he is extremely thin and moth-eaten. his thin, snuff-coloured hair is parted in the middle. his straggly beard looks as if it were made out of tow. his clothes are shabby and outgrown, and he seems to wear no linen. a red woollen muffler is wound around his neck. he wears spectacles and carries a piece of rattan under his arm_. judge. who is that? the other one. [_in a low voice_] i am the other one! judge. [_to his wife_] make the sign of the cross! i can't! the other one. the sign of the cross does not frighten me, for i am undergoing my ordeal merely that i may wear it. judge. who are you? the other one. i became the other one because i wanted to be the first one. i was a man of evil, and my punishment is to serve the good. judge. then you are not the evil one? the other one. i am. and it is my task to torment you into finding the cross, before which we are to meet some time. old lady. [_to_ judge] don't listen to him! tell him to go! the other one. it won't help. you have called me, and you'll have to bear with me. _the_ judge _and the_ old lady _go out to the left_. the other one _goes after them_. _curtain_. act ii _a huge room with whitewashed walls and a ceiling of darkened beams. the windows are small and deeply set, with bars on the outside. the room is crowded with furniture of every kind: wardrobes, chiffoniers, dressers, chests, tables. on the furniture are placed silver services, candelabra, candlesticks, pitchers, table ware, vases, statues, etc. there is a door in the rear. portraits of the_ judge _and the_ old lady _hang on the rear wall, one on either side of the door. a harp stands beside a small sewing-table with an easy chair near it_. amelia _is standing before a table at the right, trying to clean a coffee-set of silver_. _the sun is shining in through the windows in the background_. neighbour. [_enters_] well, child, how is your patience? amelia. thank you, neighbour, it might be worse. but i never had a worse job than this silver service here. i have worked at it for half an hour and cannot get it clean. neighbour. that's strange, but i suppose there are reasons for it, as the judge says. could you sleep last night? amelia. thank you, i slept very well. but do you know that father spent the whole night in the vineyard with his rattle----? neighbour. yes, i heard him. what kind of foolish idea was that? amelia. he thought he heard the starlings that had come to eat the grapes. neighbour. poor fellow! as if the starlings were abroad nights!--and the children? amelia. well, the children--she is still keeping them in the cellar, and i hope she won't forget to give them something to eat. neighbour. he who feeds the birds will not forget your children, my dear amelia. and now i'll tell you something which, as a rule, shouldn't be told. there is a small hole in the wall between the judge's wine-cellar and my own. when i was down there this morning to get the place aired out, i heard voices. and when i looked through the hole, i saw eric and thyra playing with a strange little boy. amelia. you could see them, neighbour? and---neighbour. they were happy and well---amelia. who was their playmate? neighbour. that's more than i can guess. amelia. this whole dreadful house is nothing but secrets. neighbour. that is true, but it is not for us to inquire into them. judge. [_enters, carrying a rattle_] so you are in here conspiring, neighbour! is it not enough that your evil eye has brought the starlings into my vineyard? for you do have the evil eye--but we'll soon put it out. i know a trick or two myself. neighbour. [_to_ amelia] is it worth while to set him right? one who doesn't believe what is told him! [_he goes out_. amelia. no, this is beyond us! judge. tell me, amelia, have you noticed where your mother is looking for things when she believes herself to be alone? amelia. no, father. judge. i can see by your eyes that you know. you were looking this way. [_he goes up to a chest of drawers and happens to get into the sunlight_] damn the sun that is always burning me! [_he pulls down one of the shades and returns to the chest of drawers_] this must be the place!--now, let me see! the stupidest spot is also the cleverest, so that's where i must look--as in this box of perfume, for instance--and right i was! [_he pulls out a number of bank-notes and stocks_] what's this? twelve english bills of a pound each. twelve of them!--oho! then it is easy to imagine the rest. [_pushes the bills and securities into his pockets_] but what is it i hear? there are the starlings again! [_he goes to an open window and begins to play the rattle_] get away there! old lady. [_enters_] are you still playing the ghost? judge. are you not in the kitchen? old lady. no, as you see, i am not. [_to_ amelia] are you not done with the cleaning yet? amelia. no, mother, i'll never get done with it. the silver won't clean, and i don't think it is real. old lady. not real? let me see!--why, indeed, it's quite black! [_to the_ judge, _who in the meantime has pulled down another shade_] where did you get this set from? judge. that one? why, it came from an estate. old lady. for your services as executor! what you got was like what you gave! judge. you had better not make any defamatory remarks, for they are punishable under the law. old lady. are you crazy, or was there anything crazy about my remark? judge. and for that matter, it is silver--sterling silver. old lady. then it must be amelia's fault. a voice. [_coming through the window from the outside_] the judge can turn white into black, but he can't turn black into white! judge. who said that? old lady. it seemed as if one of the starlings had been speaking. judge. [_pulling down the remaining shade_] now the sun is here, and a while ago it seemed to be over there. old lady. [_to_ amelia] who was it that spoke? amelia. i think it was that strange school-teacher with the red muffler. judge. ugh! let us talk of something else. servant girl. [_enters_] dinner is served. [_she goes out; a pause follows_. old lady. you go down and eat, amelia. amelia. thank you, mother. [_she goes out_. _the_ judge _sits down on a chair close to one of the chests_. old lady. [_sliding up to the chest of drawers >where the box of perfume stands_] are you not going to eat anything? judge. no, i am not hungry. how about you? old lady. i have just eaten. [_pause_. judge. [_takes a piece of bread from his pocket_] then you'll excuse me, i'm sure. old lady. there's a roast of venison on the table. judge. you don't say so! old lady. do you think i poison the food? judge. yes, it tasted of carbolic acid this morning. old lady. and what i ate had a sort of metallic taste---judge. if i assure you that i have put nothing whatever in your food---old lady. then i don't believe you. but i can assure you---judge. and i won't believe it. [_eating his bread_] roast of venison is a good thing--i can smell it from here--but bread isn't bad either. [_pause_. old lady. why are you sitting there watching that chest? judge. for the same reason that makes you guard those perfumes. old lady. so you have been there, you sneak-thief! judge. ghoul! old lady. to think of it--such words between us! _us_! [_she begins to weep_. judge. yes, the world is evil and so is man. old lady. yes, you may well say so--and ungrateful above all. ungrateful children rob you of the rent; ungrateful grandchildren rob the fruit from the trees. you are right, indeed: the world is evil---judge. i ought to know, i who have had to witness all the rottenness, and who have been forced to pass the death sentence. that is why the mob hates me, just as if i had made the laws---old lady. it doesn't matter what the people say, if you have only a clean conscience--[_three loud knocks are heard from the inside of the biggest wardrobe_] what was that? who is there? judge. oh, it was that wardrobe. it always cracks when there is rain coming. [_three distinct knocks are heard again_. old lady. it's some kind of performance started by that strolling charlatan. _the cover of the coffee-pot which_ amelia _was cleaning, opens and drops down again with a bang; this happens several times in succession_. judge. what was _that_, then? old lady. oh, yes, it's that same juggler. he can play tricks, but he can't scare me. [_the coffee-pot acts as before._ judge. do you think he is one of those mesmerists? old lady. well, whatever it happens to be called---judge. if that's so, how can he know our private secrets? old lady. secrets? what do you mean by that? _a clock begins to strike and keeps it up as if it never meant to stop_. judge. now i am getting scared. old lady. then old nick himself may take me if i stay here another minute! [_the spot of sunlight appears suddenly on the portrait of the_ old lady] look! he knows that secret, too! judge. you mean that there is a portrait of _her_ behind yours? old lady. come away from here and let us go down and eat. and let us see whether we can't sell off the house and all the rest at auction---judge. you are right--sell off the whole caboodle and start a new life!--and now let us go down and eat. the other one _appears in the doorway_. _the_ judge _and the_ old lady _draw back from him_. judge. that's an ordinary human being! old lady. speak to him! judge. [_to_ the other one] who are you, sir? the other one. i have told you twice. that you don't believe me is a part of your punishment, for if you could believe, your sufferings would be shortened by it. judge. [_to his wife_] it's--_him_--sure enough! for i feel as if i were turning into ice. how are we to get rid of him?--why, they say that the unclean spirits cannot bear the sound of music. play something on the harp, caroline. _though badly frightened, the_ old lady _sits down at the table on which the harp stands and begins to play a slow prelude in a minor key_. the other one _listens reverently and with evident emotion_. old lady. [_to the_ judge] is he gone? the other one. i thank you for the music, madam. it lulls the pain and awakens memories of better things even in a lost soul--thank you, madam!--speaking of the auction, i think you are doing right, although, in my opinion, an honest declaration of bankruptcy would be still better--yes, surrender your goods, and let every one get back his own. judge. bankruptcy? i have no debts---the other one. no debts! old lady. my husband _has_ no debts! the other one. no debts! that would be happiness, indeed! judge. well, that's the truth! but other people are in debt to me---the other one. forgive them then! judge. this is not a question of pardon, but of payment---the other one. all right! then you'll be made to pay!--for the moment--farewell! but we'll meet frequently, and the last time at the great auction! [_he goes out backward_. judge. he's afraid of the sun--he, too! ha-ha! the other one. yes, for some time yet. but once i have accustomed myself to the light, i shall hate darkness. [_he disappears_. old lady. [_to the_ judge] do you really think he is--the other one? judge. of course, that's not the way he is supposed to look but then times are changing and we with them. they used to say that he had gold and fame to give away, but this fellow goes around dunning---old lady. oh, he's a sorry lot, and a charlatan--that's all! a milksop who doesn't dare to bite, no matter how much he would like to! the other one. [_standing in the doorway again_] take care, i tell you! take care! judge. [_raising his right hand_] take care yourself! the other one. [_pointing at the_ judge _with one hand as if it were a revolver_] shame! judge. [_unable to move_] woe is me! the other one. you have never believed in anything good. now you shall have to believe in the evil one. he who is _all goodness_ can harm nobody, you see, and so he leaves that to such villains as myself. but for the sake of greater effectiveness, you two must torture yourselves and each other. old lady. [_kneeling before_ the other one] spare us! help us! mercy! the other one. [_with a gesture as if he were tearing his clothes_] get up, woman! woe is me! there is one, and one only, to whom you may pray! get up now, or--yes, now you believe, although i don't wear a red cloak, and don't carry sword or purse, and don't crack any jokes--but beware of taking me in jest! i am serious as sin and stern as retribution! i have not come to tempt you with gold and fame, but to chastise you with rods and scorpions--[_the clock begins to strike again; the stage turns dark_] your time is nearly up. therefore, put your house in order--because die you must! [_a noise as of thunder is heard_] whose voice is speaking now? do you think _he_ can be scared off with your rattle when he comes sweeping across your vineyard? storm and hail are his names; destruction nestles under his wings, and in his claws he carries punishment. put on your caul now, and don your good conscience. [_the rattling of the hail-storm is heard outside_. judge. mercy! the other one. yes, if you promise repentance. judge. i promise on my oath---the other one. you can take no oath, for you have already perjured yourself. but promise first of all to set the children free--and then all the rest! judge. i promise! before the sun has set, the children shall be here! the other one. that's the first step ahead, but if you turn back, then you'll see that i am as good as my name, which is--legion! _he raises the rattan, and at that moment the_ judge _comes able to move again_. _curtain_. act iii _a wine-cellar, with rows of casks along both side walls. the doorway in the rear is closed by an iron door_. _every cask is marked with the name of the urine kept in it. those nearest the foreground have small shelves above the taps, and the shelves hold glasses_. _at the right, in the foreground, stands a wine-press and near it are a couple of straw-bottomed chairs_. _bottles, funnels, siphons, crates, etc., are scattered about the place_. eric _and_ thyra _are seated by the wine-press_. eric. i think it's awfully dull. thyra. i think grandmother is nasty. eric. you mustn't talk like that. thyra. no, perhaps not, but she _is_ nasty. eric. you mustn't, thyra, for then the little boy won't come and play with us again. thyra. then i won't say it again. i only wish it wasn't so dark. eric. don't you remember, thyra, that the boy said we shouldn't complain---thyra. then i won't do it any more--[_the spot of sunlight appears on the ground_] oh, look at the sun-spot! [_she jumps up and places her foot on the light._ eric. you mustn't step on the sun, thyra. that's a sin! thyra. i didn't mean to step on him. i just wanted to have him. now see--i have him in my arms, and i can pat him.--look! now he's kissing me right on the mouth. _the_ playmate _enters from behind one of the casks; he wears a white garment reaching below his knees, and a blue scarf around the waist; on his feet are sandals; he is blond, and when he appears the cellar grows lighter_. eric. [_goes to meet him and shakes hands with him_] hello, little boy!--come and shake hands, thyra!--what's your name, boy? you must tell us to-day. _the_ playmate _merely looks at him_. thyra. you shouldn't be so forward, eric, for it makes him bashful.--but tell me, little boy, who is your papa? playmate. don't be so curious. when you know me better, you'll learn all those things.--but let us play now. thyra. yes, but nothing instructive, for that is so tedious. i want it just to be nice. playmate. [_smiling_] shall i tell a story? thyra. yes, but not out of the bible, for all those we know by heart--- _the_ playmate _smiles again_. eric. you say such things, thyra, that he gets hurt---playmate. no, my little friends, you don't hurt me--but now, if you are really good, we'll go and play in the open---eric. oh, yes, yes!--but then, you know, grandmother won't let us---playmate. yes, your grandmother has said that she wished you were out, and so we'll go before she changes her mind. come on now! thyra. oh, what fun! oh--- _the door in the rear flies open and through the doorway is seen a sunlit field planted with rye ready for the harvest. among the yellow ears grow bachelor's-buttons and daisies_. playmate. come, children! come into the sunlight and feel the joy of living! thyra. can't we take the sun-spot along? it's a pity to leave it here in the darkness. playmate. yes, if it is willing to go with you. call it! eric _and_ thyra _go toward the door, followed by the spot of light_. eric. isn't it a nice little spot! [_talks to the spot as if it were a cat_] puss, puss, puss, puss! playmate. take it up on your arm, thyra, for i don't think it can get over the threshold. thyra _gets the spot of light on her arm, which she bends as if carrying something_. _all three go out; the door closes itself. pause_. _the_ judge _enters with a lantern, the_ old lady _with the birch rod_. old lady. it's cool and nice here, and then there is no sun to bother you. judge. and how quiet it is. but where are the children? [_both look for the children_. judge. it looks as if they had taken us at our word. old lady. us? please observe that i didn't promise anything, for he--you know--talked only to you toward the end. judge. perhaps, but this time we had better obey, for i don't want to have any more trouble with hail-storms and such things.--however, the children are not here, and i suppose they'll come back when they get hungry. old lady. and i wish them luck when they do! [_the rod is snatched out of her hand and dances across the floor; finally it disappears behind one of the casks_] now it's beginning again. judge. well, why don't you submit and do as he--you know who!--says? i, for my part, don't dare to do wrong any longer. the growing grapes have been destroyed, and we must take pleasure in what is already safe. come here, caroline, and let us have a glass of something good to brace us up! [_he knocks on one of the casks and draws a glass of wine from it_] this is from the year of the comet--anno 1869, when the big comet came, and everybody said it meant war. and, of course, war did break out. [_he offers a filled glass to his wife_. old lady. you drink first! judge. well, now--did you think there might be poison in this, too? old lady. no, really, i didn't--but--we'll never again know what peace is, or happiness! judge. do as i do: submit! [_he drinks_. old lady. i want to, and i try to, but when i come to think how badly other people have treated us, i feel that i am just as good as anybody else. [_she drinks_] that's a very fine wine! [_she sits down_. judge. the wine is good, and it makes the mind easier.--yes, the wiseacres say that we are rapscallions, one and all, so i can't see what right anybody has to go around finding fault with the rest. [_he drinks_] my own actions have always been legal; that is, in keeping with prevailing laws and constitutions. if others happened to be ignorant of the law, they had only themselves to blame, for no one has a right to ignorance of that kind. for that reason, if adolph does not pay the rent, it is he who breaks the law, and not i. old lady. and yet the blame falls on you, and you are made to appear like a criminal. yes, it is as i have always said: there is no justice in this world. if you had done right, you should have brought suit against adolph and turned out the whole family. but then it isn't too late yet---[_she drinks_. judge. well, you see, if i were to carry out the law strictly, then i should sue for the annulment of his marriage, and that would cut him off from the property---old lady. why don't you do it? judge. [_looking around_] we-e-ell!--i suppose that would settle the matter once for all. a divorce would probably not be granted, but i think it would be possible to get the marriage declared invalid on technical grounds---old lady. and if there be no such grounds? judge. [_showing the influence of the wine_] there are technical grounds for everything, if you only look hard enough. old lady. well, then! think of it--how that good-for-nothing is wishing the life out of us--but now he'll see how "the natural course of events" makes the drones take to the road---judge. ha-ha! you're right, quite right! and then, you know, when i think it over carefully--what reason have we for self-reproach? what wrong have we done? it's mean to bring up that about the monstrance--it didn't hurt anybody, did it? and as for my being guilty of perjury: that's a pure lie. i got blood-poison in the finger--that's all--and quite a natural thing. old lady. just as if i didn't know it. and i may as well add that this hail-storm a while ago--why, it was as plain a thing as if it had been foretold in the farmer's almanac! judge. exactly! that's what i think too. and for that reason, caroline, i think we had better forget all that fool talk--and if you feel as i do, we'll just turn to another priest and get him to consecrate the mausoleum. old lady. well, why shouldn't we? judge. yes, why shouldn't we? perhaps because that mesmerist comes here and talks a lot of superstitious nonsense? old lady. tell me, do you really think he is nothing but a mesmerist? judge. [_blustering_] that fellow? he's a first-class charlatan. a che-ar-la-tan! old lady. [_looking around_] i am not so sure. judge. but i am sure. su-ure! and if he should ever come before my eyes again--just now, for instance--i'll drink his health and say: here's to you, old humourist! [as _he raises the glass, it is torn out of his hand and is seen to disappear through the wall_] what was that? [_the lantern goes out._ old lady. help! [_a gust of wind is heard, and then all is silence again_. judge. you just get some matches, and i'll clear this matter up. for i am no longer afraid of anything. not of anything! old lady. oh, don't, don't! the other one. [_steps from behind one of the casks_] now we'll have to have a talk in private. judge. [_frightened_] where did you come from? the other one. that is no concern of yours. judge. [_straightening himself up_] what kind of language is that? the other one. your own!--off with your cap! [_he blows at the_ judge, _whose cap is lifted off his head and falls to the ground_] now you shall hear sentence pronounced: you have wanted to sever what has been united by him whose name i may not mention. therefore you shall be separated from her who ought to be the staff of your old age. alone you must run the gauntlet. alone you must bear the qualms of sleepless nights. judge. is that mercy? the other one. it is justice; it is the law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth! the gospel has a different sound, but of that you didn't want to hear. now, move i along. [_he beats the air with the rattan._ _the scene changes to a garden with cypresses and yew-trees clipped in the shape of obelisks, candelabra, vases, etc. under the trees grow roses, hollyhocks, foxgloves, etc. at the centre of it is a spring above which droops a gigantic fuchsia in full bloom_.[1] _back of the garden appears a field of rye, all yellow and ready to be cut. bachelor's-buttons and daisies grow among the rye. a scarecrow hangs in the middle of the field. the distant background is formed by vineyards and light-coloured rocks with beech woods and ruined castles on them_. _a road runs across the stage in the near background. at the right is a covered gothic arcade. in front of this stands a statue of the madonna with the child_. eric _and_ thyra _enter hand in hand with the_ playmate. eric. oh, how beautiful it is! thyra. who is living here? playmate. whoever feels at home has his home here. thyra. can we play here? playmate. anywhere except in that avenue over there to the right. eric. and may we pick the flowers? playmate. you may pick any flowers you want, but you mustn't touch the tree at the fountain. thyra. what kind of tree is that? eric. why, you know, it is one of those they call [_lowering his voice_] "christ's blood-drops." thyra. you should cross yourself, eric, when you mention the name of the lord. eric. [_makes the sign of the cross_] tell me, little boy, why mustn't we touch the tree? thyra. you should obey without asking any questions, eric.--but tell me, little boy, why is that ugly scarecrow hanging there? can't we take it away? playmate. yes, indeed, you may, for then the birds will come and sing for us. eric _and_ thyra _run into the rye-field and tear down the scarecrow_. eric. away with you, you nasty old scarecrow! come and eat now, little birds! [_the golden bird comes flying from the right and perches on the fuchsia_] oh, see the golden bird, thyra! thyra. oh, how pretty it is! does it sing, too? [_the bird calls like a cuckoo_. eric. can you understand what the bird sings, boy? playmate. no, children, the birds have little secrets of their own which they have a right to keep hidden. thyra. of course, eric, don't you see, otherwise the children could tell where the nests are, and then they would take away the eggs, and that would make the birds sorry, and they couldn't have any children of their own. eric. don't talk like a grown-up, thyra. playmate. [_putting a finger across his lips_] hush! somebody is coming. now let us see if he likes to stay with us or not. _the_ chimney-sweep _enters, stops in surprise, and begins to look around_. playmate. well, boy, won't you come and play with us? chimney-sweep. [_takes off his cap; speaks bashfully_] oh, you don't want to play with me. playmate. why shouldn't we? chimney-sweep. i am sooty all over. and besides i don't know how to play--i hardly know what it is. thyra. think of it, the poor boy has never played. playmate. what is your name? chimney-sweep. my name? they call me ole--but---playmate. but what's your other name? chimney-sweep. other name? i have none. playmate. but your papa's name? chimney-sweep. i have no papa. playmate. and your mamma's? chimney-sweep. i don't know. playmate. he has no papa or mamma. come to the spring here, boy, and i'll make you as white as a little prince. chimney-sweep. if anybody else said it, i shouldn't believe it---playmate. why do you believe it then, when i say it? chimney-sweep. i don't know, but i think you look as if it would be true. playmate. give the boy your hand, thyra!--would you give him a kiss, too? thyra. [_after a moment's hesitation_] yes, when you ask me! [footnote 1: the swedish name of this plant is "christ's blood-drops."] _she kisses the_ chimney-sweep. _then the_ playmate _dips his hand in the spring and sprays a little water on the face of the_ chimney-sweep, _whose black mask at once disappears, leaving his face white_. playmate. now you are white again. and now you must go behind that rose-bush there and put on new clothes. chimney-sweep. why do i get all this which i don't deserve? playmate. because you don't believe that you deserve it. chimney-sweep. [_going behind the rose-bush_] then i thank you for it, although i don't understand what it means. thyra. was he made a chimney-sweep because he had been bad? playmate. no, he has never been bad. but he had a bad guardian who took all his money away from him, and so he had to go out into the world to earn a living--see how fine he looks now! _the_ chimney-sweep _enters dressed in light summer clothes_. playmate. [_to the_ chimney-sweep] go to the arcade now, and you'll meet somebody you love--and who loves you! chimney-sweep. who could love me? playmate. go and find out. _the_ chimney-sweep _goes across the stage to the arcade, where he is met by the_ lady in white, _who puts her arms around him_. thyra. who is living in there? playmate. [_with his finger on his lips_] polly pry!--but who is coming there? _the_ old lady _appears on the road with a sack on her back and a stick in her hand_. eric. it's grandmother! oh, now we are in for it! thyra. oh, my! it's grandmother! playmate. don't get scared, children. i'll tell her it's my fault. eric. no, you mustn't, for then she'll beat you. playmate. well, why shouldn't i take a beating for my friends? eric. no, i'll do it myself! thyra. and i, too! playmate. hush! and come over here--then you won't be scolded. [_they hide_. old lady. [_goes to the spring_] so, this is the famous spring that is said to cure everything--after the angel has stirred it up, of course!--but i suppose it is nothing but lies. well, i might have a drink anyhow, and water is water. [_she bends down over the spring_] what is it i see? eric and thyra with a strange boy! what can it mean? for they are not here. it must be an oracle spring. [_she takes a cup that stands by the spring, fills it with water and drinks_] ugh, it tastes of copper--he must have been here and poisoned the water, too! everything is poisoned! everything!--and i feel tired, too, although the years have not been hard on me--[_she looks at her reflection in the spring and tosses her head_] on the contrary, i look quite youthful--but it's hard to walk, and still harder to get up--[_she struggles vainly to rise_] my god, my god, have mercy! don't leave me lying here! playmate. [_makes a sign to the children to stay where they are; then he goes up to the_ old lady _and wipes the perspiration from her forehead_] rise, and leave your evil ways! old lady. [_rising_] who is that?--oh, it's you, my nice gentleman, who has led the children astray? playmate. go, ungrateful woman! i have wiped the sweat of fear from your brow; i have raised you up when your own strength failed you, and you reward me with angry words. go--go! old lady _stares astonished at him; then her eyes drop, and she turns and goes out_. eric _and_ thyra _come forward_. eric. but i am sorry for grandmother just the same, although she is nasty. thyra. it isn't nice here, and i want to go home. playmate. wait a little! don't be so impatient.--there comes somebody else we know. _the_ judge _appears on the road_. playmate. he cannot come here and defile the spring. [_he waves his hand; the spot of sunlight strikes the_ judge, _making him turn around and walk away_] it is nice of you to be sorry for the old people, but you must believe that what i do is right. do you believe that? eric _and_ thyra. yes, we believe it, we believe it! thyra. but i want to go home to mamma! playmate. i'll let you go. the other one _appears in the background and hides himself behind the bushes_. playmate. for now i must go. the angelus bell will soon be ringing---eric. where are you going, little boy? playmate. there are other children i must play with--far away from here, where you cannot follow me. but now, when i leave you here, don't forget what i have told you: that you mustn't touch the tree! eric. we'll obey! we will! but don't go away, for it will soon be dark! playmate. how is that? anybody who has a good conscience and knows his evening prayer has nothing, nothing to be afraid of. thyra. when will you come back to us, little boy? playmate. next christmas i come back, and every christmas!--good night, my little friends! _he kisses their foreheads and goes out between the bushes; when he reappears in the background, he is carrying a cross with a banner like that carried by the christ-child in old paintings; the angelus bell begins to ring; as he raises the banner and waves it in greeting to the children, he becomes surrounded by a clear, white light; then he goes out_. eric _and_ thyra _kneel and pray silently while the bell is ringing_. eric. [_having crossed himself_] do you know who the boy was, thyra? thyra. it was the saviour! the other one _steps forward_. thyra. [_scared, runs to eric, who puts his arms around her to protect her_] my! eric. [_to_ the other one] what do you want? you nasty thing! the other one. i only wanted--look at me! eric. yes? the other one. i am looking like this because once i touched the tree. afterward it was my joy to tempt others into doing the same. but now, since i have grown old, i have come to repent, and now i am remaining here to warn men, but nobody believes me--nobody--because i lied once. eric. you don't need to warn us, and you can't tempt us. the other one. tut, tut, tut! not so high-and-mighty, my little friend! otherwise it's all right. eric. well, go away then, for i don't want to listen to you, and you scare my sister! the other one. i am going, for i don't feel at home here, and i have business elsewhere. farewell, children! amelia. [_is heard calling from the right_] eric and thyra! eric _and_ thyra. oh, there is mamma--dear little mamma! amelia _enters_. eric _and_ thyra _rush into her arms_. the other one _turns away to hide his emotion_. _curtain_. act iv _a cross-roads surrounded by pine woods. moonlight_. _the_ witch _stands waiting_. old lady. well, at last, there you are. witch. you have kept me waiting. why have you called me? old lady. help me! witch. in what way? old lady. against my enemies. witch. there is only one thing that helps against your enemies: be good to them. old lady. well, i declare! i think the whole world has turned topsyturvy. witch. yes, so it may seem. old lady. even the other one--you know who i mean--has become converted. witch. then it ought to be time for you, too. old lady. time for me? you mean that my years are burdening me? but it is less than three weeks since i danced at a wedding. witch. and you call that bliss! well, if that be all, you shall have your fill of it. for there is to be a ball here to-night, although i myself cannot attend it. old lady. here? witch. just here. it will begin whenever i give the word---old lady. it's too bad i haven't got on my low-necked dress. witch. you can borrow one from me--and a pair of dancing shoes with red heels. old lady. perhaps i might also have a pair of gloves and a fan? witch. everything! and, in particular, any number of young cavaliers who will proclaim you the queen of the ball. old lady. now you are joking. witch. no, i am not joking. and i know that they have the good taste at these balls to choose the right one for queen--and in speaking of the right one, i have in mind the most worthy---old lady. the most beautiful, you mean? witch. no, i don't--i mean the worthiest. if you wish, i'll start the ball at once. old lady. i have no objection. witch. if you step aside a little, you'll find your maid--while the hall is being put in order. old lady. [_going out to the right_] think of it--i am going to have a maid, too! you know, madam, that was the dream of my youth--which never came true. witch. there you see: "what youth desires, age acquires." [_she blows a whistle_] _without curtain-fall, the stage changes to represent the bottom of a rocky, kettle-shaped chasm. it is closed in on three sides by steep walls of black rock, wholly stripped of vegetation. at the left, in the foreground, stands a throne. at the right is a platform for the musicians_. _a bust of pan on a square base stands in the middle of the stage, surrounded by a strange selection of potted plants: henbane, burdock, thistle, onion, etc._ _the musicians enter. their clothing is grey; their faces are chalk-white and sad; their gestures tired. they appear to be tuning their instruments, but not a sound is heard_. _then comes the_ leader of the orchestra. _after him, the guests of the ball: cripples, beggars, tramps. all are pulling on black gloves as they come in. their movements are dragging; their expressions funereal_. _next: the_ master of ceremonies, _who is really_ the other one_--a septuagenarian dandy wearing a black wig which is too small for him, so that tufts of grey hair appear underneath. his mustaches are waxed and pointed. he wears a monocle and has on an outgrown evening dress and top-boots. he looks melancholy and seems to be suffering because of the part he has to play._ _the_ seven deadly sins _enter and group themselves around the throne as follows_: pride covetousness lust anger gluttony envy sloth _finally the_ prince _enters. he is hunchbacked and wears a soiled velvet coat with gold buttons, ruffles, sword, and high boots with spurs_. _the ensuing scene must be played with deadly seriousness, without a trace of irony, satire, or humour. there is a suggestion of a death-mask in the face of every figure. they move noiselessly and make simple, awkward gestures that convey the impression of a drill_. prince. [_to the_ master of ceremonies] why do you disturb my peace at this midnight hour? master of ceremonies. always, brother, you are asking why. have you not seen the light yet? prince. only in part. i can perceive a connection between my suffering and my guilt, but i cannot see why i should have to suffer eternally, when he has suffered in my place. master of ceremonies. eternally? you died only yesterday. but then time ceased to exist to you, and so a few hours appear like an eternity. prince. yesterday? master of ceremonies. yes.--but because you were proud and wanted no assistance, you have now to bear your own sufferings. prince. what have i done, then? master of ceremonies. what a sublime question! prince. but why don't you tell? master of ceremonies. as our task is to torture each other by truth-telling--were we not called "heroes of truth" in our lifetime?--i shall tell you a part of your own secret. you were, and you are still, a hunchback---prince. what is that? master of ceremonies. there you see! you don't know what is known to everybody else. but all those others pitied you, and so you never heard the word that names your own deformity. prince. what deformity is that? perhaps you mean that i have a weak chest? but that is no deformity. master of ceremonies. a "weak chest"--yes, that is your own name for the matter. however, people kept the disfigurement of your body hidden from you, and they tried to assuage your misfortune by showing you sympathy and kindness. but you accepted their generosity as an earned tribute, their encouraging words as expressions of admiration due to your superior physique. and at last you went so far in conceit that you regarded yourself as a type of masculine beauty. and when, to cap it all, woman granted you her favours out of pity, then you believed yourself an irresistible conqueror. prince. what right have you to say such rude things to me? master of ceremonies. right? i am filling the saddening duty which forces one sinner to punish another. and soon you will have to fulfil the same cruel duty toward a woman who is vain to the verge of madness--a woman resembling you as closely as she possibly could. prince. i don't want to do it. master of ceremonies. try to do anything but what you must, and you'll experience an inner discord that you cannot explain. prince. what does it mean? master of ceremonies. it means that you cannot all of a sudden cease to be what you are: and you are what you have wanted to become. [_he claps his hands_. _the_ old lady _enters, her figure looking as aged and clumsy as ever; but she has painted her face and her head is covered by a powdered wig; she wears a very low-necked, rose-coloured dress, red shoes, and a fan made out of peacock feathers_. old lady. [_a little uncertain_] where am i? is this the right place? master of ceremonies. quite right, for you are in the place we call the "waiting-room." it is so called [_he sighs],_ because here we have to spend our time waiting--waiting for something that will come some time---old lady. well, it isn't bad at all--and there is the music--and there is a bust--of whom? master of ceremonies. it's a pagan idol called pan, because to the ancients he was all they had. and as we, in this place, are of the old order, more or less antiquated, he has been put here for us to look at. old lady. why, we are not old---master of ceremonies. yes, my queen. when the new era opened [_he sighs_], we couldn't keep up with it, and so we were left behind---old lady. the new era? what kind of talk is that? when did it begin? master of ceremonies. it is easy to figure out when the year one began--it was night, for that matter; the stars were shining brightly, and the weather must have been mild, as the shepherds remained in the open---old lady. oh, yes, yes--are we not going to dance here to-night? master of ceremonies. of course, we are. the prince is waiting for a chance to ask you---old lady. [_to the_ master of ceremonies] is he a real prince? master of ceremonies. a real one, my queen. that is to say, he has full reality in a certain fashion---old lady. [_to the_ prince, _who is asking her to dance_] you don't look happy, my prince? prince. i am not happy. old lady. well, i can't say that i find it very hilarious--and the place smells of putty, as if the glazier had just been at work here. what is that strange smell, as of linseed-oil? prince. [_with an expression of horror_] what are you saying? do you mean that charnel-house smell? old lady. i fear i must have said something impolite--but then, it isn't for the ladies to offer pleasantries--that's what the cavalier should do---prince. what can i tell you that you don't know before? old lady. that i don't know before? let me see--no, then i had better tell you that you are very handsome, my prince. prince. now you exaggerate, my queen. i am not exactly handsome, but i have always been held what they call "good-looking." old lady. just like me--i never was a beauty--that is, i _am_ not, considering my years--oh, i am so stupid!--what was it i wanted to say? master of ceremonies. let the music begin! _the musicians appear to be playing, but not a sound is heard_. master of ceremonies. well? are you not going to dance? prince. [_sadly_] no, i don't care to dance. master of ceremonies. but you must: you are the only presentable gentleman. prince. that's true, i suppose--[_pensively_] but is that a fit occupation for me? master of ceremonies. how do you mean? prince. at times it seems as if i had something else to think of, but then--then i forget it. master of ceremonies. don't brood--enjoy yourself while youth is with you and the roses of life still bloom on your cheeks. now! up with the head, and step lively--- _the_ prince _grins broadly; then he offers his hand to the_ old lady, _and together they perform a few steps of a minuet_. old lady. [_interrupting the dance_] ugh! your hands are cold as ice! _goes to the throne_] why are those seven ladies not dancing? master of ceremonies. how do you like the music, queen? old lady. it's splendid, but they might play a little more _forte_---master of ceremonies. they are soloists, all of them, and formerly each one of them wanted to make himself heard above the rest, and so they have to use moderation now. old lady. but i asked why the seven sisters over there are not dancing. couldn't you, as master of ceremonies, make them do so? master of ceremonies. i don't think it would be of any use trying, for they are obstinate as sin--but please assume your throne, my queen. we are going to perform a little play in honour of the occasion---old lady. oh, what fun! but i want the prince to ... escort me---prince. [_to the_ master of ceremonies] have i got to do it? old lady. you ought to be ashamed of yourself--you with your hunch! prince. [_spits in her face_] hold your tongue, you cursed old hag! old lady. [_cuffs him on the ear_] that'll teach you! prince. [_jumps at her and knocks her down_] and that's, for you! _all the rest cover their faces with their hands_. prince. [_tears off the_ old lady's _wig so that her head appears totally bald_] there's the false scalp! now we'll pull out the teeth! master of ceremonies. enough! enough! _he helps the_ old lady _to rise, and gives her a kerchief to cover her head_. old lady. [_crying_] goodness gracious, that i could let myself be fooled like that! but i haven't deserved any better, i admit. prince. no, you have deserved a great deal worse. you should leave my hunch alone, for otherwise hell breaks loose--it's a miserable thing to see an old woman like you so foolish and so degraded. but, then, you are to be pitied--as all of us are to be pitied. all. we are all to be pitied! prince. [_with a sneer_] the queen! old lady. [_in the same tone_] the prince!--but haven't we met before? prince. perhaps--in our youth--for i am old, too. you had too much frippery on before--but now, when the disguise has been taken away--i begin to distinguish certain features---old lady. don't say anything more--don't say anything more--oh, what have i come to--what is happening to me? prince. now i know: you are my sister! old lady. but--my brother is dead! have i been deceived? or are the dead coming back? prince. everything comes back. old lady. am i dead or am i living? prince. you may well ask that question, for i don't know the difference. but you are exactly the same as when i parted from you once: just as vain and just as thievish. old lady. do you think you are any better? prince. perhaps! i am guilty of all the seven deadly sins, but you have invented the eighth one--that of robbing the dead. old lady. what are you thinking of now? prince. twelve years in succession i sent you money to buy a wreath for mother's grave, and instead of buying it you kept the money. old lady. how do you know? prince. how i came to know of it is the only thing that interests you about that crime of yours. old lady. prove it! prince. [_taking a number of bills from his pocket_] here is the money! _the_ old lady _sinks to the ground. a church bell begins to ring. all bend their heads, but nobody kneels_. lady in white. [_enters, goes up to the_ old lady, _and assists her in rising_] do you know me? old lady. no. lady in white. i am amelia's mother. you have taken the memory of me away from her. you have erased me from her life. but now you are to be wiped out, and i shall recover my child's love and the prayers my soul needs. old lady. oh, somebody has been telling tales to that hussy--then i'll set her to herd the swine--- _the_ prince _strikes her on the mouth_. lady in white. don't strike her! old lady. are you interceding for me? lady in white. it is what i have been taught to do. old lady. you hypocrite! if you only dared, you would wish me buried as deep as there are miles from here to the sun! master of ceremonies. down with you--monster! [as _he touches her with his staff she falls to the ground_ _again the scene is changed while the curtain remains up. the bust of pan sinks into the earth. the musicians and the throne with its attendant sins disappear behind pieces of; scenery that are lowered from above. at last the cross-roads with the surrounding pine woods appear again, and the_ old lady _is discovered lying at the foot of a sign-post_. witch. get up! old lady. i cannot--i am frozen stiff---witch. the sun will rise in a moment. the cock has crowed. the matin bells are ringing. old lady. i don't care for the sun. witch. then you'll have to walk in darkness. old lady. oh, my eyes! what have you done to me? witch. i have only turned out the light because it troubled you. now, up and away with you--through cold and darkness--until you drop! old lady. where is my husband?--amelia! eric and thyra! my children! witch. yes, where are they? but wherever they may be, you shall not see them until your pilgrimage is ended. now, up and away! or i will loose my dogs! _the_ old lady _gropes her way out_. _the court-room. in the background is the desk of the presiding judge, decorated in white and gold with the emblems of justice. in front of the desk, covering the centre of the floor, stands a big table, and on it are placed writing-materials, inkstand, bible, bell, and gavel_. _the axe of the executioner hangs on the rear wall, with a pair of handcuffs below it and a big black crucifix above_. _the_ judge _enters and makes his way into the room on tiptoe. the bell rings. the gavel raps once on the table. all the chairs are pulled up to the table at once. the bible is opened. the candles on the table become lighted_. _for a moment the_ judge _stands still, stricken with horror. then he resumes his advance toward a huge cabinet. suddenly the doors of this fly open. a number of documents are thrown out, and the_ judge _picks them up_. judge. [_reassured_] this time i am in luck! here are the accounts of my guardianship; here is the contract for the lease--my report as executor--all of it! [_the handcuffs on the wall begin to clank_] make all the noise you please! as long as the axe stays still, i won't be scared. [_he puts the documents on the table and goes back to close the door of the cabinet, but this flies open again as soon as he shuts it_] everything has a cause: _ratio sufficiens_. this door must have a spring with which i am not familiar. it surprises me that i don't know it, but it cannot scare me. [_the axe moves on the wall_] the axe moved--as a rule, that foretells an execution, but to-day it means only that its equilibrium has become disturbed in some way. oh, no, nothing will give me pause but seeing my own ghost--for that would be beyond the tricks of any charlatan. _the_ ghost _enters from behind the cabinet; the figure resembles in every way the_ judge, _but where the eyes should be appear two white surfaces, as on a plaster bust_. judge. [_frightened_] who are you? ghost. i am not--i have been. i have been that unrighteous judge who is now come here to receive his sentence. judge. what have you done then, poor man? ghost. everything wrong that an unrighteous judge might do. pray for me, you whose conscience is clear---judge. am i--to pray for you? ghost. yes, you who have caused no innocent blood to be shed---judge. that's true; that's something i haven't done. and besides, as i have always obeyed the letter of the law, i have good reason to let myself be called a righteous judge--yes, without irony! ghost. it would, indeed, be a bad moment for joking, as the invisible ones are sitting in judgment---judge. what do you mean? who are sitting in judgment? ghost. [_pointing to the table_] you don't see them, but i do. [_the bell rings; a chair is pushed back from the table_] pray for me! judge. no, i won't. justice must take its course. you must have been a great offender to reach consciousness of your guilt so late. ghost. you are as stern as a good conscience. judge. that's just the word for it. stern, but just! ghost. no pity, then? judge. none whatever. ghost. no mercy? judge. no mercy! _the gavel raps on the table; the chairs are pushed away_. ghost. now the verdict is being delivered. can't you hear? judge. i hear nothing. ghost. [_pointing to the table_] and you see nothing? don't you see the beheaded sailor, the surveyor, the chimney-sweep, the lady in white, the tenant---judge. i see absolutely nothing. ghost. woe unto you, then, when your eyes become opened as mine have been. now the verdict has been given: guilty! judge. guilty! ghost. you have said it--yourself! and you have already been sentenced. all that remains now is the big auction. _curtain._ act v _the same room as in the second act, but it is now arranged for the auction. benches are placed in the middle of the room. on the table behind which the auctioneer is to preside stand the silver coffee-set, the clock, vases, candelabra, etc._ _the portraits of the_ judge _and the_ old lady _have been taken down and are leaning against the table_. _the_ neighbour _and_ amelia _are on the stage_. amelia. [_dressed as a scrub-woman_] before my mother left, she ordered me to clean the hallway and the stairs. it is winter now, and cold, and i cannot say that it has been any pleasure to carry out her order---neighbour. so you didn't get any pleasure out of it? well, my child, i must say that you demand rather too much of yourself. but as you have obeyed, and stood the test, your time of trial shall be over, and i will let you know your life's secret. amelia. speak out, neighbour, for i dare hardly trust my good resolutions much longer. neighbour. well, then! the woman you have been calling mother is your stepmother. your father married her when you were only one year old. and the reason you have never seen your mother is that she died when you were born. amelia. so that was it!--how strange to have had a mother and yet never to have seen her! tell me--did you ever see her? neighbour. i knew her. amelia. how did she look? neighbour. well, how _did_, she look?--her eyes were blue as the blossom of the flax--her hair was yellow as the dry stalks of wheat---amelia. and tall and slender--and her hand was small and white as if it had touched nothing but silk in all her days--and her mouth was shaped like a heart, and her lips looked as if none but good words had ever passed them. neighbour. how can you know all that? amelia. because that is the image which appears in my dreams when i have not been good--and then she raises her hand as if to warn me, and on one of her fingers there is a ring with a green stone that seems to radiate light. it is she!--tell me, neighbour, is there a picture of her in the place? neighbour. there used to be one, but i don't know whether it's still here. amelia. so this one is my stepmother? well, god was good when he let me keep my mother's image free from stain--and hereafter i shall find it quite natural that this other woman is cruel to me. neighbour. cruel stepmothers exist to make children kind. and you were not kind, amelia, but you have become so, and for that reason i shall now give you a christmas present in advance. _he takes the portrait of the_ old lady _out of its frame, when in its place appears a picture in water-colours corresponding to the description given above_. amelia. [_kneeling in front of the picture_] my mother--mother of my dreams! [_rising_] but how can i keep the picture when it is to be sold at auction? neighbour. you can, because the auction has already taken place. amelia. where and when was it held? neighbour. it was held elsewhere--in a place not known to you--and to-day the things are merely to be taken away. amelia. what a lot of queer things are happening! and how full of secrets the house is!--but tell me, where is my stepmother? i have not seen her in a long time. neighbour. i suppose it must be told: she is in a place from which nobody returns. amelia. is she dead? neighbour. she is dead. she was found frozen to death in a swamp into which she had stumbled. amelia. merciful god have pity on her soul! neighbour. so he will in time, especially if you pray for her. amelia. of course i will. neighbour. how good you have become, my child--as a result of her becoming so bad! amelia. don't say so now when she is dead---neighbour. right you are! let her rest in peace! amelia. but where is my father? neighbour. that's a secret to all of us. but it is sweet of you to ask for him before you ask for your own adolph. amelia. adolph--yes, where is he? the children are crying for him, and christmas is near.--oh, what a christmas this will be to us! neighbour. leave to each day its own trouble--and now take your christmas present and go. the affairs connected with the auction are to be settled, and then you'll hear news. amelia. [_takes the portrait of her mother_] i go, but no longer alone--and i have a feeling that something good is about to happen, but what i cannot tell. [_she goes out to the right_. neighbour. but i know! yet you had better go, for what is about to happen here should not be seen by children. _he opens the door in the rear and rings a bell to summon the people to the auction. the people enter in the following order_: the poor, _a large number of them; the_ sailor; _the_ chimney-sweep; _the_ neighbour, who takes his place in front of the rest; _the_ widow _and the_ fatherless children; _the_ surveyor; the other one, _carrying the auctioneer's hammer and a pile of documents_. the other one. [_takes his place at the table and raps with the hammer_] at a compulsory auction held at the court-house for the disposal of property left by the late circuit judge, the items now to be described were bid in by the court on behalf of absent creditors, and may now be obtained and taken away by their respective owners. judge. [_enters, looking very aged and miserable_] in the name of the law--hold! the other one. [_pretends to throw something at the_ judge, _who stands aghast and speechless_] don't speak of the law! here the gospel is preached--but not for you, who wanted to buy heaven with stolen money.--first: the widow and her fatherless children. there is the silver set which the judge accepted from you for his false report as executor. in his stained hands the silver has turned black, but i hope that in yours it will once more turn white.--then we come to the ward, who had to become a chimney-sweep, after being cheated out of his inheritance. here are the receipted bills and the property due to you from your guardian. and you need not thank him for his accounting.--here stands the surveyor who, although he was innocent, had to serve two years in prison because he had made an illegal partition--the maps handed to him for the purpose having been falsified in advance. what can you do for him, judge? can you undo what has happened, or restore his lost honour? judge. oh, that fellow--give him a bill and he'll be satisfied! his honour wasn't worth a penny, anyhow. the other one. [_slaps the_ judge _on the mouth, while the rest spit at him and mutter with clinched fists_] here is the brother of the sailor who was beheaded in spite of his innocence. can you restore his brother to life? no! and you cannot pay for his life with yours, as it is not worth as much.--and finally we come to the neighbour whom you cheated out of his property in a perfectly legal way. not familiar with the tricks of the law, the neighbour has, contrary to prevailing practice, placed the judge's son-in-law in charge of the property as life tenant, wiping out his previous indebtedness and making him also legal heir to the property. judge. i appeal to a higher court! the other one. this case has passed through all the instances except the highest, and that far you cannot reach with your stamped papers. for if you tried, all these poor people whom you have robbed of their living would cry out: guilty!--thus we are done with all that could be properly disposed of. what remains here still undisposed of goes to the poor: clocks, vases, jewelry and other valuables that have served as bribes, graft, tips, souvenirs--all in a perfectly legal way because evidence and witnesses were wanting. you poor, take back your own! your tears have washed the guilt from the ill-gotten goods. [_the_ poor _begin to plunder_] and now remains the last item to be sold by me. this pauper here, formerly a judge, is offered to the lowest bidder for board at the expense of the parish. how much is offered? [_silence_] no offer? [_silence_] first, second, third time--no offer? [_to the_ judge] there, you see! nobody wants you. well, then, i have to take you myself and send you to your well-earned punishment. judge. is there no atonement? the other one. yes, punishment atones.--take him into the woods and stone him in accordance with the law of moses--for no other law was ever known to him. away with him! [_the people pounce on the_ judge _and jostle him_. _the scene changes to the "waiting-room." the same setting as in the second scene of the fourth act: a kettle-shaped chasm surrounded by steep black rocks. (the same people are on the stage.)_ _in the background appear a pair of huge scales for the weighing of newcomers_. _the_ judge _and the_ old lady _are seated opposite each other at a small table_. judge. [_staring in front of himself as if lost in a dream_] hush!--i had a dream! they were throwing stones at me--and yet i felt no pain--and then everything turned black and vacant until this moment--how long it may have lasted, i cannot tell--now i am beginning to hear again--and to feel. it feels as if i were being carried--oh, how cold it is--they are washing me, i think--i am lying in something that has six sides like a cell in a honeycomb and that smells like a carpenter shop--i am being carried, and a bell is ringing--wait! now i am riding, but not in a street-car, although the bell is ringing all the time--now i am sinking down, down, as if i were drowning--boom, boom, boom: three knocks on the roof--and then the lessons begin--the teacher is leading--and now the boys are singing--what can it be?--and then they are knocking on the roof again, incessantly--boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom--silence--it's over! [_he wakes up_] where am i? i choke! it's so stuffy and close here!--oh, it's you!--where are we? whose bust is that? old lady. they say it is the new god. judge. but he looks like a goat. old lady. perhaps it is the god of the goats? judge. "the goats on the left side--" what is that i am recalling? prince. it is the god pan. judge. pan? prince. exactly! just exactly! and when, in the night, the shepherds--no, not _those_ shepherds--catch sight of a hair of his hide they are seized with panic---judge. [_rising_] woe! i don't want to stay here! woe! can't i get out of here? i want to get out! [_he runs around, looking vainly for a way out._ the other one. [_enters dressed as a franciscan friar_] you'll find nothing but entrances--no exits! judge. are you father colomba? the other one. no, i am the other one. judge. as a monk? the other one. don't you know that the other one turns monk when he grows old; and don't you think it is well that he does so some time? but, seriously speaking--for here everything is serious--this is my holiday attire, which i am permitted to wear only this one day of the year in order that i may remember what i have had and what i have lost. judge. [_alarmed_] what day of the year is it to-day? the other one. [_bending his head with a sigh_] it is christmas eve! judge. [_approaching the_ old lady] think of it, it is christmas eve?--and you know i don't dare to ask where we are--i dare not--but let us go home, home to our children, to our own---[_he cries_. old lady. yes, let us go from here, home to ourselves, that we may start a new life in peace and harmony---the other one. it is too late! old lady. oh, dear, sweet fellow--help us, have mercy on us, forgive us! the other one. it is too late! judge. [_taking the_ old lady _by the hand_] i am choking with dread! don't ask him where we are; i don't want to know! but one thing i do want to know: will there ever be an end to this? the other one. never!--that word "end" is not known to us here. judge. [_crushed_] no end! [_looking around_] and does the sun never enter this place of damp and cold? the other one. never, for those who dwell here have not loved the sun! judge. it is true: i have cursed the sun.--may i confess my sins? the other one. no, you must keep them to yourself until they begin to swell and stop up your throat. old lady. [_kneeling_] o--i don't know how to pray! _she rises and walks restlessly back and forth, wringing her hands_. the other one. because for you there is no one to whom you might pray. old lady. [_in despair_] children--send somebody to give me a word of hope and pardon. the other one. it will not be done. your children have forgotten you--they are now rejoicing at your absence. _a picture appears on the rocky wall in the rear: the home, with_ adolph, amelia, eric, _and_ thyra _around the christmas tree; in the background, the_ playmate. judge. you say they are seated at the christmas table rejoicing at our misfortune?--no, now you lie, for they are better than we! the other one. what new tune is that? i have always heard that you were a righteous man---judge. i? i was a great sinner--the greatest one that ever was! the other one. hm! hm! judge. and if you say anything of the children you are guilty of a sin. i know that they are praying for us. old lady. [_on her knees_] i can hear them tell their rosaries: hush--i hear them! the other one. you are completely mistaken. what you hear is the song of the workmen who are tearing down the mausoleum. judge. the mausoleum! where we were to have rested in peace! prince. shaded by a dozen wreaths. judge. who is that? prince. [_pointing to the_ old lady] she is my sister, and so you must be my brother-in-law. judge. oh--that lazy scamp! prince. look here! in this place we are all lazy scamps. judge. but we are not all hunchbacks! prince. [_strikes him a blow on the mouth_] don't touch the hunch or there will be hell to pay! judge. what a way to treat a man of my ability and high social position! what a christmas! prince. perhaps you expected your usual creamed codfish and christmas cake? judge. not exactly, but there ought to be something to feed on---prince. here we are keeping a christmas fast, you see. judge. how long will it last? prince. how long? we don't measure time here, because it has ceased to exist, and a minute may last a whole eternity. old lady. we suffer only what our deeds have deserved--so don't complain---prince. just try to complain, and you'll see what happens.--we are not squeamish here, but bang away without regard for legal forms. judge. are they beating carpets out there--on a day like this? prince. no, it is an extra ration of rod all around as a reminder for those who may have forgotten the significance of the day. judge. do they actually lay hands on our persons? is it possible that educated people can do things like that to each other? prince. this is a place of education for the badly educated; and those who have behaved like scoundrels are treated like such. judge. but this passes all limits! prince. yes, because here we are in the limitless! now get ready! i have already been out there and had my portion. judge. [_appalled_] what humiliation! that's to strip you of all human worth! prince. ha ha! human worth! ha ha!--look at the scales over there. that's where the human worth is--and invariably found wanting. judge. [_sits down at the table_] i could never have believed---prince. no, you could only believe in your caul and your own righteousness. and yet you had both moses and the prophets and more besides--for the very dead walked for your benefit. judge. the children! the children! is it not possible to send them a word of greeting and of warning? prince. no! eternally, no! _the_ witch _comes forward with a big basketful of stereoscopes._ judge. what is it? witch. christmas gifts for the righteous. stereoscopes, you know. [_handing out one_] help yourself. they don't cost anything. judge. there's a kind soul at last. and a little attention to a man of my age and rank does honour both to your tact and to your heart---witch. that's very nice of you, judge, but i hope you don't mind my having given some thought to the others, too. judge. [_disappointed_] are you poking fun at me, you damned old hag? witch. [_spitting in his face_] hold your tongue, petti-fogger! judge. what company i have got into! witch. is it not good enough for you, you old perjurer, you grafter, you forger, you robber of orphans, you false pleader? now have a look in the peep-show and take in the great spectacle: "from the cradle to the grave." there is your whole biography and all your victims--just have a look now. that's right! judge _looks in the stereoscope; then he rises with horror stamped on his face_. witch. i hope this slight attention may add to the christmas joy! _she hands a stereoscope to the_ old lady, _and proceeds thereafter to give one to each person present_. judge. [_sitting at the table, where now the_ old lady _takes a seat opposite him_] what do you see? old lady. everything is there; everything!--and do you notice that everything is black? all life that seemed so bright is now black, and even moments which i thought full of innocent joy have an appearance of something nauseating, foul, almost criminal. it is as if all my memories had decayed, including the fairest among them---judge. you are right. there is not one memory that can bring light into this darkness. when i look at her who was the first love of my youth, i see nothing but a corpse. when i think of my sweet amelia, there appears--a harlot. the little ones make faces at me like gutter-snipes. my court has become a pigsty; the vineyard, a rubbish-heap full of thistles; and the mausoleum--oh, horrors!--an outhouse! when i think of the green woods, the leafage appears snuff-coloured and the trunks look bleached as mast tops. the blue river seems to flow out of a dung-heap and the blue arch above it looks like a smoky roof--of the sun itself i can recall nothing but the name; and what was called the moon--the lamp that shed its light on bays and groves during the amorous nights of my youth--i can remember only as--no, i cannot remember it at all. but the words are left, although they have only sound without sense.--love, wine, song! flowers, children, happiness!--don't the words sound pretty? and it is all that is left!--love? what _was_ it, anyhow? old lady. what was it?--two cats on a back-yard fence. judge. [_sheepishly_] yes, that's it! that's what it was! three dogs on a sidewalk. what a sweet recollection! old lady. [_pressing his hand_] yes, it is sweet! judge. [_looking at his watch_] my watch has stopped. i am so hungry--and i am thirsty, too, and i long for a smoke. but i am also tired and want to sleep. all my desires are waking. they claw at me and hound me, but not one of them can i satisfy. we are lost! lost, indeed! old lady. and i long for a cup of tea more than i can tell! judge. hot green tea--that's just what i should like now--with a tiny drop of rum in it. old lady. no, not rum! i should prefer some cakes---prince. [_who has drawn near to listen_] sugared, of course? i fear you'll have to whistle for them. old lady. oh, this dreadful language hurts me more than anything, else. prince. that's because you don't know yet how something else is going to hurt you. judge. what is that? old lady. no, don't! we don't want to know! please! prince. yes, i am going to tell. it begins with---old lady. [_puts her fingers in her ears and cries out_] mercy! don't, don't, don't! prince. yes, i will--and as my brother-in-law is curious, i'll tell it to him. the second letter is---judge. this uncertainty is worse than torture--speak out, you devil, or i'll kill you! prince. kill, ha ha! everybody is immortal here, body and soul, what little there is left. however, the third letter is--and that's all you'll know! man in grey. [_a small, lean man with grey clothes, grey face, black lips, grey beard, and grey hands; he speaks in a very low voice_] may i speak a word with you, madam? old lady. [_rising in evident alarm_] what is it about? man in grey. [_smiling a ghastly, malicious smile_] i'll tell--out there. old lady. [_crying_] no, no; i won't! man in grey. [_laughing_]; it isn't dangerous. come along! all i want is to _speak_ to you. come now! [_they go toward the background and disappear_. prince. [_to the_ judge] a little christmas entertainment is wholesome. judge. do you mean to maltreat a woman? prince. here all injustices are abolished, and woman is treated as the equal of man. judge. you devil! prince. that's all right, but don't call me hunchback, for that touches my last illusion. the other one. [_steps up to the table_] well, how do you like our animal magnetism? it _can_ work wonders on black-guards! judge. i understand nothing of all this. the other one. that's just what is meant, and it is very nice of you to admit that there are things you don't understand. judge. granting that i am now in the realm of the dead---the other one. say "hell," for that is what it's called. judge. [_stammering_] th-then i should like to remind you that he who once descended here to redeem all lost---prince. [_at a sign from_ the other one _he strikes the_ judge _in the face_] don't argue! judge. they won't even listen to me! it is beyond despair! no mercy, no hope, no end! the other one. quite right! here you find only justice and retribution--especially justice: an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth! just as you wanted it! judge. but among men there is pardon--and that you don't have here. the other one. monarchs alone possess the right to pardon. and as a man of law you ought to know that a petition for pardon must be submitted before it can be granted. judge. for me there can be no pardon! the other one. [_gives the_ prince _a sign to step aside_] you feel, then, that your guilt is too great? judge. yes. the other one. then i'll speak kindly to you. there is an end, you see, if there is a beginning. and you have made a beginning. but the sequel will be long and hard. judge. oh, god is good! the other one. you have said it! judge. but--there is one thing that cannot be undone--there is one! the other one. you are thinking of the monstrance which should have been of gold but was of silver? well, don't you think that he who changed water into wine may also change silver into gold? judge. [_on his knees_] but my misdeed is too great, too great to be forgiven. the other one. now you overestimate yourself again. but rise up. we are about to celebrate christmas in our own fashion.--the light of the sun cannot reach here, as you know--nor that of the moon. but on this night, and on this alone, a star rises so far above the rocks that it is visible from here. it is the star that went before the shepherds through the desert--and _that_ was the morning star. [_he claps his hands together_. _the bust of pan sinks into the ground. the_ old lady _returns, looking reassured and quietly happy. with a suggestion of firm hope in mien and gesture, she goes up to the_ judge _and takes his hand. the stage becomes filled with shadows that are gazing up at the rocks in the rear_. chorus i. [_two sopranos and an alto sing behind the stage, accompanied only by string instruments and a harp_.] puer natus est nobis; et filius datus est nobis, cujus imperium super humerum ejus; et vocabitur nomen ejus magni consilii angelus. chorus ii. [_soprano, alto, tenor, basso_.] cantate domino canticum novum quia mirabilia fecit! _the star becomes visible above the rocks in the rear. all kneel down. a part of the rock glides aside, revealing a tableau: the crib with the child and the mother; the shepherds adoring at the left, the three magi at the right_. chorus iii. [_two sopranos and two altos.]_ gloria in excelsis deo et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis! _curtain_. the thunderstorm (oväder) a chamber play 1907 characters the master, _a retired government official_ the consul, _his brother_ starck, _a confectioner_ agnes, _daughter of starck_ louise, _a relative of the master_ gerda, _the master's divorced wife_ fischer, _second husband of gerda_ the iceman the letter-carrier the lamplighter the liquordealer's man the milkmaid scene i--in front of the house scene ii--inside the house scene iii--in front of the house first scene _the front of a modern house with a basement of granite. the upper parts are of brick covered with yellow plastering. the window-frames and other ornaments are of sandstone. a low archway leads through the basement to the court and serves also as entrance to the confectioner's shop. the corner of the house appears at the right of the stage, where the avenue opens into a small square planted with roses and various other flowers. at the corner is a mail-box. the main floor, above the basement, has large windows, all of which are open. four of these windows belong to an elegantly furnished dining-room. the four middle windows in the second story have red shades which are drawn; the shades are illumined by light from within_. _along the front of the house runs a sidewalk with trees planted at regular intervals. there is a lamp-post in the extreme foreground and beside it stands a green bench_. starck, _the confectioner, comes out with a chair and sits down on the sidewalk_. _the_ master _is visible in the dining-room of the main floor, seated at the table. behind him appears an oven built of green majolica tiles. on its mantelshelf stands a large photograph between two candelabra and some vases containing flowers. a young girl in a light dress is just serving the final course_. _the_ master's _brother, the_ consul, _appears in front of the house, coming from the left, and knocks with his walking-stick on the sill of one of the dining-room windows_. consul. will you soon be through? master. i'll come in a moment. consul. [_saluting the confectioner_] good evening, mr. starck. it's still hot---starck. good evening, consul. yes, it's the dog-day heat, and we have been making jam all day. consul. is that so? it's a good year for fruit, then? starck. it might be worse. well, the spring was cold, but the summer turned out unbearably hot. it was hard on us who had to stay in the city. consul. i got back from the country yesterday--one begins to wish oneself back when the evenings grow dark. starck. neither i nor my wife have been out of the city. of course, business is at a standstill, but you have to be on hand to make ready for the winter. first come strawberries, then cherries, then raspberries, and last gooseberries, cantaloupes and all the fall fruits---consul. tell me something, mr. starck. is the house here to be sold? starck. not that i have heard. consul. there are a lot of people living here? starck. something like ten families, i think, counting those in the rear also. but nobody knows anybody else. there is unusually little gossiping in the house. it seems rather as if everybody were hiding. i have lived here ten years, and during the first two years we had for neighbours a strange family that kept very quiet in the daytime. but at night they began to stir about, and then carriages would come and fetch things away. not until the end of the second year did i learn that they had been running a private sanatorium, and that what was being taken away at night were dead bodies. consul. horrible! starck. and they call it the silent house. consul. yes, there isn't much talking done here. starck. more than one drama has been played here, nevertheless. consul. tell me, mr. starck, who lives up there on the second floor, right above my brother? starck. up there, where the light comes through the red shades--a tenant died there during the summer. then the place stood empty for a month, and a week ago a new family moved in. i haven't seen them. i don't know their name. i don't think they ever go out. why did you ask, consul? consul. whew--i don't know! those four red shades look like stage curtains behind which some sanguinary tragedies are being rehearsed--or i imagine so, at least. there is a palm at one of the windows looking like a rod made of wire--you can see the shadow of it on the shade. if only some people were to be seen---starck. i have seen plenty of them, but not until later--at night. consul. was it men or women you saw? starck. both, i guess--but now i must get back to my pots. [_he disappears into the gateway_. master. [_still inside, has risen from the table and lighted a cigar; he is now standing at the open window, talking to his brother outside_] i'll be ready in a moment. louise is only going to sew a button on one of my gloves. consul. then you mean to go down-town? master. perhaps we'll take a turn in that direction--whom were you talking with? consul. just the confectioner---master. oh, yes--a very decent fellow--and, for that matter, my only companion here during the summer. consul. have you really stayed at home every night--never gone out? master. never! those light evenings make me timid. they are pleasant in the country, of course, but here in the city they produce the effect of something unnatural--almost ghastly. but no sooner has the first street lamp been lighted than i feel calm once more and can resume my evening walks. in that way i can get tired and sleep better at night. [louise _hands him the glove_] thank you, my child. you can just as well leave the windows open, as there are no mosquitoes. [_to the_ consul] now i'm coming. _a few moments later he can be seen coming out of the house on the side facing the square; he stops at the corner to drop a letter in the mail-box; then he comes around the corner to the front of the house and sits down on the bench beside his brother_. consul. but tell me: why do you stay in the city when you _could_ be in the country? master. i don't know. i have lost my power of motion. my memory has tied me for ever to these rooms. only within them can i find peace and protection. in there--yes! it is interesting to look at your own home from the outside. then i imagine that some other man is pacing back and forth in there--just think: for ten years i have been pacing back and forth in there! consul. is it ten years now? master. yes, time goes quickly--once it is gone. but when it is still going it seems slow enough.--that time the house was new. i watched them putting down the hard-wood floor in the dining-room and painting the doors; and _she_ was permitted to pick out the wall-paper, which is still there--yes, that was then! the confectioner and i are the oldest tenants in the place, and he, too, has had a few experiences of his own--he is one of those people who never succeed but are always in some kind of trouble. in a way, i have been living his life also, and bearing his burdens besides my own. consul. does he drink, then? master. no-o--nothing of that kind, but there is no _go_ to him. well, he and i know the history of this house: how they have arrived in bridal coaches and left in hearses, while the mail-box at the corner became the recipient of all their confidences. consul. there was a death here in the middle of the summer, wasn't there? master. yes, a case of typhoid--the man was manager of a bank--and then the flat stood vacant for a month. the coffin came out first, then the widow and the children, and last of all the furniture. consul. that was on the second floor? master. yes, up there, where you see the light--where those new people are, about whom i know nothing at all. consul. haven't you seen anything of them either? master. i never ask any questions about the other tenants. what comes to me unasked, i accept--but i never make any wrong use of it, and i never interfere, for i am anxious for the peace of my old age. consul. old age--yes! i think it's nice to grow old, for then there isn't so much left to be recorded. master. indeed, it is nice. i am settling my accounts, both with life and with people, and i have already begun to pack for the journey. of course, the solitude has its draw-backs, but when there is nobody who can make any demands on you, then you have won your freedom--the freedom to come and go, to think and act, to eat and sleep, in accordance with your own choice. _at this moment the shade in one of the windows on the second floor is raised a little way, so that part of a woman's dress becomes visible. then it is quickly drawn again_. consul. they are astir up there--did you see? master. yes, there is such a lot of mystery about it--and at night it is worse than ever. sometimes there is music, but it's always bad; and sometimes i think they are playing cards; and long after midnight carriages drive up and take away people.--i never make a complaint against other tenants, for then they want to get even, and nobody wants to change his ways. the best thing is to remain oblivious of everything. _a gentleman, dressed in a dinner coat but bareheaded, comes out of the house and drops a big pile of letters into the mail-box; then he disappears into the house again_. consul. that fellow must have a lot of correspondence. master. it looked to me like circulars. consul. but who is he? master. why, that's the new tenant up there on the second floor. consul. oh, is that so! what do you think he looked like? master. i don't know. musician, conductor, a touch of musical comedy, with a leaning to vaudeville--gambler--adonis--a little of everything---consul. black hair should have gone with that pale complexion of his, but his hair was brown--which means that it had been dyed, or that he wears a wig. a tuxedo at home indicates an empty wardrobe, and the movements of his hands as he dropped the letters into the box suggested shuffling and cutting and dealing--[_at this moment waltz music becomes faintly audible from the second floor_] always waltzes--perhaps they have a dancing-school--but it's always the same waltz--what's the name of it now? master. why, i think--that's "pluie d'or"--i know it by heart. consul. have you heard it in your own house? master. yes, that one and the "alcazar waltz." louise _becomes visible in the dining-room, where she is putting things in order and wiping the glassware on the buffet_. consul. are you still pleased with louise? master. very. consul. isn't she going to marry? master. not that i know of. consul. is there no fiancé in sight? master. why do you ask? consul. have you had any thoughts of that kind? master. i? no, thank you! when i married the last time i was not too old, as we had a child in due time, but i have grown too old since then, and now i want to spend my evening in peace--do you think i want another master in my own house, who would rob me of life and honour and goods? consul. oh, nobody took your life or your goods---master. do you mean to say that my honour suffered any harm? consul. don't you know? master. what _do_ you mean? consul. in leaving you, she killed your honour. master. then i have been a dead man for five years without knowing it. consul. you haven't known it? master. no, but now i'll tell you in a few words what really happened. when, at fifty, i married a girl much younger than myself--one whose heart i had won and who gave me her hand fearlessly and willingly--then i promised her that if ever my age should become a burden to her youth i would go my own way and give her back her freedom. since the child had come in due time, and neither one of us wanted another, and since our little girl had begun to grow apart from me, so that i had come to feel superfluous, i did go my way--that is, i took a boat, as we were living on an island--and that was the end of the whole story. i had redeemed my promise and saved my honour--what more besides? consul. all right--but she thought it an attack on her own honour, because she had meant to go away herself. and so she killed you by tacit accusations which never reached your ears. master. did she accuse herself also? consul. no, she had no reason to do so. master. then no harm has been done. consul. do you know what has become of her and the child since then? master. i don't want to know! having at last outlived the horrors of longing, i came to regard the whole business as buried; and as none but beautiful memories were left behind in our rooms, i remained where i was. however, i thank you for that piece of valuable information! consul. which one? master. that she had no reason for self-accusation, for if she had it would constitute an accusation against me---consul. i think you are living under a serious misconception---master. if i am, leave me alone! a clear conscience--comparatively clear, at least--has always been the diving-suit that has enabled me to descend into the vast deeps without being suffocated. [_rising_] to think of it--that i got out of it with my life! and now it's all over!--suppose we take a turn down the avenue? consul. all right, then we can see them light the first street lamp of the season. master. but won't the moon be up to-night--the harvest-moon? consul. why, i think the moon is full just now---master. [_going to one of the windows and talking into the dining-room_] please hand me my stick, louise. the light one--i just want to hold it in my hand. louise. [_handing out a cane of bamboo_] here it is, sir. master. thank you, my girl. now turn out the light in the dining-room if you have nothing to do there. we'll be gone a little while--i cannot tell just how long. _the_ master _and the_ consul _go out to the left_. louise _remains standing by the open window_. starck _comes out of the gateway_. starck. good evening, miss louise. it's awfully hot!--so your gentlemen have disappeared? louise. they have gone for a stroll down the avenue--the first time my master has gone out this summer. starck. we old people love the twilight, which covers up so many defects both in ourselves and others. do you know, miss louise, my old woman is getting blind, but she won't have an operation performed. she says there is nothing to look at, and that sometimes she wishes she were deaf, too. louise. well, one does feel that way--at times. starck. of course, you are leading a very quiet life in there, with plenty of everything, and nothing to worry about. i have never heard a loud voice or the slamming of a door--perhaps, even, it is a little too quiet for a young lady like yourself? louise. not at all! i love the quiet, and whatever is dignified, graceful, measured--with nobody blurting out things, and all thinking it a duty to overlook the less pleasant features of daily life. starck. and you have never any company? louise. no, only the consul comes here--and the like of the love between those two brothers i have never seen. starck. who is the elder of the two? louise. that's more than i can tell. whether there is a year or two between them, or they are twins, i don't know, for they treat each other with mutual respect, as if each one of them was the elder brother. agnes _appears, trying to get past_ starck _without being seen by him_. starck. where are you going, girl? agnes. oh, i am just going out for a little walk. starck. that's right, but get back soon. agnes _goes out_. starck. do you think your master is still mourning the loss of his dear ones? louise. he doesn't mourn--he doesn't even feel any regrets, for he doesn't want them back--but he is always with them in his memory, where he keeps only their beautiful traits. starck. but doesn't the fate of his daughter trouble him at times? louise. yes, he cannot help fearing that the mother may have married again, and then, of course, everything depends on how the child's stepfather turns out. starck. i have been told that the wife refused alimony at first, but that now, when five years have passed, she has sent him a lawyer with a demand for many thousands---louise. [_with reserve_] i know nothing about it. starck. i believe, however, that she was never more beautiful than in his memory---the liquordealer's man. [_enters, carrying a crateful of bottles_] excuse me, but does mr. fischer live here? louise. mr. fischer? not so far as i know. starck. perhaps fischer is the name of that fellow on the second floor? around the corner--one flight up. the liquordealer's man. [_going toward the square_] one flight up--thanks. [_he disappears around the corner_. louise. carrying up bottles again--that means another sleepless night. starck. what kind of people are they? why don't they ever show themselves? louise. i suppose they use the back-stairs, for i have never seen them. but i do hear them. starck. yes, i have also heard doors bang and corks pop--and the popping of other things, too, i guess. louise. and they never open their windows, in spite of the heat--they must be southerners.--why, that's lightning--a lot of it!--i guess it's nothing but heat-lightning, for there has been no thunder. a voice. [_is heard from the basement_] starck, dear, won't you come down and help me put in the sugar! starck. all right, old lady, i'm coming! [_to_ louise] we are making jam, you know. [_as he goes_] i'm coming, i'm coming! [_he disappears into the gateway again_. louise _remains standing at the window_. consul. [_enters slowly from the right_] isn't my brother back yet? louise. no, sir. consul. he wanted to telephone, and i was to go ahead. well, i suppose he'll be here soon.--what's this? [_he stoops to pick up a post-card_] what does it say?--"boston club at midnight: fischer."--do you know who fischer is, louise? louise. there was a man with a lot of wine looking for fischer a while ago--up on the second floor. consul. on the second floor--fischer! red shades that make the place look like a drug-store window at night! i fear you have got bad company in the house. louise. what is a boston club? consul. oh, there need be no harm in it at all--in this case i don't know, however.--but how did the post-card--? oh, it was _he_ who dropped it a while ago. then i'll put it back in the box.--fischer? i have heard that name before. in connection with something i cannot recall just now--may i ask a question, miss louise: does my brother never speak of--the past? louise. not to me. consul. miss louise--one more question---louise. excuse me, but here comes the milk, and i have to receive it. [_she leaves the dining-room_. _the_ milkmaid _appears from the right and enters the house from the square_. starck. [_comes out again, takes off his white linen cap, and puffs with heat_] in and out, like a badger at its hole--it's perfectly horrid down there by the ovens--and the evening doesn't make it any cooler. consul. all this lightning shows that we are going to have rain--well, the city isn't pleasant, exactly, but up here you have quiet at least: never any rattling carriages, and still less any street-cars--it's just like the country. starck. of course, it's quiet, but it's too quiet for business. i know my trade, but i am a poor salesman--have always been, and can't learn--or it may be something else. perhaps i haven't got the proper manner. for when customers act as if i were a swindler i get embarrassed at first, and then as mad as it is possible for me to become. but nowadays i haven't the strength to get really mad. it has been worn out of me--everything gets worn out. consul. why don't you go to work for somebody else? starck. who would want me? consul. have you ever tried? starck. what would be the use of it? consul. oh--well! _at this moment a long-drawn "o-oh" is heard from the apartment on the second floor_. starck. what, in the name of heaven, are they up to in that place? are they killing each other? consul. i don't like this new and unknown element that has come into the house. it is pressing on us like a red thunder-cloud. what kind of people are they? where do they come from? what do they want here? starck. it's so very dangerous to delve in other people's affairs--you get mixed up in them yourself---consul. do you know anything about them? starck. no, i don't know anything at all. consul. now they're screaming again, this time in the stairway---starck. [_withdrawing into the gateway and speaking in a low voice_] i don't want to have anything to do with this. gerda, _the divorced wife of the_ master, _comes running from the house into the square. she is bareheaded, with her hair down, and very excited. the_ consul _approaches her, and they recognise each other. she draws back from him_. consul. so it's you--my former sister-in-law? gerda. yes, it is i. consul. how did you get into this house, and why can't you let my brother enjoy his peace? gerda. [_bewildered_] they didn't give us the right name of the tenant below--i thought he had moved--i couldn't help it---consul. don't be afraid--you don't have to be afraid of me, gerda! can i be of any help to you? what's happening up there? gerda. he was beating me! consul. is your little girl with you? gerda. yes. consul. so she has got a stepfather? gerda. yes. consul. put up your hair and calm yourself. then i'll try to straighten this matter out. but spare my brother---gerda. i suppose he hates me? consul. no, don't you see that he has been taking care of your flowers in the bed over there? he brought the soil himself, in a basket, don't you remember? don't you recognise your blue gentians and the mignonette, your _malmaison_ and _merveille de lyons_ roses, which he budded himself? don't you understand that he has cherished the memory of yourself and of the child? gerda. where is he now? consul. taking a walk along the avenue, but he will be here in a few minutes with the evening papers. when he comes from that side he uses the back door, and he goes straight into the dining-room to read the papers. stand still and he won't notice you.--but you must go back to your own rooms---gerda. i can't! i can't go back to that man. consul. who is he, and what? gerda. he--has been a singer. consul. has been--and what is he now? an adventurer? gerda. yes! consul. keeps a gambling-house? gerda. yes! consul. and the child? bait? gerda. oh, don't say that! consul. it's horrible! gerda. you are too harsh about the whole thing. consul. of course, filth must be handled gently--so very gently! but a just cause should be dragged in the dirt. why did you defile his honour, and why did you lure me into becoming your accomplice? i was childish enough to trust your word, and i defended your unjust cause against his. gerda. you forget that he was too old. consul. no, he wasn't _then_, as you had a child at once. when he proposed, he asked if you wanted to have a child with him, and he vowed in the bargain to give you back your freedom when his promise had been kept and old age began to weigh him down. gerda. he deserted me, and that was an insult. consul. not to you! your youth prevented it from being a reflection on you. gerda. he should have let me leave him. consul. why? why did you want to heap dishonour on him? gerda. one of us had to bear it. consul. what strange paths your thoughts pursue! however, you have killed him, and fooled me into helping you. how can we rehabilitate him? gerda. if he is to be rehabilitated, it can only be at my expense. consul. i cannot follow your thoughts, which always turn to hatred. but suppose we leave the rehabilitation alone and think only of how his daughter is to be saved: what can we do then? gerda. she is my child. she's mine by law, and my husband is her father---consul. now _you_ are too harsh about it! and you have grown cruel and vulgar--hush! here he comes now. _the_ master _enters from the left with a newspaper in his hand; he goes into the house pensively by the back door, while the_ consul _and_ gerda _remain motionless, hidden behind the corner of the house_. _then the_ consul _and_ gerda _come down the stage. a moment later the_ master _becomes visible in the dining-room, where he sits down to read the paper_. gerda. it was he! consul. come over here and look at your home. see how he has kept everything as it was--arranged to suit your taste.--don't be afraid. it's so dark out here that he can't see us. the light in the room blinds him, you know. gerda. how he has been lying to me! consul. in what respect? gerda. he hasn't grown old! he had grown tired of me--that was the whole thing! look at his collar--and his tie--the very latest fashion! i am sure he has a mistress! consul. yes, you can see her photograph on the mantelshelf, between the candelabra. gerda. it is myself and the child! does he still love me? consul. your memory only! gerda. that's strange! _the_ master _ceases to read and stares out through the window_. gerda. he is looking at us! consul. don't move! gerda. he is looking straight into my eyes. consul. be still! he doesn't see you. gerda. he looks as if he were dead---consul. well, he has been killed. gerda. why do you talk like that? _an unusually strong flash of heat-lightning illumines the figures of the_ consul _and_ gerda. _the_ master _rises with an expression of horror on his face_. gerda _takes refuge behind the corner of the house_. master. carl frederick! [_coming to the window_] are you alone? i thought--are you really alone? consul. as you see. master. the air is so sultry, and the flowers give me a headache--i am just going to finish the newspaper. [_he resumes his former position._ consul. now let us get at your affairs. do you want me to go with you? gerda. perhaps! but it will be a hard struggle. consul. but the child must be saved. and i am a lawyer. gerda. well, for the child's sake, then! come with me! [_they go out together._ master. [_calling from within_] carl frederick, come in and have a game of chess!--carl frederick! _curtain_. second scene _inside the dining-room. the brick stove appears at the centre of the rear wall. to the left of it there is a door leading into the pantry. another door to the right of it leads to the hallway. at the left stands a buffet with a telephone on it. a piano and a tall clock stand at the right. there are doors in both side walls_. _the_ master _is in the room, and_ louise _enters as the curtain rises_. master. where did my brother go? louise. [_alarmed_] he was outside a moment ago. he can't be very far away. master. what a dreadful noise they are making up above! it is as if they were stepping on my head! now they are pulling out bureau drawers as if they were were preparing for a journey--running away, perhaps.--if you only knew how to play chess, louise! louise. i know a little---master. oh, if you just know how to move the pieces, that will be enough--sit down, child. [_he sets up the chess pieces_] they are carrying on up there so that they make the chandelier rattle--and the confectioner is heating up down below. i think i'll have to move soon. louise. i have long thought that you ought to do so anyhow. master. anyhow? louise. it isn't good to stay too long among old memories. master. why not? as time passes, all memories grow beautiful. louise. but you may live twenty years more, and that is too long a time to live among memories which, after all, must fade and which may change colour entirely some fine day. master. how much you know, my child!--begin now by moving a pawn--but not the one in front of the queen, or you will be mate in two moves. louise. then i start with the knight---master. hardly less dangerous, girl! louise. but i think i'll start with the knight just the same. master. all right. then i'll move my bishop's pawn. starck _appears in the hallway, carrying a tray_. louise. there's mr. starck with the tea-cakes. he doesn't make any more noise than a mouse. [_she rises and goes out into the hallway to receive the tray, which she then carries into the pantry_. master. well, mr. starck, how is the old lady? starck. oh, thank you, her eyes are about as usual. master. have you seen anything of my brother? starck. he is walking back and forth outside, i think. master. has he got any company? starck. no-o--i don't think so. master. it wasn't yesterday you had a look at these rooms, mr. starck. starck. i should say not--it's just ten years ago now---master. when you brought the wedding-cake.--does the place look changed? starck. it is just as it was--the palms have grown, of course--but the rest is just as it was. master. and will remain so until you bring the funeral cake. when you have passed a certain age, nothing changes, nothing progresses--all the movement is downward like that of a sleigh going down-hill. starck. yes, that's the way it is. master. and it is peaceful, the way i have it here. no love, no friends, only a little company to break up the solitude. then human beings are just human beings, without any claims on your feelings and sympathies. then you come loose like an old tooth, and drop out without pain or regrets. take louise, for instance--a pretty young girl, the sight of whom pleases me like a work of art that i don't wish to possess--there is nothing to disturb our relationship. my brother and i meet like two old gentlemen who never get too close to each other and never exact any confidences. by taking up a neutral position toward one's fellow-men, one attains a certain distance--and as a rule we look better at a distance. in a word, i am pleased with my old age and its quiet peace--[_calling out_] louise! louise. [_appearing in the doorway at the left and speaking pleasantly as always_] the laundry has come home, and i have to check it off. [_she disappears again_. master. well, mr. starck, won't you sit down and chat a little--or perhaps you play chess? starck. i can't stay away from my pots, and the oven has to be heated up at eleven. it's very kind of you, however---master. if you catch sight of my brother, ask him to come in and keep me company. starck. so i will--so i will! [_he goes_. master. [_alone; moves a couple of pieces on the chess-board; then gets up and begins to walk about_] the peace of old age--yes! [_he sits down at the piano and strikes a few chords; then he gets up and walks about as before_] louise! can't you let the laundry wait a little? louise. [_appears again for a moment in the doorway at the left_] no, i can't, because the wash-woman is in a hurry--she has husband and children waiting for her. master. oh! [_he sits down at the table and begins to drum with his fingers on it; tries to read the newspaper, but tires of it; lights matches only to blow them out again at once; looks repeatedly at the big clock, until at last a noise is heard from the hallway_] is that you, carl frederick? the mail-carrier. [_appears in the doorway_] it's the mail. excuse me for walking right in, but the door was standing open. master. is there a letter for me? the mail-carrier. only a post-card. [_he hands it over and goes out_. master. [_reading the post-card_] mr. fischer again! boston club! that's the man up above--with the white hands and the tuxedo coat. and to me! the impertinence of it! i have got to move!--fischer!--[_he tears up the card; again a noise is heard, in the hallway_] is that you, carl frederick? the iceman. [_without coming into the room_] it's the ice! master. well, it's nice to get ice in this heat. but be careful about those bottles in the box. and put one of the pieces on edge so that i can hear the water drip from it as it melts--that's my water-clock that measures out the hours--the long hours--tell me, where do you get the ice from nowadays?--oh, he's gone!--everybody goes away--goes home--to hear their own voices and get some company-[_pause_] is that you, carl frederick? _somebody in the apartment above plays chopin's_ fantaisie impromptu, opus 66, _on the piano_--_but only the first part of it_. master. [_begins to listen, is aroused, looks up at the ceiling_] my _impromptu_? [_he covers his eyes with one hand and listens_. _the_ consul _enters through the hallway_. master. is that you, carl frederick? _the music stops_. consul. it is i. master. where have you been so long? consul. i had some business to clear up. have you been alone? master. of course! come and play chess now. consul. i prefer to talk. and you need also to hear your own voice a little. master. true enough--only it is so easy to get to talking about the past. consul. that makes us forget the present. master. there is no present. what's just passing is empty nothingness. one has to look ahead or behind--and ahead is better, for there lies hope! consul. [_seating himself at the table_] hope--of what? master. of change. consul. well! do you mean to say you have had enough of the peace of old age? master. perhaps. consul. it's certain then. and if now you had the choice between solitude and the past? master. no ghosts, however! consul. how about your memories? master. they don't walk. they are only poems wrought by me out of certain realities. but if dead people walk, then you have ghosts. consul. well, then--in your memory--who brings you the prettiest mirage: the woman or the child? master. both! i cannot separate them, and that's why i never tried to keep the child. consul. but do you think you did right? did the possibility of a stepfather never occur to you? master. i didn't think that far ahead at the time, but afterward, of course, i have had--my thoughts--about--that very thing. consul. a stepfather who abused--perhaps debased--your daughter? master. hush! consul. what is it you hear? master. i thought i heard the "little steps"--those little steps that came tripping down the corridor when she was looking for me.--it was the child that was the best of all! to watch that fearless little creature, whom nothing could frighten, who never suspected that life might be deceptive, who had no secrets! i recall her first experience of the malice that is in human beings. she caught sight of a pretty child down in the park, and, though it was strange to her, she went up to it with open arms to kiss it--and the pretty child rewarded her friendliness by biting her in the cheek first and then making a face at her. then you should have seen my little anne-charlotte. she stood as if turned to stone. and it wasn't pain that did it, but horror at the sight of that yawning abyss which is called the human heart. i have been confronted with the same sight myself once, when out of two beautiful eyes suddenly shot strange glances as if some evil beast had appeared behind those eyes. it scared me literally so that i had to see if some other person were standing behind that face, which looked like a mask.--but why do we sit here talking about such things? is it the heat, or the storm, or what? consul. solitude brings heavy thoughts, and you ought to have company. this summer in the city seems to have been rather hard on you. master. only these last few weeks. the sickness and that death up above--it was as if i had gone through it myself. the sorrows and cares of the confectioner have also become my own, so that i keep worrying about his finances, about his wife's eye trouble, about his future--and of late i have been dreaming every night about my little anne-charlotte. i see her surrounded by dangers--unknown, undiscovered, nameless. and before i fall asleep my hearing grows so unbelievably acute that i can hear her little steps--and once i heard her voice---consul. but where is she then? master. don't ask me! consul. and if you were to meet her on the street? master. i imagine that i should lose my reason or fall in a faint. once, you know, i stayed abroad very long, during the very time when our youngest sister was growing up. when i returned, after several years, i was met at the steam-boat landing by a young girl who put her arms around my neck. i was horrified at those eyes that searched mine, but with unfamiliar glances--glances that expressed absolute terror at not being recognised. "it is i," she repeated again and again before at last i was able to recognise my own sister. and that's how i imagine it would be for me to meet my daughter again. five years are enough to render you unrecognisable at that age. think of it: not to know your own child! that child, who is the same as before, and yet a stranger! i couldn't survive such a thing. no, then i prefer to keep the little girl of four years whom you see over there on the altar of my home. i want no other one. [_pause_] that must be louise putting things to rights in the linen closet. it has such a clean smell, and it reminds me--oh, the housewife at her linen closet; the good fairy that preserves and renews; the housewife with her iron, who smooths out all that has been ruffled up and who takes out all wrinkles--the wrinkles, yes--[_pause_] now--i'll--go in there to write a letter. if you'll stay, i'll be out again soon. [_he goes out to the left_. _the_ consul _coughs_. gerda. [_appears in the door to the hallway_] are you--[_the clock strikes_] oh, mercy! that sound--which has remained in my ears for ten years! that clock which never kept time and yet measured the long hours and days and nights of five years. [_she looks around_] my piano--my palms--the dinner-table--he has kept it in honour, shining as a shield! my buffet--with the "knight in armour" and "eve"--eve with her basketful of apples--in the right-hand upper drawer, way back, there was a thermometer lying--[_pause_] i wonder if it is still there? [_she goes to the buffet and pulls out the right-hand drawer_] yes, there it is! consul. what does that mean? gerda. oh, in the end it became a symbol--of instability. when we went to housekeeping the thermometer was not put in its place at once--of course, it ought to be outside the window. i promised to put it up--and forgot it. he promised, and forgot. then we nagged each other about it, and at last, to get away from it, i hid it in this drawer. i came to hate it, and so did he. do you know what was back of all that? neither one of us believed that our relationship would last, because we unmasked at once and gave free vent to our antipathies. to begin with, we lived on tiptoe, so to speak--always ready to fly off at a moment's notice. that was what the thermometer stood for--and here it is still lying! always on the move, always changeable, like the weather. [_she puts away the thermometer and goes over to the chess-board_] my chess pieces! which he bought to kill the time that hung heavy on our hands while we were waiting for the little one to come. with whom does he play now? consul. with me. gerda. where is he? consul. he is in his room writing a letter. gerda. where? consul. [_pointing toward the left_] there. gerda. [_shocked_] and here he has been going for five years? consul. ten years--five of them alone! gerda. of course, he loves solitude. consul. but i think he has had enough of it. gerda. will he turn me out? consul. find out for yourself! you take no risk, as he is always polite. gerda. i didn't make that centrepiece---consul. that is to say, you risk his asking you for the child. gerda. but it was he who should help me find it again---consul. where do you think fischer has gone, and what can be the purpose of his flight? gerda. to get away from the unpleasant neighbourhood, first of all; then to make me run after him. and he wanted the girl as a hostage, of course. consul. as to the ballet--that's something the father _must not_ know, for he hates music-halls. gerda. [_sitting down in front of the chess-board and beginning, absent-mindedly, to arrange the pieces_] music-halls--oh, i have been there myself. consul. you? gerda. i have accompanied on the piano. consul. poor gerda! gerda. why? i love that kind of life. and when i was a prisoner here, it wasn't the keeper, but the prison itself, that made me fret. consul. but now you have had enough? gerda. now i am in love with peace and solitude--and with my child above all. consul. hush, he's coming! gerda. [_rises as if to run away, but sinks down on the chair again_] oh! consul. now i leave you. don't think of what you are to say. it will come of itself, like the "next move" in a game of chess. gerda. i fear his first glance most of all, for it will tell me whether i have changed for better or for worse--whether i have grown old and ugly. consul. [_going out to the right_] if he finds you looking older, then he will dare to approach you. if he finds you as young as ever, he will have no hope, for he is more diffident than you think.--now! _the_ master _is seen outside, passing by the door leading to the pantry; he carries a letter in his hand; then he disappears, only to become visible again a moment later in the hallway, where he opens the outside door and steps out_. consul. [_in the doorway at the right_] he went out to the mail-box. gerda. no, this is too much for me! how can i possibly ask _him_ to help me with this divorce? i want to get out! it's too brazen! consul. stay! you know that his kindness has no limits. and he'll help you for the child's sake. gerda. no, no! consul. and he is the only one who can help you. master. [_enters quickly from the hallway and nods at_ gerda, _whom, because of his near-sightedness, he mistakes for_ louise; _then he goes to the buffet and picks up the telephone, but in passing he remarks to_ gerda] so you're done already? well, get the pieces ready then, and we'll begin all over again--from the beginning. gerda _stands paralysed, not understanding the situation_. master. [_speaks in the telephone receiver, with his back to_ gerda] hello!--good evening! is that you, mother?--pretty well, thank you! louise is waiting to play a game of chess with me, but she is a little tired after a lot of bother--it's all over now--everything all right--nothing serious at all.--if it's hot? well, there has been a lot of thundering, right over our heads, but nobody has been struck. false alarm!--what did you say? fischer?--yes, but i think they are going to leave.--why so? i know nothing in particular.--oh, is that so?--yes, it leaves at six-fifteen, by the outside route, and it gets there--let me see--at eight-twenty-five.--did you have a good time?--[_with a little laugh_] oh, he's impossible when he gets started! and what did marie have to say about it?--how i have had it during the summer? oh, well, louise and i have kept each other company, and she has got such an even, pleasant temper.--yes, she is very nice, indeed!--oh, no, nothing of that kind! gerda, _who has begun to understand, rises with an expression of consternation on her face_. master. my eyes? oh, i am getting a little near-sighted. but i feel like the confectioner's old wife: there is nothing to look at. wish i were deaf, too! deaf and blind! the neighbours above make such a lot of noise at night--it's a gambling club--there now! somebody got on the wire to listen. [_he rings again_. louise _appears in the door to the hallway without being seen by the_ master; gerda _stares at her with mingled admiration and hatred_; louise _withdraws toward the right_. master. [_at the telephone_] is that you? the cheek of it--to break off our talk in order to listen!--to-morrow, then, at six-fifteen.--thank you, and the same to you!--yes, i will, indeed!--good night, mother! [_he rings off_. louise _has disappeared_. gerda _is standing in the middle of the floor_. master. [_turns around and catches sight of_ gerda, _whom he gradually recognises; then he puts his hand to his heart_] o lord, was that you? wasn't louise here a moment ago? gerda _remains silent_. master. [_feebly_] how--how did you get here? gerda. i hope you pardon--i just got to the city--i was passing by and felt a longing to have a look at my old home--the windows were open--- [_pause_. master. do you find things as they used to be? gerda. exactly, and yet different--there is a difference master. [_feeling unhappy_] are you satisfied--with your life? gerda. yes. i have what i was looking for. master. and the child? gerda. oh, she's growing, and thriving, and lacks nothing. master. then i won't ask anything more. [_pause_] did you want anything--of me--can i be of any service? gerda. it's very kind of you, but--i need nothing at all now when i have seen that you lack nothing either. [_pause]_ do you wish to see anne-charlotte? master. i don't think so, now when i have heard that she is doing well. it's so hard to begin over again. it's like having to repeat a lesson at school--which you know already, although the teacher doesn't think so--i have got so far away from all that--i live in a wholly different region--and i cannot connect with the past. it goes against me to be impolite, but i am not asking you to be seated--you are another man's wife--and you are not the same person as the one from whom i parted. gerda. am i then so--altered? master. quite strange to me! your voice, glance, manner---gerda. have i grown old? master. that i cannot tell!--they say that not a single atom in a person's body remains wholly the same after three years--and in five years everything is renewed. and for that reason you, who stand over there, are not the same person as the sufferer who once sat here--you seem such a complete stranger to me that i can only address you in the most formal way. and i suppose it would be just the same in the case of my daughter, too. gerda. don't speak like that. i would much rather have you angry. master. why should i be angry? gerda. because of all the evil i have done you. master. have you? that's more than i know. gerda. didn't you read the papers in the suit? master. no-o! i left that to my lawyer. [_he sits down_. gerda. and the decision of the court? master. no, why should i? as i don't mean to marry again, i have no use for that kind of documents. _pause_. gerda _seats herself_. master. what did those papers say? that i was too old? gerda's _silence indicates assent_. master. well, that was nothing but the truth, so that need not trouble you. in my answer i said the very same thing and asked the court to set you free again. gerda. you said, that---master. i said, not that i _was_, but that i was about to _become_ too old _for you_! gerda. [_offended_] for me? master. yes.--i couldn't say that i was too old when we married, for then the arrival of the child would have been unpleasantly explained, and it was _our_ child, was it not? gerda. you know that, of course! but---master. do you think i should be ashamed of my age?--of course, if i took to dancing and playing cards at night, then i might soon land in an invalid's chair, or on the operating-table, and that would be a shame. gerda. you don't look it---master. did you expect the divorce to kill me? _the silence of_ gerda _is ambiguous_. master. there are those who assert that you _have_ killed me. do you think i look like a dead man? gerda _appears embarrassed_. master. some of your friends are said to have caricatured me in the papers, but i have never seen anything of it, and those papers went into the dump five years ago. so there is no need for your conscience to be troubled on my behalf. gerda. why did you marry me? master. don't you know why a man marries? and you know, too, that i didn't have to go begging for love. and you ought to remember how we laughed together at all the wiseacres who felt compelled to warn you.--but why you led me on is something i have never been able to explain--when you didn't look at me after the marriage ceremony, but acted as if you had been attending somebody else's wedding, then i thought you had made a bet that you could kill me. as the head of the department, i was, of course, hated by all my subordinates, but they became your friends at once. no sooner did i make an enemy than he became _your_ friend. which caused me to remark that, while it was right for you not to hate your enemies, it was also right that you shouldn't _love_ mine!--however, seeing where you stood, i began to prepare for a retreat at once, but before leaving i wanted a living proof that you had not been telling the truth, and so i stayed until the little one arrived. gerda. to think that you could be so disingenuous! master. i learned to keep silent, but i never lied!--by degrees you turned all my friends into detectives, and you lured my own brother into betraying me. but worst of all was that your thoughtless chatter threw suspicions on the legitimacy of the child. gerda. all that i took back! master. the word that's on the wing cannot be pulled back again. and worse still: those false rumours reached the child, and now she thinks her mother a---gerda. for heaven's sake! master. well, that's the truth of it. you raised a tall tower on a foundation of lies, and now the tower of lies is tumbling down on your head. gerda. it isn't true! master. yes, it is! i met anne-charlotte a few minutes ago---gerda. you have met---master. we met on the stairs, and she said i was her uncle. do you know what an uncle is? that's an elderly friend of the house and the mother. and i know that at school i am also passing as her uncle.--but all that is dreadful for the child! gerda. you have met---master. yes. but why should i tell anybody about it? haven't i a right to keep silent? and, besides, that meeting was so shocking to me that i wiped it out of my memory as if it had never existed. gerda. what can i do to rehabilitate you? master. you? what could you do? that's something i can only do myself. [_for a long time they gaze intently at each other_] and for that matter, i have already got my rehabilitation. [_pause_. gerda. can't i make good in some way? can't i ask you to forgive, to forget---master. what do you mean? gerda. to restore, to repair---master. do you mean to resume, to start over again, to reinstate a master above me? no, thanks! i don't want you. gerda. and this i had to hear! master. well, how does it taste? [_pause_. gerda. that's a pretty centrepiece. master. yes, it's pretty. gerda. where did you get it? [_pause_. louise _appears in the door to the pantry with a bill in her hand_. master. [_turning toward her_] is it a bill? gerda _rises and begins to pull on her gloves with such violence that buttons are scattered right and left_. master. [_taking out the money_] eighteen-seventy-two. that's just right. louise. i should like to see you a moment, sir. master. [_rises and goes to the door, where_ louise _whispers something into his ear_] oh, mercy---louise _goes out_. master. i am sorry for you, gerda! gerda. what do you mean? that i am jealous of your servant-girl? master. no, i didn't mean that. gerda. yes, you meant that you were too old for me, but not for her. i catch the insulting point--she's pretty--i don't deny it--for a servant-girl---master. i am sorry for you, gerda! gerda. why do you say that? master. because you are to be pitied. jealous of my servant--that ought to be rehabilitation enough. gerda. jealous, i---master. why do you fly in a rage at my nice, gentle kinswoman? gerda. "a little more than kin." master. no, my dear, i have long ago resigned myself--and i am satisfied with my solitude--[_the telephone rings, and he goes to answer it_] mr. fischer? no, that isn't here.--oh, yes, that's me.--has he skipped?--with whom, do you say?--with starck's daughter! oh, good lord! how old is she?--eighteen! a mere child! [_rings off_. gerda. i knew he had run away.--but with a woman!--now you're pleased. master. no, i am not pleased. although there is a sort of solace to my mind in finding justice exists in this world. life is very quick in its movements, and now you find yourself where i was. gerda. her eighteen years against my twenty-nine--i am old--too old for him! master. everything is relative, even age.--but now let us get at something else. where is your child? gerda. my child? i had forgotten it! my child! my god! help me! he has taken the child with him. he loves anne-charlotte as his own daughter--come with me to the police--come! master. i? now you ask too much. gerda. help me! master. [_goes to the door at the right_] come, carl frederick--get a cab--take gerda down to the police station--won't you? consul. [_enters_] of course i will! we are human, are we not? master. quick! but say nothing to starck. matters may be straightened out yet--poor fellow--and i am sorry for gerda, too!--hurry up now! gerda. [_looking out through the window_] it's beginning to rain--lend me an umbrella. eighteen years--only eighteen--quick, now! _she goes out with the_ consul. master. [_alone_] the peace of old age!--and my child in the hands of an adventurer!--louise! louise _enters_. master. come and play chess with me. louise. has the consul---master. he has gone out on some business. is it still raining? louise. no, it has stopped now. master. then i'll go out and cool off a little. [_pause_] you are a nice girl, and sensible--did you know the confectioner's daughter? louise. very slightly. master. is she pretty? louise. ye-es. master. have you known the people above us? louise. i have never seen them. master. that's an evasion. louise. i have learned to keep silent in this house. master. i am forced to admit that pretended deafness can be carried to the point where it becomes dangerous.--well, get the tea ready while i go outside and cool off a little. and, one thing, please--you see what is happening, of course--but don't ask me any questions. louise. i? no, sir, i am not at all curious. master. i am thankful for that! _curtain_. third scene _the front of the house as in the first scene. there is light in the confectioner's place in the basement. the gas is also lit on the second floor, where now the shades are raised and the windows open_. starck _is sitting near the gateway_. master. [_seated on the green bench_] that was a nice little shower we had. starck. quite a blessing! now the raspberries will be coming in again---master. then i'll ask you to put aside a few jars for us. we have grown tired of making the jam ourselves. it only gets spoiled. starck. yes, i know. jars of jam are like mischievous children: you have to watch them all the time. there are people who put in salicylic acid, but those are newfangled tricks in which i take no stock. master. salicylic acid--yes, they say it's antiseptic--and perhaps it's a good thing. starck. yes, but you can taste it--and it's a trick. master. tell me, mr. starck, have you got a telephone? starck. no, i have no telephone. master. oh! starck. why do you ask? master. oh, i happened to think--a telephone is handy at times--for orders--and important communications---starck. that may be. but sometimes it is just as well to escape--communications. master. quite right! quite right!--yes, my heart always beats a little faster when i hear it ring--one never knows what one is going to hear--and i want peace--peace, above all else. starck. so do i. master. [_looking at his watch_] the lamplighter ought to be here soon. starck. he must have forgotten us, for i see that the lamps are already lit further down the avenue. master. then he'll be here soon. it will be a lot of fun to see our lamp lighted again. _the telephone in the dining-room rings_. louise _comes in to answer the call. the_ master _rises and puts one hand up to his heart. he tries to listen, but the public cannot hear anything of what is said within. pause. after a while_ louise _comes out by way of the square_. master. [_anxiously_] what news? louise. no change. master. was that my brother? louise. no, it was the lady. master. what did she want? louise. to speak to you, sir. master. i don't want to!--have i to console my executioner? i used to do it, but now i am tired of it.--look up there! they have forgotten to turn out the light--and light makes empty rooms more dreadful than darkness--the ghosts become visible. [_in a lowered voice_] and how about starck's agnes? do you think he knows anything? louise. it's hard to tell, for he never speaks about his sorrows--nor does anybody else in the silent house! master. do you think he should be told? louise. for heaven's sake, no! master. but i fear it isn't the first time she gave him trouble. louise. he never speaks of her. master. it's horrible! i wonder if we'll get to the end of it soon? [_the telephone rings again_] now it's ringing again. don't answer. i don't want to hear anything.--my child--in such company! an adventurer and a strumpet!--it's beyond limit!--poor gerda! louise. it's better to have certainty. i'll go in--you must do something! master. i cannot move--i can receive blows, but to strike back--no! louise. but if you don't repel a danger, it will press closer; and if you don't resist, you'll be destroyed. master. but if you refuse to be drawn in, you become unassailable. louise. unassailable? master. things straighten out much better if you don't mess them up still further by interference. how can you want me to direct matters where so many passions are at play? do you think i can suppress anybody's emotions, or give them a new turn? louise. but how about the child? master. i have surrendered my rights--and besides--frankly speaking--i don't care for them--not at all now, when _she_ has been here and spoiled the images harboured in my memory. she has wiped out all the beauty that i had cherished, and now there is nothing left. louise. but that's to be set free! master. look, how empty the place seems in there--as if everybody had moved out; and up there--as if there had been a fire. louise. who is coming there? agnes _enters, excited and frightened, but trying hard to control herself; she makes for the gateway, where the confectioner is seated on his chair_. louise [_to the_ master] there is agnes? what can this mean? master. agnes? then things are getting straightened out. starck. [_with perfect calm_] good evening, girl! where have you been? agnes. i have been for a walk. starck. your mother has asked for you several times. agnes. is that so? well, here i am. starck. please go down and help her start a fire under the little oven. agnes. is she angry with me, then? starck. you know that she cannot be angry with you. agnes. oh, yes, but she doesn't say anything. starck. well, girl, isn't it better to escape being scolded? agnes _disappears into the gateway_. master. [_to_ louise] does he know, or doesn't he? louise. let's hope that he will remain in ignorance. master. but what can have happened? a breach? [_to_ starck] say, mr. starck---starck. what is it? master. i thought--did you notice if anybody left the house a while ago? starck. i saw the iceman, and also a mail-carrier, i think. master. oh! [_to_ louise] perhaps it was a mistake--that we didn't hear right--i can't explain it--or maybe he is not telling the truth? what did she say when she telephoned? louise. that she wanted to speak to you. master. how did it sound? was she excited? louise. yes. master. i think it's rather shameless of her to appeal to me in a matter like this. louise. but the child! master. just think, i met my daughter on the stairway, and when i asked her if she recognised me she called me uncle and told me that her father was up-stairs. of course, he is her stepfather, and has all the rights--they have just spent their time exterminating me, blackguarding me---louise. a cab is stopping at the corner. starck _withdraws into the gateway_. master. i only hope they don't come back to burden me again! just think: to have to hear my child singing the praise of her father--the other one! and then to begin the old story all over again: "why did you marry me?"--"oh, you know; but what made you want me?"--"you know very well!"--and so on, until the end of the world. louise. it was the consul that came. master. how does he look? louise. he is taking his time. master. practising what he is to say, i suppose. does he look satisfied? louise. thoughtful, rather---master. hm!--that's the way it always was. whenever he saw that woman he became disloyal to me. she had the power of charming everybody but me. to me she seemed coarse, vulgar, ugly, stupid; to all the rest she seemed refined, pleasant, handsome, intelligent. all the hatred aroused by my independence centred in her under the form of a boundless sympathy for whoever wronged me in any way. through her they strove to control and influence me, to wound me, and, at last, to kill me. louise. now, i'll go in and watch the telephone--i suppose this storm will pass like all others. master. men cannot bear independence. they want you to obey them. every one of my subordinates in the department, down to the very messengers, wanted me to obey him. and when i wouldn't they called me a despot. the servants in our house wanted me to obey them and eat food that had been warmed up. when i wouldn't, they set my wife against me. and finally my wife wanted me to obey the child, but then i left, and then all of them combined against the tyrant--which was i!--get in there quick now, louise, so we can set off our mines out here. _the_ consul _enters from the left_. master. results--not details--please! consul. let's sit down. i am a little tired. master. i think it has rained on the bench. consul. it can't be too wet for me if you have been sitting on it. master. a you like!--where is my child? consul. can i begin at the beginning? master. begin! consul [_speaking slowly_] i got to the depot with gerda--and at the ticket-office i discovered him and agnes---master. so agnes was with him? consul. and so was the child!--gerda stayed outside, and i went up to them. at that moment _he_ was handing agnes the tickets, but when she discovered that they were for third class she threw them in his face and walked out to the cab-stand. master. ugh! consul. as soon as i had established a connection with the man, gerda hurried up and got hold of the child, disappearing with it in the crowd---master. what did the man have to say? consul. oh, you know--when you come to hear the other side--and so on. master. i want to hear it. of course, he isn't as bad as we thought--he has his good sides---consul. exactly! master. i thought so! but you don't want me to sit here listening to eulogies of my enemy? consul. oh, not eulogies, but ameliorating circumstances---master. did you ever want to listen to me when i tried to explain the true state of affairs to you? yes, you did listen--but your reply was a disapproving silence, as if i had been lying to you. you have always sided with what was wrong, and you have believed nothing but lies, and the reason was--that you were in love with gerda! but there was also another reason---consul. brother, don't say anything more! you see nothing but your own side of things. master. how can you expect me to view my conditions from the standpoint of my enemy? i cannot take sides against myself, can i? consul. i am not your enemy. master. yes, when you make friends with one who has wronged me!--where is my child? consul. i don't know. master. what was the outcome at the depot? consul. he took a south-bound train alone. master. and the others? consul. disappeared. master. then i may have them after me again. [_pause]_ did you see if they went with him? consul. he went alone. master. well, then we are done with that one, at least. number two--there remain now--the mother and the child. consul. why is the light burning up there in their rooms? master. because they forgot to turn it out. consul. i'll go up---master. no, don't go!--i only hope that they don't come back here!--to repeat, always repeat, begin the same lesson all over again! consul. but it has begun to straighten out. master. yet the worst remains--do you think they will come back? consul. not she--not since she had to make you amends in the presence of louise. master. i had forgotten that! she really did me the honour of becoming jealous! i do think there is justice in this world! consul. and then she learned that agnes was younger than herself. master. poor gerda! but in a case like this you mustn't tell people that justice exists--an avenging justice--for it is sheer falsehood that they love justice! and you must deal gently with their filth. and nemesis--exists only for the other person.--there it's ringing again? that telephone makes a noise like a rattlesnake! louise _becomes visible at the telephone inside. pause_. master. [_to_ louise] did the snake bite? louise. [_at the window_] may i speak to you, sir? master. [_going up to the window_] speak out! louise. the lady has gone to her mother, in the country, to live there with her little girl. master. [_to his brother_] mother and child in the country--in a good home! now it's straightened out!--oh! louise. and she asked us to turn out the light up-stairs. master. do that at once, louise, and pull down the shades so we don't have to look at it any longer. louise _leaves the dining-room_. starck. [_coming out on the sidewalk again and looking up]_ i think the storm has passed over. master. it seems really to have cleared up, and that means we'll have moonlight. consul. that was a blessed rain! starck. perfectly splendid! master. look, there's the lamplighter coming at last! _the_ lamplighter _enters, lights the street lamp beside the bench, and passes on_. master. the first lamp! now the fall is here! that's our season, old chaps! it's getting dark, but then comes reason to light us with its bull's-eyes, so that we don't go astray. louise _becomes visible at one of the windows on the second floor; immediately afterward everything is dark up there_. master. [_to_ louise] close the windows and pull down the shades so that all memories can lie down and sleep in peace! the peace of old age! and this fall i move away from the silent house. _curtain_. after the fire (brända tomten) a chamber play 1907 characters rudolph walström, _a dyer_ the stranger, _who is_) } arvid walström } _brother of_ rudolph anderson, _a mason (brother-in-law of the gardener)_ mrs. anderson, _wife of the mason_ gustafson, _a gardener (brother-in-law of the mason)_ alfred, _son of the gardener_ albert ericson, _a stone-cutter_ (_second cousin of the hearse-driver_) mathilda, _daughter of the stone-cutter_ the hearse-driver (_second cousin of the stone-cutter_) a detective sjöblom, _a painter_ mrs. westerlund, _hostess at "the last nail," formerly a nurse at the dyer's_ mrs. walström, _wife of the dyer_ the student the witness after the fire first scene _the left half of the background is occupied by the empty shell of a gutted one-story brick house. in places the paper remains on the walls, and a couple of brick stoves are still standing_. _beyond the walls can be seen an orchard in bloom._ _at the right is the front of a small inn, the sign of which is a wreath hanging from a pole. tables and benches are placed outside._ _at the left, in the foreground, there is a pile of furniture and household utensils that have been saved from the fire_. sjöblom, _the painter, is painting the window-frames of the inn. he listens closely to everything that is said_. anderson, _the mason, is digging in the ruins_. _the_ detective _enters_. detective. is the fire entirely out? anderson. there isn't any smoke, at least. detective. then i want to ask a few more questions. [_pause_] you were born in this quarter, were you not? anderson. oh, yes. it's seventy-five years now i've lived on this street. i wasn't born when they built this house here, but my father helped to put in the brick. detective. then you know everybody around here? anderson. we all know each other. there is something particular about this street here. those that get in here once, never get away from it. that is, they move away, but they always come back again sooner or later, until at last they are carried out to the cemetery, which is way out there at the end of the street. detective. you have got a special name for this quarter, haven't you? anderson. we call it the bog. and all of us hate each other, and suspect each other, and blackguard each other, and torment each other [_pause_. detective. the fire started at half past ten in the evening, i hear--was the front door locked at that time? anderson. well, that's more than i know, for i live in the house next to this. detective. where did the fire start? anderson. up in the attic, where the student was living. detective. was he at home? anderson. no, he was at the theatre. detective. had he gone away and left the lamp burning, then? anderson. well, that's more than i know. [_pause_. detective. is the student any relation to the owner of the house? anderson. no, i don't think so.--say, you haven't got anything to do with the police, have you? detective. how did it happen that the inn didn't catch fire? anderson. they slung a tarpaulin over it and turned on the hose. detective. queer that the apple-trees were not destroyed by the heat. anderson. they had just budded, and it had been raining during the day, but the heat made the buds go into bloom in the middle of the night--a little too early, i guess, for there is frost coming, and then the gardener will catch it. detective. what kind of fellow is the gardener? anderson. his name is gustafson---detective. yes, but what sort of a man is he? anderson. see here: i am seventy-five--and for that reason i don't know anything bad about gustafson; and if i knew i wouldn't be telling it! [_pause_. detective. and the owner of the house is named walström, a dyer, about sixty years old, married---anderson. why don't you go on yourself? you can't pump me any longer. detective. is it thought that the fire was started on purpose? anderson. that's what people think of all fires. detective. and whom do they suspect? anderson. the insurance company always suspects anybody who has an interest in the fire--and for that reason i have never had anything insured. detective. did you find anything while you were digging? anderson. mostly one finds all the door-keys, because people haven't got time to take them along when the house is on fire--except now and then, of course, when they have been taken away---detective. there was no electric light in the house? anderson. not in an old house like this, and that's a good thing, for then they can't put the blame on crossed wires. detective. put the blame?--a good thing?--listen---anderson. oh, you're going to get me in a trap? don't you do it, for then i take it all back. detective. take back? you can't! anderson. can't i? detective. no! anderson. yes! for there was no witness present. detective. no? anderson. naw! _the_ detective _coughs. the_ witness _comes in from the left_. detective. here's _one_ witness. anderson. you're a sly one! detective. oh, there are people who know how to use their brains without being seventy-five. [_to the_ witness] now we'll continue with the gardener. [_they go out to the left_. anderson. there i put my foot in it, i guess. but that's what happens when you get to talking. mrs. anderson _enters with her husband's lunch in a bundle_. anderson. it's good you came. mrs. anderson. now we'll have lunch and be good--you might well be hungry after all this fuss--i wonder if gustafson can pull through--he'd just got done with his hotbeds and was about to start digging in the open--why don't you eat?--and there's sjöblom already at work with his putty--just think of it, that mrs. westerlund got off as well as she did--morning, sjöblom, now you've got work, haven't you? mrs. westerlund _comes in_. mrs. anderson. morning, morning, mrs. westerlund--you got out of this fine, i must say, and then---mrs. westerlund. i wonder who's going to pay me for all i am losing to-day, when there's a big funeral on at the cemetery, which always makes it a good day for me, and just when i've had to put away all my bottles and glassware---mrs. anderson. who's that they're burying to-day? i see such a lot of people going out that way--and then, of course, they've come to see where the fire was, too. mrs. westerlund. i don't think they're burying anybody, but i've heard they're going to put up a monument over the bishop--worst of it is that the stone-cutter's daughter was going to get married to the gardener's son--him, you know, who's in a store down-town--and now the gardener has lost all he had--isn't that his furniture standing over there? mrs. anderson. i guess that's some of the dyer's, too, seeing as it came out helter-skelter in a jiffy--and where's the dyer now? mrs. westerlund. he's down at the police station testifying. mrs. anderson. hm-hm!--yes, yes!--and there's my cousin now--him what drives the hearse--he's always thirsty on his way back. hearse-driver. [_enters_] how do, malvina! so you've gone and started a little job of arson out here during the night, have you? looks pretty, doesn't it. would have been better to get a new shanty instead, i guess. mrs. westerlund. oh, mercy me! but whom have you been taking out now? hearse-driver. can't remember what his name was--only _one_ carriage along, and no flowers on the coffin at all. mrs. westerlund. sure and it wasn't any happy funeral, then! if you want anything to drink you'll have to go 'round to the kitchen, for i haven't got things going on this side yet, and, for that matter, gustafson is coming here with a lot of wreaths--they've got something on out at the cemetery to-day. hearse-driver. yes, they're going to put up a moniment to the bishop--'cause he wrote books, i guess, and collected all kinds of vermin--was a reg'lar vermin-hunter, they tell me. mrs. westerlund. what's that? hearse-driver. oh, he had slabs of cork with pins on 'em, and a lot of flies--something beyond us here--but i guess that's the proper way--can i go out to the kitchen now? mrs. westerlund. yes, if you use the back door, i think you can get something wet---hearse-driver. but i want to have a word with the dyer before i drive off--i've got my horses over at the stone-cutter's, who's my second cousin, you know. haven't got any use for him, as you know, too, but we're doing business together, he and i--that is, i put in a word for him with the heirs, and so he lets me put my horses into his yard--just let me know when the dyer shows up--luck, wasn't it, that he didn't have his works here, too--- [_he goes out, passing around the inn_. mrs. westerlund _goes into the inn by the front door_. anderson, _who has finished eating, begins to dig again_. mrs. anderson. do you find anything? anderson. nails and door-hinges--all the keys are hanging in a bunch over there by the front door. mrs. anderson. did they hang there before, or did you put them there? anderson. no, they were hanging there when i got here. mrs. anderson. that's queer--for then somebody must have locked all the doors and taken out the keys before it began burning! that's queer! anderson. yes, of course, it's a little queer, for in that way it was harder to get at the fire and save things. yes--yes! [_pause_. mrs. anderson. i worked for the dyer's father forty years ago, i did, and i know the people, both the dyer himself and his brother what went off to america, though they say he's back now. the father, he was a real man, he was, but the boys were always a little so-so. mrs. westerlund over here, she used to take care of rudolph, and the two brothers never could get along, but kept scrapping and fighting all the time.--i've seen a thing or two, i have--yes, there's a whole lot what has happened in that house, so i guess it was about time to get it smoked out.--ugh, but that was a house! one went this way and another that, but back they had to come, and here they died and here they were born, and here they married and were divorced.--and arvid, the brother what went off to america--him they thought dead for years, and at least he didn't take what was coming to him after his father, but now they say he's come back, though nobody has seen him--and there's such a lot of talking--look, there's the dyer back from the police station! anderson. he doesn't look happy exactly, but i suppose that's more than can be expected--well, who's that student that lived in the attic? how does he hang together with the rest? mrs. anderson. well, that's more than i know. he had his board there, and read with the children. anderson. and also with the lady of the house? mrs. anderson. no-o, they played something what they called tennis, and quarrelled the rest of the time--yes, quarrelling and backbiting, that's what everybody is up to in this quarter. anderson. well, when they broke the student's door open they found hairpins on the floor--it had to come out, after all, even if the fire had to sweep over it first---mrs. anderson. i don't think it was the dyer that came, but our brother-in-law, gustafson---anderson. he's always mad, and to-day i suppose he's worse than ever, and so he'll have to come and dun me for what i owe him, seeing what he has lost in the fire---mrs. anderson. now you shut up! gustafson. [_enters with a basketful of funeral wreaths and other products of his trade_] i wonder if i am going to sell anything to-day so there'll be enough for food after all this rumpus? anderson. didn't you carry any insurance? gustafson. yes, i used to have insurance on the glass panes over my hotbeds, but this year i felt stingy, and so i put in oiled paper instead--gosh, that i could be such a darned fool!--[_scratching his head_] i don't get paid for that, of course. and now i've got to cut and paste and oil six hundred paper panes. it's as i have always said: that i was the worst idiot among us seven children. gee, what an ass i was--what a booby! and then i went and got drunk yesterday. why in hell did i have to get drunk that day of all days--when i need all the brains i've got to-day? it was the stone-cutter who treated, because our children are going to get married to-night, but i should have said no. i didn't want to, but i'm a ninny who can't say no to anybody. and that's the way when they come and borrow money of me--i can't say no--darned fool that i am! and then i got in the way of that policeman, who snared me with all sorts of questions. i should have kept my mouth shut, like the painter over there, but i can't, and so i let out this, that, and the other thing, and he put it all down, and now i am called as a witness! anderson. what was it you said? gustafson. i said i thought--that it looked funny to me--and that somebody must have started it. anderson. oh, that's what you said! gustafson. yes, pitch into me--i've deserved it, goose that i am! anderson. and who could have started it, do you think?--don't mind the painter, and my old woman here never carries any tales. gustafson. who started it? why, the student, of course, as it started in his room. anderson. no--_under_ his room! gustafson. under, you say? then i _have_ gone and done it!--oh, i'll come to a bad end, i'm sure!--_under_ his room, you say--what could have been there--the kitchen? anderson. no, a closet--see, over there! it was used by the cook. gustafson. then it must have been her. anderson. yes, but don't you say so, as you don't know. gustafson. the stone-cutter had it in for the cook last night--i guess he must have known a whole lot---anderson. you shouldn't repeat what the stone-cutter says, for one who has served isn't to be trusted---gustafson. ash, that's so long ago, and the cook's a regular dragon, for that matter--she'd always haggle over the vegetables---anderson. there comes the dyer from the station now--you'd better quit! _the_ stranger _enters, dressed in a frock coat and a high hat with mourning on it; he carries a stick_. mrs. anderson. it wasn't the dyer, but he looks a lot like him. stranger. how much is one of those wreaths? gardener. fifty cents. stranger. oh, that's not much. gardener. no, i am such a fool that i can't charge as i should. stranger. [_looking around_] has there--been a fire--here? gardener. yes, last night. stranger. good god! [_pause_] who was the owner of the house? gardener. mr. walström. stranger. the dyer? gardener. yes, he used to be a dyer, all right. [_pause_. stranger. where is he now? gardener. he'll be here any moment. stranger. then i'll look around a bit--the wreath can lie here till i come back--i meant to go out to the cemetery later. gardener. on account of the bishop's monument, i suppose? stranger. what bishop? gardener. bishop stecksen, don't you know--who belonged to the academy. stranger. is he dead? gardener. oh, long ago! stranger. i see!--well, i'll leave the wreath for a while. _he goes out to the left, studying the ruins carefully as he passes by_. mrs. anderson. perhaps he came on account of the insurance. anderson. not that one! then he would have asked in a different way. mrs. anderson. but he looked like the dyer just the same. anderson. only he was taller. gustafson. now, i remember something--i should have a bridal bouquet ready for to-night, and i should go to my son's wedding, but i have no flowers, and my black coat has been burned. wouldn't that make you--mrs. westerlund was to furnish the myrtle for the bride's crown, being her godmother--that's the myrtle she stole a shoot of from the dyer's cook, who got hers from the dyer's first wife--she who ran away--and i was to make a crown of it, and i've clean forgotten it--well, if i ain't the worst fool that ever walked the earth! [_he opens the inn door_] mrs. westerlund, can i have the myrtle now, and i'll do the job!--i say, can i have that myrtle! wreath, too, you say--have you got enough for it?--no?--well, then i'll let the whole wedding go hang, that's all there is to it!--let them walk up to the minister's and have him splice them together, but it'll make the stone-cutter mad as a hornet.--what do you think i should do?--no, i can't--haven't slept a wink the whole night.--it's too much for a poor human creature.--yes, i am a ninny, i know--go for me, will you!--oh, there's the pot--thanks! and then i need scissors, which i haven't got--and wire--and string--where am i to get them from?--no, of course, nobody wants to break off his work for a thing like that.--i'm tired of the whole mess--work fifty years, and then have it go up in smoke! i haven't got strength to begin over again--and the way it comes all at once, blow on blow--did you ever! i'm going to run away from it! [_he goes out_. rudolph walström. [_enters, evidently upset, badly dressed_, _his hands discoloured by the dyes_] is it all out now, anderson? anderson. yes, now it's out. rudolph. has anything been discovered? anderson. that's a question! what's buried when it snows comes to light when it thaws! rudolph. what do you mean, anderson? anderson. if you dig deep enough you find things. rudolph. have you found anything that can explain how the fire started? anderson. naw, nothing of that kind. rudolph. that means we are still under suspicion, all of us. anderson. not me, i guess. rudolph. oh, yes, for you have been seen up in the attic at unusual hours. anderson. well, i can't always go at usual hours to look for my tools when i've left them behind. and i did leave my hammer behind when i fixed the stove in the student's room. rudolph. and the stone-cutter, the gardener, mrs. westerlund, even the painter over there--we are all of us under suspicion--the student, the cook, and myself more than the rest. lucky it was that i had paid the insurance the day before, or i should have been stuck for good.--think of it: the stone-cutter suspected of arson--he who's so afraid of doing anything wrong! he's so conscientious _nowadays_ that if you ask him what time it is he won't swear to it, as his watch _may_ be wrong. of course, we all know he got two years, but he's reformed, and i'll swear now he's the straightest man in the quarter. anderson. but the police suspect him because he went wrong once--and he ain't got his citizenship back yet. rudolph. oh, there are so many ways of looking at a thing--so many ways, i tell you.--well, anderson, i guess you'd better quit for the day, seeing as you're going to the wedding to-night. anderson. yes, that wedding--there was somebody looking for you a while ago, and he said he would be back. rudolph. who was it? anderson. he didn't say. rudolph. police, was it? anderson. naw, i don't think so.--there he is coming now, for that matter. [_he goes out, together with his wife_. _the_ stranger _enters_. rudolph. [_regards him with curiosity at first, then with horror; wants to run away, but cannot move_] arvid! stranger. rudolph! rudolph. so it's you! stranger. yes. [_pause_. rudolph. you're not dead, then? stranger. in a way, yes!--i have come back from america after thirty years--there was something that pulled at me- i wanted to see my childhood's home once more--and i found those ruins! [_pause_] it burned down last night? rudolph. yes, you came just in time. [_pause_. stranger. [_dragging his words_] that's the place--such a tiny place for such a lot of destinies! there's the dining-room with the frescoed walls: palms, and cypresses, and a temple beneath a rose-coloured sky--that's the way i dreamt the world would look the moment i got away from home. and the stove with its pale blossoms growing out of conches. and the chimney cupboard with its metal doors--i remember as a child, when we had just moved in, somebody had scratched his name on the metal, and then grandmother told us it was the name of a man who had killed himself in that very room. i quickly forgot all about it, but when i later married a niece of the same man, it seemed to me as if my destiny had been foretold on that plate of metal.--you don't believe in that kind of thing, do you?--however, you know how my marriage ended! rudolph. yes, i've heard---stranger. and there's the nursery--yes! rudolph. don't let us start digging in the ruins! stranger. why not? after the fire is out you can read things in the ashes. we used to do it as children, in the stove---rudolph. come and sit down at the table here! stranger. what place is that? oh, the tavern--"the last nail"--where the hearse-drivers used to stop, and where, once upon a time, condemned culprits were given a final glass before they were taken to the gallows--who is keeping it? rudolph. mrs. westerlund, who used to be my nurse. stranger. mrs. westerlund--i remember her. it is as if the bench sank from under me, and i was sent tumbling through the past, sixty whole years, down into my childhood. i breathe the nursery air and feel it pressing on my chest. you older ones weighed me down, and you made so much noise that i was always kept in a state of fright. my fears made me hide in the garden--then i was dragged forward and given a spanking--always spankings--but i never knew why, and i don't know it yet. and yet she was my mother---rudolph. please! stranger. yes, you were the favourite, and as such you always had her support--then we got a stepmother. her father was an undertaker's assistant, and for years we had been seeing him drive by with funerals. at last he came to know us so well by sight that he used to nod and grin at us, as if he meant to say: "oh, i'll come for you sooner or later!" and then he came right into our house one day, and had to be called grandfather--when our father took his daughter for his second wife. rudolph. there was nothing strange in that. stranger. no, but somehow, as our own destinies, and those of other people, were being woven into one web---rudolph. oh, that's what happens everywhere---stranger. exactly! it's the same everywhere. in your youth you see the web set up. parents, relatives, comrades, acquaintances, servants form the warp. later on in life the weft becomes visible. and then the shuttle of fate runs back and forth with the thread--sometimes it breaks, but is tied up again, and it goes on as before. the reed clicks, the thread is packed together into curlicues, and one day the web lies ready. in old age, when the eye has learned how to see, you discover that those curlicues form a pattern, a monogram, an ornament, a hieroglyph, which only then can be interpreted: that's life! the world-weaver has woven it! [_pause; he rises_] over there, in that scrap-heap, i notice the family album. [_he walks a few steps to the right and picks up a photograph album_] that's the book of our family fate. grandfather and grandmother, father and mother, brothers and sisters, relatives, acquaintances--or so-called "friends"--schoolmates, servants, godparents. and, strange to say, wherever i have gone, in america or australia, to hongkong or the congo, everywhere i found at least one countryman, and as we began to dig it always came out that this man knew my family, or at least some godfather or maid servant--that, in a word, we had some common acquaintances. i even found a relative in the island of formosa---rudolph. what has put those ideas into your head? stranger. the fact that life, however it shaped itself--i have been rich and poor, exalted and humbled; i have suffered a shipwreck and passed through an earthquake--but, however life shaped itself, i always became aware of connections and repetitions. i saw in one situation the result of another, earlier one. on meeting _this_ person i was reminded of _that_ one whom i had met in the past. there have been incidents in my life that have come back time and again, so that i have been forced to say to myself: this i have been through before. and i have met with occurrences that seemed to me absolutely inevitable, or predestined. rudolph. what have you done during all these years? stranger. everything! i have beheld life from every quarter, from every standpoint, from above and from below, and always it has seemed to me like a scene staged for my particular benefit. and in that way i have at last become reconciled to a part of the past, and i have come to excuse not only my own but also other people's so-called "faults." you and i, for instance, have had a few bones to pick with each other--- rudolph _recoils with a darkening face_. stranger. don't get scared now---rudolph. i never get scared! stranger. you are just the same as ever. rudolph. and so are you! stranger. am i? that's interesting!--yes, you are still living in that delusion about your own bravery, and i remember exactly how this false idea became fixed in your mind. we were learning to swim, and one day you told how you had dived into the water, and then mother said: "yes, rudolph, he has courage!" that was meant for me--for me whom you had stripped of all courage and self-assurance. but then came the day when you had stolen some apples, and you were too cowardly to own up to it, and so you put it on me. rudolph. haven't you forgotten that yet? stranger. i haven't forgotten, but i have forgiven.--from here, where i am sitting, i can see that very tree, and that's what brought it into my mind. it's over there, you see, and it bears golden pippins.--if you look, you'll see that one of its biggest branches has been sawed off. for it so happened that i didn't get angry with you on account of my unjust punishment, but my anger turned against the tree. and two years later that big branch was all dried up and had to be sawed off. it made me think of the fig-tree that was cursed by the saviour, but i was not led into any presumptuous conclusions.--however, i still know all those trees by heart, and once, when i had the yellow fever in jamaica, i counted them over, every one. most of them are still there, i see. there's the snow-apple which has red-striped fruit--a chaffinch used to nest in it. there's the melon-apple, standing right in front of the garret where i used to study for technological examinations; there's the spitzenburg, and the late astrachan; and the pear-tree that used to look like a poplar in miniature; and the one with pears that could only be used for preserves--they never ripened, and we despised them, but mother treasured them above all the rest; and in that tree there used to be a wryneck that was always twisting its head around and making a nasty cry--that was fifty years ago! rudolph. [_irately_] what are you driving at? stranger. just as touchy and ill-tempered as ever! it's interesting.--there was no special purpose back of my chatter--my memories insist on pushing forward--i remember that the garden was rented to somebody else once, but we had the right to play in it. to me it seemed as if we had been driven out of paradise--and the tempter was standing behind every tree. in the fall, when the ground was strewn with ripe apples, i fell under a temptation that had become irresistible---rudolph. you stole, too? stranger. of course i did, but i didn't put it off on you!--when i was forty i leased a lemon grove in one of the southern states, and--well, there were thieves after the trees every night. i couldn't sleep, i lost flesh, i got sick. and then i thought of--poor gustafson here! rudolph. he's still living. stranger. perhaps he, too, stole apples in his childhood? rudolph. probably. stranger. why are your hands so black? rudolph. because i handle dyed stuffs all the time.--did you have anything else in mind? stranger. what could that have been? rudolph. that my hands were not clean. stranger. fudge! rudolph. perhaps you are thinking of your inheritance? stranger. just as mean as ever! exactly as you were when eight years old! rudolph. and you are just as heedless, and philosophical, and silly! stranger. it's a curious thing--but i wonder how many times before we have said just what we are saying now? [_pause_] i am looking at your album here--our sisters and brothers--five dead! rudolph. yes. stranger. and our schoolmates? rudolph. some taken and some left behind. stranger. i met one of them in south carolina--axel ericson--do you remember him? rudolph. i do. stranger. one whole night, while we were on a train together, he kept telling me how our highly respectable and respected family consisted of nothing but rascals; that it had made its money by smuggling--you know, the toll-gate was right here; and that this house had been built with double walls for the hiding of contraband. don't you see that the walls are double? rudolph. [_crushed_] so that's the reason why we had closets everywhere? stranger. the father of that fellow, ericson, had been in the custom-house service and knew our father, and the son told me a lot of inside stories that turned my whole world of imagined conditions topsyturvy. rudolph. you gave him a licking, i suppose? stranger. why should i lick him?--however, my hair turned grey that night, and i had to edit my entire life over again. you know how we used to live in an atmosphere of mutual admiration; how we regarded our family as better than all others, and how, in particular, our parents were looked up to with almost religious veneration. and then i had to paint new faces on them, strip them, drag them down, eliminate them. it was dreadful! then the ghosts began to walk. the pieces of those smashed figures would come together again, but not properly, and the result would be a regular wax cabinet of monsters. all those grey-haired gentlemen whom we called uncles, and who came to our house to play cards and eat cold suppers, they were smugglers, and some of them had been in the pillory--did you know that? rudolph. [_completely overwhelmed_] no. stranger. the dye works were merely a hiding-place for smuggled yarn, which was dyed in order to prevent identification. i can still remember how i used to hate the smell of the dyeing vat--there was something sickeningly sweet about it. rudolph. why did you have to tell me all this? stranger. why should i keep silent about it and let you make yourself ridiculous by your boasting about that revered family of yours? have you never noticed people grinning at you? rudolph. no-o! [_pause_. stranger. i am now looking at father's bookcase in the pile over there. it was always locked, you remember. but one day, when father was out, i got hold of the key. the books in front i had seen through the glass doors, of course. there were volumes of sermons, the collected works of great poets, handbooks for gardening, compilations of the statutes referring to customs duties and the confiscation of smuggled goods; the constitution; a volume about foreign coins; and a technical work that later determined my choice of a career. but back of those books there was room for other things, and i began to explore. first of all i found the rattan--and, do you know, i have since learned that that bitter plant bears a fruit from which we get the red dye known as "dragon's blood": now, isn't that queer! and beside the rattan stood a bottle labelled "cyanide of potassium." rudolph. i suppose it was meant for use over at the works. stranger. or elsewhere, perhaps. but this is what i had in mind: there were some bundles of pamphlets with illustrated covers that aroused my interest. and, to put it plain, they contained the notorious memoirs of a certain chevalier--i took them out and locked the case again. and beneath the big oak over there i studied them. we used to call that oak the tree of knowledge--and it was, all right! and in that way i left my childhood's paradise to become initiated, all too early, into those mysteries which--yes! rudolph. you, too? stranger. yes, i, too! [_pause_] however--let us talk of something else, as all that is now in ashes.--did you have any insurance? rudolph. [_angrily_] didn't you ask that a while ago? stranger. not that i can recall. it happens so often that i confuse what i have said with what i have intended to say, and mostly because i think so intensely--ever since that day when i tried to hang myself in the closet. rudolph. what is that you are saying? stranger. i tried to hang myself in the closet. rudolph. [_speaking very slowly_] was that what happened that holy thursday eve, when you were taken to the hospital--what the rest of us children were never permitted to know? stranger. [_speaking in the same manner_] yes.--there you can see how little we know about those that are nearest to us, about our own homes and our own lives. rudolph. but why did you do it? stranger. i was twelve years old, and tired of life! it was like groping about in a great darkness--i couldn't understand what i had to do here--and i thought the world a madhouse. i reached that conclusion one day when our school was turned out with torches and banners to celebrate "the destroyer of our country." for i had just read a book which proved that our country had been brought to destruction by the worst of all its kings--and that was the one whose memory we had to celebrate with hymns and festivities.[1] [_pause_. rudolph. what happened at the hospital? stranger. my dear fellow, i was actually put into the morgue as dead. whether i was or not, i don't know--but when i woke up, most of my previous life had been forgotten, and i began a new one, but in such a manner that the rest of you thought me peculiar.--are you married again? rudolph. i have wife and children--somewhere. stranger. when i recovered consciousness i seemed to myself another person. i regarded life with cynical calm: it probably had to be the way it was. and the worse it turned out the more interesting it became. after that i looked upon myself as if i were somebody else, and i observed and studied that other person, and his fate, thereby rendering myself callous to my own sufferings. but while dead i had acquired new faculties--i could see right through people, read their thoughts, hear their intentions. in company, i beheld them stripped naked--where did you say the fire started? rudolph. why, nobody knows. stranger. but the newspapers said that it began in a closet right under the student's garret--what kind of a student is he? rudolph. [_appalled_] is it in the newspapers? i haven't had time to look at them to-day. what more have they got? stranger. they have got everything. rudolph. everything? stranger. the double walls, the respected family of smugglers, the pillory, the hairpins---rudolph. what hairpins? stranger. i don't know, but they are there. do you know? rudolph. naw! stranger. everything was brought to light, and you may look for a stream of people coming here to stare at all that exposed rottenness. rudolph. lord have mercy! and you take pleasure at seeing your family dragged into scandal? stranger. my family? i have never felt myself related to the rest of you. i have never had any strong feeling either for my fellow men or myself. i think it's interesting to watch them--that's all--what sort of a person is your wife? rudolph. was there anything about her, too? stranger. about her and the student. rudolph. good! then i was right. just wait and you'll see!--there comes the stone-cutter. stranger. you know him? rudolph. and so do you. a schoolmate--albert ericson. stranger. whose father was in the customs service and whose brother i met on the train--he who was so very well informed about our family. rudolph. that's the infernal cuss who has blabbed to the papers, then! ericson _enters with a pick and begins to look over the ruins_. stranger. what a ghastly figure! rudolph. he's been in jail--two years. do you know what he did? he made some erasures in a contract between him and myself---stranger. you sent him to jail! and now he has had his revenge! rudolph. but the queerest part of it is that nowadays he is regarded as the most honest man in the whole district. he has become a martyr, and almost a saint, so that nobody dares say a word against him. stranger. that's interesting, indeed! detective. [_entering, turns to_ ericson] can you pull down that wall over there? ericson. the one by the closet? detective. that's the one. ericson. that's where the fire started, and i'm sure you'll find a candle or a lamp around there--for i know the people! detective. go ahead then! ericson. the closet door was burned off, to be sure, but the ceiling came down, and that's why we couldn't find out, but now we'll use the beak on it! [_he falls to with his pick_] ho-hey, ho-ho!--ho-hey, leggo!--ho-hey, for that one!--do you see anything? detective. not yet. ericson. [_working away as before_] now i can see something!--the lamp has exploded, but the stand is left!--who knows this forfeit for his own?--didn't i see the dyer somewhere around here? detective. there he is sitting now. [_he picks the lamp from the debris and holds it up_] do you recognise your lamp, mr. walström? rudolph. that isn't mine--it belonged to our tutor. detective. the student? where is he now? rudolph. he's down-town, but i suppose he'll soon be here, as his books are lying over there. detective. how did his lamp get into the cook's closet? did he have anything to do with her? rudolph. probably! detective. the only thing needed now is that he identify the lamp as his own, and he will be arrested. what do you think of it, mr. walström? rudolph. i? well, what is there to think? detective. what reason could he have for setting fire to another person's house? rudolph. i don't know. malice, or mere mischief--you never can tell what people may do--or perhaps there was something he wanted to cover up. detective. that would have been a poor way, as old rottenness always will out. did he have any grudge against you? rudolph. it's likely, for i helped him once when he was hard up, and he has hated me ever since, of course. detective. of course? [_pause_] who is he, then? rudolph. he was raised in an orphanage--born of unknown parents. detective. haven't you a grown-up daughter, mr. walström? rudolph. [_angered_] of course i have! detective. oh, you have! [_pause; then to_ ericson] now you bring those twelve men of yours and pull down the walls quick. then we'll see what new things come to light. [_he goes out_. ericson. that'll be done in a jiffy. [_goes out_. [_pause_. stranger. have you really paid up your insurance? rudolph. of course! stranger. personally? rudolph. no, i sent it in as usual. stranger. you sent it--by somebody else! that's just like you!--suppose we take a turn through the garden and have a look at the apple-trees. rudolph. all right, and then we'll see what happens afterward. stranger. now begins the most interesting part of all. rudolph. perhaps not quite so interesting if you find yourself mixed up in it. stranger. i? rudolph. who can tell? stranger. what a web it is! rudolph. there was a child of yours that went to the orphanage, i think? stranger. god bless us!--let's go over into the garden! _curtain_. [footnote 1: this refers to king charles xii of sweden, whose memory strindberg hated mainly because of the use made of it by the jingo elements of the swedish upper classes.] second scene _the same setting as before with the exception that the walls have been torn down so that the garden is made visible, with its vast variety of spring flowers--daphnes, deutzias, daffodils, narcissuses, tulips, auriculas--and with all the fruit-trees in bloom_. ericson, anderson _and his old wife_, gustafson, _the_ hearse-driver, mrs. westerlund, _and the painter_, sjöblom, _are standing in a row staring at the spot where the house used to be_. stranger. [_entering_] there they stand, enjoying the misfortune that's in the air and waiting for the victim to appear--he being the principal item. that the fire was incendiary they take for granted, merely because they want it that way.--and all these rascals are the friends and comrades of my youth. i am even related to the hearse-driver through my stepmother, whose father used to help carry out the coffins--[_he speaks to the crowd of spectators_] look here, you people, i shouldn't stand there if i were you. there may have been some dynamite stored in the cellar, and if such were the case an explosion might take place any moment. _the curious crowd scatters and disappears_. stranger. [stoops _over the scrap-heap and begins to poke in the books piled there_] those are the student's books--same kind of rot as in my youth--livy's roman history, which is said to be lies, every word--but here's a volume out of my brother's library--"columbus, or the discovery of america"! my own book, which i got as a christmas gift in 1857. my name has been erased. this means it was stolen from me--and i accused one of our maids, who was discharged on that account! fine business! perhaps it led to her ruin--fifty years ago! here is the frame of one of our family portraits; my renowned grandfather, the smuggler, who was put in the pillory--fine!--but what is this? the foot-piece of a mahogany bed--the one in which i was born! oh, damn!--next item: a leg of a dinner-table--the one that was an heirloom. why, it was supposed to be of ebony, and was admired on that account! and now, after fifty years, i discover it to be made of painted maple. everything had its colours changed in our house to render it unrecognisable, even the clothes of us children, so that our bodies always were stained with various dyes. ebony--humbug! and here's the dining-room clock--smuggled goods, that, too--which has measured out the time for two generations. it was wound up every saturday, when we had salt codfish and a posset made with beer for dinner. like all intelligent clocks, it used to stop when anybody died, but when i died it went on just as before. let me have a look at you, old friend--i want to see your insides. [_as he touches the clock it falls to pieces_] can't stand being handled! nothing could stand being handled in our home--nothing! vanity, vanity!--but there's the globe that was on top of the clock, although it ought to have been at the bottom. you tiny earth: you, the densest and the heaviest of all the planets--that's what makes everything on you so heavy--so heavy to breathe, so heavy to carry. the cross is your symbol, but it might just as well have been a fool's cap or a strait-jacket--you world of delusions and deluded!--eternal one--perchance thy earth has gone astray in the limitless void? and what set it whirling so that thy children were made dizzy, and lost their reason, and became incapable of seeing what really is instead of what only seems?--amen!--and here is the student! _the_ student _enters and looks around in evident search of somebody_. stranger. he is looking for the mistress of the house. and he tells everything he knows--with his eyes. happy youth!--whom are you looking for? student. [_embarrassed_] i was looking---stranger. speak up, young man--or keep silent. i understand you just the same. student. with whom have i the honour---stranger. it's no special honour, as you know, for once i ran away to america on account of debts---student. that wasn't right. stranger. right or wrong, it remains a fact.--so you were looking for mrs. walström? well, she isn't here, but i am sure that she will come soon, like all the rest, for they are drawn by the fire like moths---student. by a candle! stranger. that's what _you_ say, but i should rather have said "lamp," in order to choose a more significant word. however, you had better hide your feelings, my dear fellow, if you can--i can hide mine!--we were talking of that lamp, were we not? how about it? student. which lamp? stranger. well, well! every one of them lies and denies!--the lamp that was placed in the cook's closet and set fire to the house? student. i know nothing about it. stranger. some blush when they lie and others turn pale. this one has invented an entirely new manner. student. are you talking to yourself, sir? stranger. i have that bad habit.--are your parents still living? student. they are not. stranger. now you lied again, but unconsciously. student. i never tell a lie! stranger. not more than three in these few moments! i know your father. student. i don't believe it. stranger. so much the better for me!--do you see this scarf-pin? it's pretty, isn't it? but i never see anything of it myself--i have no pleasure in its being there, while everybody else is enjoying it. there is nothing selfish about that, is there? but there are moments when i should like to see it in another man's tie so that i might have a chance to admire it. would you care to have it? student. i don't quite understand--perhaps, as you said, it's better not to wear it. stranger. perhaps!--don't get impatient now. she will be here soon.--do you find it enviable to be young? student. i can't say that i do. stranger. no, youth is not its own master; it has never any money, and has to take its food out of other hands; it is not permitted to speak when company is present, but is treated as an idiot; and as it cannot marry, it has to ogle other people's wives, which leads to all sorts of dangerous consequences. youth--humbug! student. that's right! as a child, you want to grow up--that is, reach fifteen, be confirmed, and put on a tall hat. when you are that far, you want to be old--that is, twenty-one. which means that nobody wants to be young. stranger. and when you grow old in earnest, then you want to be dead. for then there isn't much left to wish for.--do you know that you are to be arrested? student. am i? stranger. the detective said so a moment ago. student. me? stranger. are you surprised at that? don't you know that in this life you must be prepared for anything? student. but what have i done? stranger. you don't have to do anything in order to be arrested. to be suspected is enough. student. then everybody might be arrested! stranger. exactly! the rope might be laid around the neck of the whole race if justice were wanted, but it isn't. it's a disgusting race: ugly, sweating, ill-smelling; its linen dirty, its stockings full of holes; with chilblains and corns--ugh! no, an apple-tree in bloom is far more beautiful. or look at the lilies in the field--they seem hardly to belong here--and what fragrance is theirs! student. are you a philosopher, sir? stranger. yes, i am a great philosopher. student. now you are poking fun at me! stranger. you say that to get away. well, begone then! hurry up! student. i was expecting somebody. stranger. so i thought. but i think it would be better to go and meet---student. she asked you to tell me? stranger. oh, that wasn't necessary. student. well, if that's so--i don't want to miss--- [_he goes out_. stranger. can that be my son? well, if it comes to the worst--i was a child myself once, and it was neither remarkable nor pleasant--and i am his--what of it? and for that matter--who knows?--now i'll have a look at mrs. westerlund. she used to work for my parents--was faithful and good-tempered; and when she had been pilfering for ten years she was raised to the rank of a "trusted" servant. [_he seats himself at the table in front of the inn_] there are gustafson's wreaths--just as carelessly made as they were forty years ago. he was always careless and stupid in all he did, and so he never succeeded with anything. but much might be pardoned him on account of his self-knowledge. "poor fool that i am," he used to say, and then he would pull off his cap and scratch his head.--why, there's a myrtle plant! [_he knocks at the pot_] not watered, of course! he always forgot to water his plants, the damned fool--and yet he expected them to grow. sjöblom, _the painter, appears_. stranger. i wonder who that painter can be. probably he belongs also to the bog, and perhaps he is one of the threads in my own web. sjöblom _is staring at the_ stranger _all this time_. stranger. [_returning the stare_] well, do you recognise me? sjöblom. are you--mr. arvid? stranger. have been and am--if perception argues being. [_pause_. sjöblom. i ought really to be mad at you. stranger. well, go on and be so! however, you might tell me the reason. that has a tendency to straighten matters out. sjöblom. do you remember---stranger. unfortunately, i have an excellent memory. sjöblom. do you remember a boy named robert? stranger. yes, a regular rascal who knew how to draw. sjöblom. and i was to go to the academy in order to become a real painter, an artist. but just about that time-colour-blindness was all the go. you were studying at the technological institute then, and so you had to test my eyes before your father would consent to send me to the art classes. for that reason you brought two skeins of yarn from the dye works, one red and the other green, and then you asked me about them. i answered--called the red green and the green red--and that was the end of my career---stranger. but that was as it should be. sjöblom. no--for the truth of it was, i could distinguish the colours, but not--the _names_. and that wasn't found out until i was thirty-seven---stranger. that was an unfortunate story, but i didn't know better, and so you'll have to forgive me. sjöblom. how can i? stranger. ignorance is pardonable! and now listen to me. i wanted to enter the navy, made a trial cruise as mid-shipman, seemed to become seasick, and was rejected! but i could stand the sea, and my sickness came from having drunk too much. so my career was spoiled, and i had to choose another. sjöblom. what have i got to do with the navy? i had been dreaming of rome and paris---stranger. oh, well, one has so many dreams in youth, and in old age too, for that matter. besides, what's the use of bothering about what happened so long ago? sjöblom. how you talk! perhaps you can give me back my wasted life---stranger. no, i can't, but i am under no obligation to do so, either. that trick with the yarn i had learned at school, and you ought to have learned the proper names of the colours. and now you can go to--one dauber less is a blessing to humanity!--there's mrs. westerlund! sjöblom. how you _do_ talk. but i guess you'll get what's coming to you! mrs. westerlund _enters_. stranger. how d'you do, mrs. westerlund? i am mr. arvid--don't get scared now! i have been in america, and how are you? i am feeling fine! there has been a fire here, and i hear your husband is dead--policeman, i remember, and a very nice fellow. i liked him for his good humour and friendly ways. he was a harmless jester, whose quips never hurt. i recall once---mrs. westerlund. o, merciful! is this my own arvid whom i used to tend---stranger. no, that wasn't me, but my brother--but never mind, it's just as well meant. i was talking of your old man who died thirty-five years ago--a very nice man and a particular friend of mine---mrs. westerlund. yes, he died. [_pause_] but i don't know if--perhaps you are getting him mixed up---stranger. no, i don't. i remember old man westerlund perfectly, and i liked him very much. mrs. westerlund. [_reluctantly_] of course it's a shame to say it, but i don't think his temper was very good. stranger. what? mrs. westerlund. well--he had a way of getting around people, but he didn't mean what he said--or if he did he meant it the other way around---stranger. what is that? didn't he mean what he was saying? was he a hypocrite? mrs. westerlund. well, i don't like to say it, but i believe---stranger. do you mean to say that he wasn't on the level? mrs. westerlund. n--yes--he was--a little--well, he didn't mean exactly what he said--and how have you been doing, mr. arvid? stranger. now a light is dawning on me!--the miserable wretch! and here i have been praising him these thirty-five years. i have missed him, and i felt something like sorrow at his departure--i even used some of my tobacco allowance to buy a wreath for his coffin. mrs. westerlund. what was it he did? what was it? stranger. the villain! [_pause_] well--he fooled me--it was shrove tuesday, i remember. he told me that if one took away every third egg from a hen she would lay so many more. i did it, got a licking, and came near getting into court. but _i_ never suspected him of having told on me.--he was always hanging around our kitchen looking for tid-bits, and so our maids could do just what they pleased about the garbage--oh, now i see him in his proper aspect!--and here i am now getting into a fury at one who has been thirty-five years in his grave?--so he was a satirist, he was--and i didn't catch on--although i understand him now. mrs. westerlund. yes, he was a little satirical all right--_i_ ought to know that! stranger. other things are coming back to me now--and i have been saying nice things about that blackguard for thirty-five years! it was at his funeral i drank my first toddy--and i remember how he used to flatter me, and call me "professor" and "the crown prince"--ugh--and there is the stone-cutter! you had better go inside, madam, or we'll have a row when that fellow begins to turn in his bills. good-bye, madam--we'll meet again! mrs. westerlund. no we won't. people ought never to meet again--it is never as it used to be, and they only get to clawing at each other--what business did you have to tell me all those things--seeing everything was all right as it was [_she goes out_. ericson, _the stone-cutter, comes in_. stranger. come on! ericson. what's that? stranger. come on, i said! ericson _stares at him_. stranger. are you looking at my scarf-pin? i bought it in london. ericson. i am no thief! stranger. no, but you practise the noble art of erasure. you wipe out! ericson. that's true, but that contract was sheer robbery, and it was strangling me. stranger. why did you sign it? ericson. because i was hard up. stranger. yes, that _is_ a motive. ericson. but now i am having my revenge. stranger. yes, isn't it nice! ericson. and now _they_ will be locked up. stranger. did _we_ ever fight each other as boys? ericson. no, i was too young. stranger. have we never told lies about each other, or robbed each other, or got in each other's way, or seduced each other's sisters? ericson. naw, but my father was in the customs service and yours was a smuggler. stranger. there you are! that's something, at least! ericson. and when my father failed to catch yours he was discharged. stranger. and you want to get even with me because your father was a good-for-nothing? ericson. why did you say a while ago that there was dynamite in the cellar? stranger. now, my dear sir, you are telling lies again. i said there _might_ be dynamite in the cellar, and everything is possible, of course. ericson. and in the meantime the student has been arrested. do you know him? stranger. very little--his mother more, for she was a maid in our house. she was both pretty and good, and i was making up to her--until she had a child. ericson. and were you not its father? stranger. i was not. but as a denial of fatherhood is not allowed, i suppose i must be regarded as a sort of stepfather. ericson. then they have lied about you. stranger. of course. but that's a very common thing. ericson. and i was among those who testified against you--under oath! stranger. i have no doubt about it, but what does it matter? nothing matters at all! but now we had better quit pulling--or we'll get the whole web unravelled. ericson. but think of me, who have perjured myself---stranger. yes, it isn't pleasant, but such things will happen. ericson. it's horrible--don't you find life horrible? stranger. [_covering his eyes with his hand_] yes, horrible beyond all description! ericson. i don't want to live any longer! stranger. must! [_pause_] must! [_pause_] tell me--the student is arrested, you say--can he get out of it? ericson. hardly!--and now, as we are talking nicely, i'll tell you something: he is innocent, but he cannot clear himself. for the only witness that can prove him innocent would, by doing so, prove him guilty--in another way. stranger. she with the hairpins, isn't it? ericson. yes. stranger. the old one or the young one? ericson. you have to figure that out yourself. but it isn't the cook. stranger. what a web this is!--but who put the lamp there? ericson. his worst enemy. stranger. and did his worst enemy also start the fire? ericson. that's beyond me! only anderson, the mason, knows that. stranger. who is he? ericson. the oldest one in the place--some kind of relative of mrs. westerlund--knows all the secrets of the house--but he and the dyer have got some secrets together, so he won't tell anything. stranger. and the lady--my sister-in-law--who is she? ericson. well--she was in the house as governess when the first wife cleared out. stranger. what sort of character has she got? ericson. hm! character? i don't quite know what that is. do you mean trade? the old assessment blanks used to call for your name and "character"--but that meant occupation instead of character. stranger. i mean her temper. ericson. well, it changes, you know. in me it depends on the person with whom i am talking. with decent people i am decent, and with the cruel ones i become like a beast of prey. stranger. but i was talking of her temper under ordinary circumstances. ericson. well, nothing in particular. gets angry if you tease her, but comes around after a while. one cannot always have the same temper, of course. stranger. i mean, is she merry or melancholy? ericson. when things go right, she is happy, and when they go wrong, she gets sorry or angry--just like the rest of us. stranger. yes, but how does she behave? ericson. oh, what does it matter?--of course, being an educated person, she behaves politely, but nevertheless, you know, she can get nasty, too, when her blood gets to boiling. stranger. but that doesn't make me much wiser. ericson. [_patting him on the shoulder_] no, sir, we never get much wiser when it's a question of human beings. stranger. oh, you're a marvel!--and how do you like my brother, the dyer? [_pause_. ericson. oh, his manners are pretty decent. and more than that i don't know, for what he keeps hidden i can't find out, of course. stranger. excellent! but--his hands are always blue, and yet you know that they are white beneath the dye. ericson. but to make them so they should be scraped, and that's something he won't permit. stranger. good!--who are the young couple coming over there? ericson. that's the gardener's son and my daughter, who were to have been married to-night, but who have had to postpone it on account of the fire--now i shall leave, for i don't want to embarrass them. you understand--i ain't much as a father-in-law. good-bye! [_he goes out_. _the_ stranger _withdraws behind the inn, but so that he remains visible to the spectators_. alfred _and_ mathilda _enter hand in hand_. alfred. i had to have a look at this place--i had to---mathilda. why did you have to look at it? alfred. because i have suffered so much in this house that more than once i wished it on fire. mathilda. yes, i know, it kept the sun out of the garden, and now everything will grow much better--provided they don't put up a still higher house---alfred. now it's open and pleasant, with plenty of air and sunlight, and i hear they are going to lay out a street---mathilda. won't you have to move then? alfred. yes, all of us will have to move, and that's what i like--i like new things--i should like to emigrate---mathilda. mercy, no! do you know, our pigeons were nesting on the roof. and when the fire broke out last night they kept circling around the place at first, but when the roof fell in they plunged right into the flames--they couldn't part from their old home! alfred. but we must get out of here--must! my father says that the soil has been sucked dry. mathilda. i heard that the cinders left by the fire were to be spread over the ground in order to improve the soil. alfred. you mean the ashes? mathilda. yes; they say it's good to sow in the ashes. alfred. better still on virgin soil. mathilda. but your father is ruined? alfred. not at all. he has money in the bank. of course he's complaining, but so does everybody. mathilda. has he--the fire hasn't ruined him? alfred. not a bit! he's a shrewd old guy, although he always calls himself a fool. mathilda. what am i to believe? alfred. he has loaned money to the mason here--and to others. mathilda. i am entirely at sea! am i dreaming?--the whole morning we have been weeping over your father's misfortune and over the postponement of the wedding---alfred. poor little thing! but the wedding is to take place to-night---mathilda. is it not postponed? alfred. only delayed for a couple of hours so that my father will have time to get his new coat. mathilda. and we who have been weeping---alfred. useless tears--such a lot of tears! mathilda. i am mad because they were useless--although--to think that my father-in-law could be such a sly one! alfred. yes, he is something of a joker, to put it mildly. he is always talking about how tired he is, but that's nothing but laziness--oh, he's lazy, i tell you---mathilda. don't say any more nasty things about him--but let us get away from here. i have to dress, you know, and put up my hair.--just think, that my father-in-law isn't what i thought him--that he could be fooling us like that and not telling the truth! perhaps you are like that, too? oh, that i can't know what you really are! alfred. you'll find out afterward. mathilda. but then it's too late. alfred. it's never too late---mathilda. all you who lived in this house are bad--and now i am afraid of you---alfred. not of me, though? mathilda. i don't know what to think. why didn't you tell me before that your father was well off? alfred. i wanted to try you and see if you would like me as a poor man. mathilda. yes, afterward they always say that they wanted to try you. but how can i ever believe a human being again? alfred. go and get dressed now. i'll order the carriages. mathilda. are we to have carriages? alfred. of course--regular coaches. mathilda. coaches? and to-night? what fun! come--hurry up! we'll have carriages! alfred. [_gets hold of her hand and they dance out together_] hey and ho! here we go! stranger. [_coming forward_] bravo! _the_ detective _enters and talks in a low tone to the_ stranger, _who answers in the same way. this lasts for about half a minute, whereupon the_ detective _leaves again_. mrs. walström. [_enters, dressed in black, and gazes long at the_ stranger] are you my brother-in-law? stranger. i am. [_pause_] don't i look as i have been described--or painted? mrs. walström. frankly, no! stranger. no, that is generally the case. and i must admit that the information i received about you a while ago does not tally with the original. mrs. walström. oh, people do each other so much wrong, and they paint each other in accordance with some image within themselves. stranger. and they go about like theatrical managers, distributing parts to each other. some accept their parts; others hand them back and prefer to improvise. mrs. walström. and what has been the part assigned to you? stranger. that of a seducer. not that i have ever been one! i have never seduced anybody, be she wife or maid, but once in my youth i was seduced, and that's why the part was given to me. strange to say, it was forced on me so long that at last i accepted it. and for twenty years i carried the bad conscience of a seducer around with me. mrs. walström. you were innocent then? stranger. i was. mrs. walström. how curious! and to this day my husband is still talking of the nemesis that has pursued you because you seduced another man's wife. stranger. i fully believe it. but your husband represents a still more interesting case. he has created a new character for himself out of lies. tell me: isn't he a coward in facing the struggles of life? mrs. walström. of course he is a coward! stranger. and yet he boasts of his courage, which is nothing but brutality. mrs. walström. you know him pretty well. stranger. yes, and no!--and you have been living in the belief that you had married into a respected family which had never disgraced itself? mrs. walström. so i believed until this morning. stranger. when your faith crumbled! what a web of lies and mistakes and misunderstandings! and that kind of thing we are supposed to take seriously! mrs. walström. do you? stranger. sometimes. very seldom nowadays. i walk like a somnambulist along the edge of a roof--knowing that i am asleep, and yet being awake--and the only thing i am waiting for is to be waked up. mrs. walström. you are said to have been across to the other side? stranger. i have been across the river, but the only thing i can recall is--that there everything _was_ what it pretended to be. that's what makes the difference. mrs. walström. when nothing stands the test of being touched, what are you then to hold on to? stranger. don't you know? mrs. walström. tell me! tell me! stranger. sorrow brings patience; patience brings experience; experience brings hope; and hope will not bring us to shame. mrs. walström. hope, yes! stranger. yes, hope! mrs. walström. do you ever think it pleasant to live? stranger. of course. but that is also a delusion. i tell you, my dear sister-in-law, that when you happen to be born without a film over your eyes, then you see life and your fellow creatures as they are--and you have to be a pig to feel at home in such a mess.--but when you have been looking long enough at blue mists, then you turn your eyes the other way and begin to look into your own soul? there you find something really worth looking at. mrs. walström. and what is it you see? stranger. your own self. but when you have looked at that you must die. mrs. walström. [_covers her eyes with her hands; after a pause she says_] do you want to help me? stranger. if i can. mrs. walström. try. stranger. wait a moment!--no, i cannot. he is innocently accused. only you can set him free again. but that you cannot do. it's a net that has not been tied by men---mrs. walström. but he is not guilty. stranger. who is guilty? [_pause_. mrs. walström. no one! it was an accident! stranger. i know it. mrs. walström. what am i to do? stranger. suffer. it will pass. for that, too, is vanity. mrs. walström. suffer? stranger. yes, suffer! but with hope! mrs. walström. [_holding out her hand to him_] thank you! stranger. and let it be your consolation mrs. walström. what? stranger. that you don't suffer innocently. mrs. walström _walks out with her head bent low_. _the_ stranger _climbs the pile of debris marking the site of the burned house_. rudolph. [_comes in, looking happy_] are you playing the ghost among the ruins? stranger. ghosts feel at home among ruins--and now you are happy? rudolph. now i am happy. stranger. and brave? rudolph. whom have i got to fear, or what? stranger. i conclude from your happiness that you are ignorant of one important fact--have you the courage to bear a piece of misfortune? rudolph. what is it? stranger. you turn pale? rudolph. i? stranger. a serious misfortune! rudolph. speak out! stranger. the detective was here a moment ago, and he told me--in confidence---rudolph. what? stranger. that the premium on your insurance was paid up two hours too late. rudolph. great s----! what are you talking of? i sent my wife to pay the premium. stranger. and she sent the bookkeeper--and he got there too late. rudolph. then i am ruined? [_pause_. stranger. are you crying? rudolph. i am ruined! stranger. well, is that something that cannot be borne? rudolph. how am i to live? what am i to do? stranger. work! rudolph. i am too old--i have no friends stranger. perhaps you'll get some now. a man in misfortune always seems sympathetic. i had some of my best hours while fortune went against me. rudolph. [_wildly_] i am ruined! stranger. but in my days of success and fortune i was left alone. envy was more than friendship could stand. rudolph. then i'll sue the bookkeeper. stranger. don't! rudolph. he'll have to pay---stranger. how little you have changed! what's the use of living, when you learn so little from it? rudolph. i'll sue him, the villain!--he hates me because i gave him a cuff on the ear once. stranger. forgive him--as i forgave you when i didn't demand my inheritance. rudolph. what inheritance? stranger. always the same! merciless! cowardly! disingenuous!--depart in peace, brother! rudolph. what inheritance is that you are talking of? stranger. now listen, rudolph--my brother after all: my own mother's son! you put the stone-cutter in jail because he did some erasing--all right! but how about your own erasures from my book, "christopher columbus, or the discovery of america"? rudolph. [_taken aback_] what's that? columbus? stranger. yes, _my_ book that became yours! rudolph _remains silent_. stranger. yes, and i understand now that it was you who put the student's lamp in the closet--i understand everything. but do _you_ know that the dinner-table was not of ebony? rudolph. it wasn't? stranger. it was nothing but maple. rudolph. maple! stranger. the pride and glory of the house--valued at two thousand crowns! rudolph. that, too? so that was also humbug! stranger. yes! rudolph. ugh! stranger. thus the debt is settled. the case is dropped--the issue is beyond the court--the parties can withdraw---rudolph. [_rushing out_] i am ruined! stranger. [_takes his wreath from the table_] i meant to take this wreath to the cemetery--to my parents' grave--but i will place it here instead--on the ruins of what was once their home--my childhood's home! [_he bends his head in silent prayer_] and now, wanderer, resume thy pilgrimage! _curtain_. plays by august strindberg plays. first series: the dream play, the link, the dance of death--part i and part ii. plays. second series: there are crimes and crimes, miss julia, the stronger, creditors, pariah. plays. third series: swanwhite, simoom, debit and credit, advent, the thunder storm, after the fire. plays. fourth series: the bridal crown, the spook sonata, the first warning, gustavus vasa. creditors. pariah. miss julia. the stronger. there are crimes and crimes. (from images made available by the google books project) plays by august strindberg fourth series the bridal crown the spook sonata the first warning gustavus vasa translated with an introduction by edwin björkman authorized edition new york charles scribner's sons 1916 contents introduction the bridal crown the spook sonata the first warning gustavus vasa musical appendix to "the bridal crown" introduction the province of dalecarlia has often been called the heart of sweden. it is a centrally located inland province, said to contain a sample of everything the country can offer in the way of natural beauty. for centuries it played a remarkable part in swedish history, taking the leadership time and again in the long struggle to rid the nation of a perverted and abused union with denmark and norway. it has preserved the original stock, the original language, and the original customs of the race as no other province. the dialects used in dalecarlia are among the most difficult to understand for outsiders and have an air of antiquity that irresistibly leads the thought back to old norse. the picturesque costumes characteristic of the different parishes are still in use, and one of these--that of rättvik--has almost become _the_ national costume of sweden. the people are simple and shrewd, stem and kindly, energetic and obstinate, loyal and independent. they have much in common with the old new england stock, but possess, in spite of their unmistakably puritanical outlook, a great store of spontaneous and pleasant joy in life. they are thinkers in their own humble way, but not morbid. in their attitude toward each other and toward the family they are distinctly and quaintly patriarchal, and in this respect, too, they preserve a quality that used to be characteristic of the whole scandinavian north. it is impossible to read "the bridal crown," with its typical dalecarlian atmosphere and setting, without being struck at once by the extent to which the individual plays the part of a link in the unbroken chain of generations rather than of an isolated, all-important point of personality. and the same impression is obtained from selma lagerlöf's contemporaneous novel, "jerusalem." always a very religious race, though not always good church-goers, the dalecarlians have long had and still have the puritanical closeness to the bible as _the_ book, and they talk naturally in quotations from that source. at the same time the old norse stores of legend and homely wisdom survive among them to an extent that is perhaps paralleled only in iceland. and when strindberg in this play makes his characters quote the old poetic edda he violates no law of probability, although it is doubtful whether the expression in question would actually come in just such a form from living lips. i mean that the sentiment of such a phrase as "vagrant women make bread of mould for their men as only food" survives among the people, while it is likely to have gradually changed into a form more wholly their own. no matter from where the inspiration of their utterances may come, the dalecarlians are apt to express themselves picturesquely, and this inclination to lapse into rhyme and alliteration is noticeable--sometimes in quoting old saws dating back to heathen times and sometimes in improvising. strindberg has used this tendency in both ways. when the old grandfather says to the bride that she is "comely as he is homely," he is merely repeating a phrase dear to the heart of a people strongly bound up in traditions. when, on the other hand, he lets the fisherman in the last scene answer, "krummedikke's castle and krummedikke's lake, krummedikke's church, and soon it will break," he is probably illustrating the tendency toward roughly rhymed improvisations. a typical feature of dalecarlian life has always been the sending of the cattle to upland pastures during the summer months in care of young men and women, who, in communication among themselves as well as with the people at the home farm, have availed themselves of the ancient alpenhorn, or _lur_, made out of wood and birch bark, as well as of the horn made out of the natural horn of the ox. and instinctively they have realised that melodious utterance carries farther than ordinary speech, and so they have come to sing or hum their communications. furthermore, they have grown accustomed to use some song already familiar to the listener rather than what they might improvise, and have thus learned to pass on simple pieces of news, or a mere mood, perhaps, in what might be called a code. throughout sweden such songs and snatches and tunes, made up in olden days by some more than usually audacious village genius, survived until far into the past century, and in dalecarlia and a few neighbouring provinces they have survived to the present day in actual use. with the flaring up of a true historical interest that followed the romantic movement of the early nineteenth century came a recognition of the beauty and value of those old songs and tunes. the first man in sweden to make a systematic collection of them was richard dybeck, who, during the years 1842-50 published a periodical for lovers of the old which he called _runa_--"the rune." in 1846 the same man published a separate collection of the folk-material just referred to under the name of _svenska vallvisor och hornlåtar_--"swedish herd-songs and horn-melodies." both this little volume and the issues of "the rune" must have come under the attention of strindberg at an early period, and to both he remained strongly attached throughout life. in the pages of those two dybeck publications he found almost everything that makes "the bridal crown" what it is--a remarkable picture of the external life and internal spirit of the dalecarlian people. the musical duet between _kersti_ and _mats_ in the first scene is the basis of the whole play. it is found in dybeck's work just as strindberg has used it--both the music and the words. the legend has it that a young man and a young woman, herding cattle in adjoining pastures, fell in love with each other. the girl bore a child, which they nursed together as they best could, having tried to legitimise it by going through a simple wedding ceremony of their own improvisation. once, when the girl could not get back to the pasture at night, she used her alpenhorn to communicate that fact to her lover and ask him to look after the baby. this legend is found all over sweden in very slightly modified form. to the old legend strindberg has added the still more ancient montecchi and capuletti theme from "romeo and juliet," making the two lovers the offspring of mutually jealous and hostile families, and thereby giving the play the tragical twist which his mood required. how he was turned in this direction i don't know, but his work on the historical play, "gustavus vasa"--it was written in 1899, and "the bridal crown" seems to have been completed in the winter of 1900-1--had taken his mind to dalecarlia, where its first act is laid. and the idea of a play built on swedish folk-themes seems to have been long present in his mind. for folk-colour as well as for local verisimilitude, he drew freely both on dybeck and on other repositories of old swedish lore and legend and superstition. one of the beauties of the play is that so many of the extranatural figures and elements introduced are common to the whole country. the neck, or the man of the rapids, or the brookman (_necken, forskarlen_, or _bäckamannen_) exists in popular fancy wherever a peasant has put his plough into swedish soil. he is a creature of the thousand rivers and brooks that beribbon the land from the arctic circle down to the fertile planes of scania, and always he is associated with an unusual gift of music and with the fallen angel's longing for the lost paradise. from norrland to scania is told the anecdote of the tot who heard the neck sing the song used by strindberg--"i am hoping, i am hoping that my redeemer still liveth"--and who called out to him: "there is no redeemer for you." on returning home, the child told his parents of what had happened and was ordered to go back with a less discouraging message to the wailing spirit of the waters. the _midwife_, half human, half extranatural, is another familiar figure, mostly called the wood-imp (_skogsrå_). the queer snatches uttered by her from time to time are old swedish riddles or "guess-rhymes," which strindberg also found in dybeck's work, and which he has employed very effectively as spells or incantations. that quaint dualistic revenant, which is called the _mewler_ as an apparition, and the _mocker_ as a bodiless voice, exists in the imagination of the people all over sweden. it is a creation of the moral instinct, designed for the discouragement of poor maidens who have born a child "in hiding," as the old phrase puts it, and who may be tempted into ridding themselves of such a burden--a crime that has figured too frequently in the criminal annals of the country. the word _myling_, which i have had to translate as _mewler,_ is said to come from a verb meaning to kill, to choke, to bury, or to cover up. it is related to _mylla_, mould, however, and when we find the same term, _mylingar, mewlings_, applied to the relatives of _kersti_, this characterises them not as "murtherlings," as strindberg's german translator would have it, but as "mouldings," as people delving in the soil. in the original text, the name applied both to the apparition of _kersti's_ dead baby and to her relatives is the same. i have thought this too confusing for english-speaking readers, and have made two terms to get the needed dearness and distinction. it remains finally to say a word about the keystone to the whole dramatic conflict in the play--the desire of _kersti_ to wear a crown at her wedding--to be a "crown-bride," as the swedish phrase and the name of the original text both have it. the chief ornaments of a swedish bride have always been the crown, the wreath, and the veil--and so they are to this very day. the wreath is generally made out of myrtle. the crown is nowadays almost invariably made out of the same material. but it used to be of metal, richly ornamented, and kept ready for use in every country church throughout the land. it was another device meant to encourage morality, the convention being that only a chaste young woman could wear the crown at her wedding--only one "worthy" of it, as the old phrase had-it. to go to church without that ornament was, of course, a most humiliating confession, and tended to detract largely from the riotous joy of the festivity which the swedish peasants have always placed above all others--the wedding. originally the crown also served another purpose, however. it was, as i have already said, kept in the church and lent only with the sanction of the clergy. in other words, it was reserved for the bride whose relatives consented to have a church wedding at a time when the sacramental character of the ceremony had not yet become popularly recognised. for ages the swedish wedding was wholly a secular ceremony based on the old custom of bride-barter, and it took the catholic church many centuries to turn it into a religious rite. there are a few minor points that need some clearing up, too. the position of _kersti's_ father, the _soldier_, must be a puzzle to non-swedish readers. the presence of the picture of king charles xv on the wall of the _soldier's_ cottage indicates that the action takes place in the eighteen-sixties, before the reorganisation of the swedish army on the basis of universal conscription had been carried out. at that time each province had to furnish one or more regiments. the maintenance of this soldiery fell directly on the small landholders, and from two to ten of these formed a _rote_ or "file" having to employ, equip, and maintain one soldier. each soldier had a cottage and a small patch of soil furnished him by the men responsible for his up-keep. under such circumstances the soldier would seem likely to fall into the position of a servant living under his masters, but that was not at all the case. the warlike qualities and traditions of the nation probably counteracted tendencies in that direction. instead the soldier became one of the recognised honoratiores of his district, ranking next to the sexton and often filling the place of that functionary when the office was vacant. the use of the name of krummedikke in connection with the lake is a mystery i have not been able to clear up. the noble family of krummedige or krummedike belonged originally in the duchy of holstein, but moved from there into denmark and spread gradually into southern sweden and norway. during the period of sweden's union with denmark and norway two members of that family held the famous old fortress of baahus (now bohus) on behalf of the danish king. other members controlled fortified places in småland and the province of halland along the west coast of present sweden. but there is no record of any krummedike having a "castle" in the northern part of sweden. whether legends connected with this family have actually spread from southern sweden to dalecarlia or the name, simply happened to catch strindberg's fancy i cannot tell. the play in its entirety is one of the most impersonal strindberg ever wrote. echoes of his private life are very rare--which is remarkable, considering how plentiful they are in such a work as the historical drama "gustavus vasa." in this respect "the bridal crown" connects logically with strindberg's novels and stories from the islands outside of stockholm: "the people at hemsö," "fisher folks," and "at the edge of the sea." it seems that nothing helped more to take him out of himself and his morbid introspection than a study of the life of the common people. how successful he was in that study is indicated by the wide popularity of the novels and stories in question as well as by the stage history of "the bridal crown." this play has been one of the most frequently produced of all his dramatic works. the first performance took place on september 14, 1907, at the swedish theatre, stockholm, and since that time it has been played more than one hundred times in stockholm alone--which is a great deal in sweden. * * * * * the list of characters will suffice to indicate what a weird thing "the spook sonata" is. rarely has strindberg's peculiar fancy carried him further without bringing him to outright disaster. mingling extreme realism of portrayal with a symbolism that frequently borders on the extravagant and the impossible, he has nevertheless produced a work that bites into the consciousness of the reader and challenges his thought to an unusual degree. the best characterisation of the play as a whole might be to call it a symbolistic mosaic pieced together with fragments of real life. reminiscences of the author's own life in all its periods recur constantly, and yet the play cannot be called autobiographical in any narrow sense. not even its general tendency--if it can be said to have one--is particularly tied up with strindberg's view of his own fate. no, the play is in all its aspects a generalisation along the lines of "the dream play," but brought nearer to the level and superficial appearance of every-day life. one of its purposes is to illustrate the mysterious relationship between seemingly disconnected things and events which strindberg during his latest period was so prone to discover everywhere.--when in this super-swedenborgian mood, he was inclined to regard the slightest incident of daily life as a mere symbol meant to shadow or foreshadow vaster incidents on higher levels. it would be dangerous to accept his readings of life in this mood as so many formulations of truth, but, on the other hand, it would be unwise to discard them as meaningless. what must be remembered first and last in the study of strindberg's work is that he was primarily, if not wholly, a bearer of suggestions rather than of final truths. we cannot go to him for knowledge of what life actually is, but we may be sure of never reading one of his pages without finding some new angle of approach, the use of which will help our own thought to enlarge our knowledge of actual life. those who demand predigested thought will always be lost in the mazes of his irresponsible fancy. those who ask nothing more of literature than to be set thinking will always find him one of the most fruitful writers produced by modern times. for this very reason it would be futile to attempt any explanatory analysis of "the spook sonata." there must, in fact, be a separate analysis of that kind for every thinking reader. one may say, of course, that its name as well as the strange function which forms its central scene, points to an interpretation of all human life as a ghostly reflection of wasted and buried possibilities. but there is charity as well as bitterness in the play, and it seems to preach the lesson that we owe tolerance to every man but him who thinks himself better than the rest. it warns, too, against that interference with other lives which seems to have been one of the haunting spectres of strindberg's own existence. in other words, the play may be regarded as a final passionate expression of his will to live his own life in his own way and of his resentment against real or fancied efforts to balk i that will. dramatically this play is well worthy of study, it contains some points that, whether successful or no in this particular connection, should not be passed over by future playwrights. such a point, for instance, is the continued presence on the stage of several dumb characters during almost the entire first scene. i do not know whether it will come home to readers of the play that, while the conversation is going on between the _student_ and _old hummel_, for example, the _janitress_ and the _dark lady_ are all the time present in the background as living reminders of the secret threads of human life underlying the conflict between the two men that do the talking. and the idea of trying to render simultaneous portrayal of life within and without a human habitation has again been tried by strindberg in this play with very remarkable and suggestive results. there are several signs which indicate that strindberg changed his plan of the play while he was writing it. there is one character present on the list of characters in the swedish text that never appears--the _janitor_. on the other hand, that list does not contain the name of the _cook_, who plays such a strange part in the final scene--a sort of infernalised greek chorus with a japanese soy bottle for its dionysian emblem. the arrangement of the stage directions in the swedish original indicates, too, that he intended a single setting to serve for the whole play. he hoped probably to be able to let the action laid within the house be seen from the outside, but, warned by his strong sense of theatrical feasibility, he changed his plans unhesitatingly, and with them his scenery. several of the minor themes running through the play may to the reader seem not only minor but hopelessly trivial. i am thinking principally of the constantly recurring charge against servants that they take the nourishment out of food before serving it to their masters. this suspicion seems to have been one of strindberg's fixed ideas, occurring in almost every work where the relationship between masters and servants is at all mentioned. i think he has harped too much on this theme, both in "the spook sonata" and elsewhere. i think, too, that he is wrong in placing the responsibility with the servants. on the other hand, i think one of his services is that he works with modern science to bring us a better realisation of the dose interrelation between the material basis of our existences and the more important spiritual overtones. "the spook sonata" was written and published in 1907. it was played for the first time on january 27, 1908, at the intimate theatre, stockholm, reaching a total of twelve performances. * * * * * the little scene named "the first warning" is frankly autobiographical. it relates an actual incident from strindberg's first marriage, to which, i think, he makes reference in "a fool's confession"--a work, by the bye, which should really be named "a fool's plea" in english. in spite of sinister undertones, "the first warning" is distinctly a comedy, and practically the only short thing in a lighter vein written by strindberg. at first he named it "the first tooth," but he had adopted the present title before the original publication--with three other one-act plays--occurred, in 1893. in germany the play is known under the name "signs of autumn" (_herbstzeichen_). beginning on september 10, 1910, it was given eight times in all at the intimate theatre, stockholm, but long before that time it had been played a number of times on various german stages. * * * * * king gustavus i, founder of the vasa dynasty, which reigned over sweden until 1818, has rightly been called the "father" of his country and the builder of modern sweden. he finished the war of liberation, by which the hampering and unsatisfactory union between sweden and the other two scandinavian kingdoms was finally severed. but he did much more. he reorganised the whole country, in all its departments, on such a basis of efficiency that it became able to play the part of a great european power for more than a century. some have pictured him as a sort of superman. others have called him a mere country squire, applying the methods of stable and barn to a whole country. both those views of him are probably correct as well as incorrect. he was undoubtedly first of all an able and conscientious peasant on a large scale, but as such he was very much in place at a time when agriculture was the only source of income that could be called national. and his cares on behalf of commerce and mining show him to have had a very broad and foresighted view of husbandry. the figure of the first vasa took an early hold of strindberg's imagination. he introduced it in the first version of his first great play, "master olov." but there the king was a subordinate character--so much so, in fact, that he did not appear at all in the final metrical version of the play, completed in 1877. at that time strindberg was more interested in _master olov_, the dreaming idealist who placed religious reform above political and economical reorganisation. when, in 1899, he returned to "old king gustav," his interest had shifted, and in this play, said to be his greatest historical drama--and one of the greatest of its kind in the annals of modern literature--the royal figure dominates absolute. when i first contemplated a translation of this play i feared it would be necessary to preface it with a condensed history of sweden during the early sixteenth century. having finished my task, i find that an elaborate historical introduction would merely be a duplication of the work done by the playwright. barring a few minor points that have been illuminated by notes, all the history needed for the understanding of the play will be found within the play itself. the truth of the matter is that strindberg was not writing history but poetry, and that he was more anxious to portray human character than to set forth all too familiar historical events. he portrayed his main character in more than one way and sense, however. the _king_, as we find him in the drama, is a wonderfully vivid and faithful reconstruction of a great man that has writ himself in large letters on the map of his country. but he is also a symbolisation of a type that will always remain one of the most fascinating of all that people the earth: that of the ruler who is conscious both his mission and of the price that must be paid for its fulfilment. the problem of strindberg's play might be said to be this: granted such a mission, how much has a man the right to pay for its proper fulfilment? and as behoves a poet strindberg has brought this problem to no triumphant "q.e.d." his ambiguous, yet tremendously significant, answer seems to be: "such a man has the right to do whatever his mission demands, even though it may go against his grain as an individual, but he must be humble about it and not confuse himself with providence." _gustavus_ is humbled and made to suffer, not because of this or that act, but because of an inclination to consider his own mission the only one in sight. a few words need to be said about the chronology of the play. in accordance with his theories in regard to historical playwriting strindberg has dealt very freely with dates and facts. the play occupies a period of about two years, which length of time separates the first act from the four last. these take place within a few days. the historical events that enter as material into the play were spread over nearly twenty years, and strindberg has not hesitated to introduce them in reversed order either. this license must be considered in the light of what i have already said about his intentions. his main concern was to show how the principal character would act under certain given circumstances, and to use those circumstances in the manner most apt to throw light on the character in question. and in this respect he has undoubtedly been successful. the swedes think so, at least. "gustavus vasa" has drawn grudging approval from strindberg's worst enemies among his own countrymen. the first performance of the play, which took place on october 17, 1899, at the swedish theatre, stockholm, turned at the time into a national event. the play has since then been revived several times, particularly in connection with the celebration of its author's sixtieth and sixty-third birthday anniversaries, in 1909 and 1912. in all, the play has been performed about one hundred times in stockholm alone, and it has been given on several german stages with striking success. * * * * * a word should be said concerning the spelling of swedish names used in this volume. it can hardly be called a system at all. it is neither swedish nor english. it is a frank compromise, designed exclusively to make the reading of the plays as easy as possible to english-speaking readers. some time in the future, when the knowledge of the scandinavian literatures and languages has reached a more advanced stage in this country, i should like to see a revised edition with the original swedish spelling of all names preserved throughout. the bridal crown (kronbruden) a folk-play in six scenes 1902 characters mats kersti _the_ mother _of_ kersti _the_ soldier, _her father_ _the_ verger, _her grandfather_ brita, _the grown-up sister of_ mats _the_ grandfather } _the_ grandmother } _the_ father } _of_ mats _the_ mother } anna } lit-karen } _younger sisters of_ mats lit-mats, _the small brother of_ mats _the_ sheriff _the_ pastor _the_ fisherman _the_ midwife _the_ neck _the_ child in white _the_ mewler (_mylingen_), _an apparition_ _the_ mocker (_skratten_), _a voice_ _the_ headsman mats's relatives, _called the_ mill-folk kersti's relatives, _called the_ mewlings (_mylingarne_) four bridesmaids six servant-girls two fiddlers two soldiers scenario scene i. the hill pasture scene ii. the family council at the mill scene iii. the soldier's house on the eve of the wedding scene iv. the wedding at the mill scene v. at the church: the penance of kersti scene vi. on the ice of the lake first scene _a hill pasture in dalecarlia. a hut of rough-hewn boards, painted red, stands at the left. beside it grow two birches with trunks that are white clear down to the ground_. _on the right-hand side appears a sloping hillside covered with spruces. the hillside is cut by a large brook forming a waterfall. at the foot of it is a tarn covered by water-lilies. the background shows a big lake bordered by blue hills. a church is visible across the lake_. _a grindstone set in a wooden frame stands in the foreground by the corner of the hut_. _it is sunday evening, about sunset time_. kersti's mother _sits on a wooden block outside the hut, smoking her pipe_. kersti _enters with an alpenhorn in her hand. she stops in front of her_ mother. mother. where have you been all this time, daughter? kersti. in the woods, mother. mother. picking strawberries, i suppose. your lips are so red. kersti. why did you call me, mother? mother. the woods were full of noises, child, and of stealthy footfalls. could it be the bear? kersti. can't tell. mother. i thought i heard the strokes of an axe, but maybe i was mistaken. kersti. the bear uses no axe, mother. mother. why dressed up in your best, daughter? kersti. it's sunday, mother. mother. there is milk on your tucker, child. have you been milking may-dew or starbright? kersti. could i but milk the stars--and the moon, o! mother. while it's night, o! kersti. day and night! mother. night and day!--yes, i know! beware of the bear! kersti. do you think he would tear my pet cow? mother. have you lost her? kersti. shall i ask anna? mother. you had better! kersti. [_picks up her alpenhorn and sounds a melody; see musical appendix, melody no_. 1. _then she sings; see melody no_. 2] "too-la-loo, ann at boorness! do you see my cosset cow over there at your place?" mats. [_answering from a distance in a dear tenor voice; see musical appendix, melody no_. 3] "too-la-loo, so i do. come at once: cosset cow is here now!" mother. what a deep voice anna has got! kersti. she has been calling her cows since the sun began to set. mother. what do you hear down there in the valley, child? kersti. the big bell of the cow, the low bell of the goat.... mother. oh, no! kersti. i can hear the cock crowing and the dog barking, the gun banging and the cart clanking, and the oars saying "duck-duck" in the rowlocks. mother. whose cock do you mean, and whose dog? kersti. the miller's. mother. what's his name? is it anna? kersti _looks embarrassed and does not answer_. mother. what do you see down there in the valley? kersti. the water-wheel in the mill-race, the smoke from the chimney.... mother. whose chimney? the mill-folk's, i suppose? kersti. it's growing dark, mother. mother. i _am_ going--before it grows still darker! [_she rises to her feet_] this has been the longest sunday in all my life!--what kind of a smell is that? kersti. i smell the woods; i smell the cattle; i smell the hay. mother. no, it was tattle-berries you were picking! [_for a while she stands still, lost in thought; then she sings; see musical appendix, melody no_. 4] "the joy that was mine has been turned into woe!" kersti. it is growing dark, mother! mother. so i see, daughter mine. the darkness is coming down on us heavy as a pall, and downward goes my path now--ever downward! but you must stay to watch the curds. and trust me to see if you let the fire go out. kersti. trust me to see that the fire won't go out, mother. mother. good night, then. and don't forget your evening prayers! kersti. good night, mother. mother. "the joy that was mine has been turned into woe!" don't forget your evening prayers! [_she goes out to the left_. kersti _opens the door of the hut. a big pot is seen hanging over the fire, on which she puts more wood; coming out again, she looks around to make sure that her mother is gone; then she picks up the alpenhorn and sounds another wordless melody on it. [see musical appendix, melody no_. 5.] mats. [_is heard singing outside, on the right-hand side; see musical appendix, melody no_. 6] "kersti dearest, kersti dearest, baby sleeps in the forest." kersti. [_answers in the same way; see melody no_. 7] "dillery-dell! fareth he well, fareth he well far in the forest?" mats. [_answers as before; see melody no_. 8] "nothing to fear! nothing to fear! baby sleeps in his cradle here, far, far, in the forest!" kersti. [_singing; see melody no_. 9] "haste to the house and milk the cows, and see that baby lacks nothing. i cannot come, must stay at home, helping my folks with the baking." mats. [_answers as before; see melody no_. 10] "birches nod in the blowing breeze, but baby slumbers in perfect peace, kersti, kersti, dearest!" _a strong wind springs up. the centre of the stage grows dark, but the sun is still shining on the tops of spruces on the hillside_. _very faintly at first, then more and more clearly, the yells and cries of a gang of game beaters are heard. these are followed by the snapping of branches, the baying of hounds, the trampling of horses in trot and gallop, the cracking of guns, the snarling of rattles, the crashing of trees that fall, and, above all, the constantly rising roar of the waterfall_. _finally a canon is sounded by ten hunting-horns, the first horn repeating its theme while the rest join in one by one. [see musical appendix, melody no_. 11.] _badly frightened_, kersti _stands staring in every direction while the noise lasts. when it has died away in the distance and the woods are silent again, she brings bunches of spruce branches and spreads them on the ground, covering them at last with a brightly coloured rag carpet. next she fetches two young spruce-trees that have been stripped of branches and bark, so that only their tops remain green. these she places beside the door of the hut, one on either side. then she goes to the tarn and picks a number of white water-lilies, which she binds into a wreath_. mats _enters from the left, carrying a baby in a cradle of leather with straps attached to it_. kersti. baby, baby darling! is he still asleep? mats. indeed he is! kersti. bring him here, and we'll let the trees rock him. _they hang the cradle between the two birches that are swayed gently by the wind_. kersti. [_humming_] "birches nod in the blowing breeze, but baby slumbers in perfect peace.".... did you hear the hunt, mats? mats. no hunt at this time of day, girl! kersti. but i heard it! mats. hardly!--what did your mother have to say? kersti. she bothered me until i thought she would bother the life out of me. mats. yes, dear, there can be no peace or happiness for us until our union has been hallowed and our baby baptised. kersti. as long as the old folk resist there can be no wedding. but we must pray the lord to bless our union before we give baby a name. mats. so we have agreed, and now it may as well be done. kersti. everything is ready, as you see. mats. it's well done, but--we're a sorry couple for all that, and a sorry wedding we're having. kersti. let the lord look into our minds and hearts, and if they hold no evil--what matters the rest? have you brought the book? mats. i have. but are you sure, dear, that what we mean to do is not sinful? kersti. why should it be? don't you know that the midwife can baptise in case of need? mats. well, that's the midwife! kersti. [_putting the wreath on her head_] let us begin! mats. in the name of the lord! and may we never come to regret it! [_they kneel on the carpet, facing each other_; mats _takes out a ring, which they hold between them while he is reading out of the prayer-book_] "i, mats anders larsson, take you, kersti margaret hansdaughter, to be my wedded wife, whom i will love in good days and bad, and in token thereof i give you this ring." kersti. "i, kersti margaret hansdaughter, take you, mats anders larsson, to be my wedded husband, whom i will love in good days and bad, and in token thereof i give you this ring." _they pray in silence for a while; then they rise and take hold of each other's hands, but they do not kiss each other_. mats. now you are mine in the sight of god, dear, and after this we won't mind what people may say. kersti. that remains to be seen. mats. and what have we to eat, dear. kersti. nothing at all, mats. mats. then there is nothing left but to smoke. _they seat themselves on two small, three-legged stools and we flint and steel to light their pipes_. mats. [_when they have smoked a while in silence_] what was that you said about the hunt just now? kersti. i haven't the heart to tell, mats. i haven't the heart since i guessed what folk they were. mats. better not, maybe!... look at the cradle--going as if it could rock itself. kersti. that's the wind, mats; the wind in the birches. mats. but there is no wind in the spruces over there. kersti. so i see. surely the evil ones are abroad to-night. mats. don't talk of them! kersti. do you see my smoke going northward? mats. and mine southward! kersti. the gnats are dancing.... mats. which means a wedding.... kersti. do you think we are happier now? mats. hardly! kersti. do you hear the cry of the blackcock? mats. a sure sign of wedding.... kersti. but not a single church bell to be heard mats. it's sunday, and the ringing during the day has made them tired what shall we call the little one? kersti. [_in wild rebellion_] burden and ill-luck and un-asked and crown-thief.... mats. why crown-thief? kersti. because and because and because even if we get a real wedding, i can wear no crown! what should he be called? bride-spoil, mother-woe, forest-find! mats. badly fares who badly does! kersti. yes, that's for you to say! _the_ mother _of_ kersti _appears on the hillside among the spruces and stands looking at_ mats _and her daughter_. mats. there are evil eyes about! kersti. and evil thoughts.... what you brew i have to drink. what you grind i have to bake. _the_ mother _disappears_. mats. can you tell what made our families hate each other so fiercely? kersti. it had to do with land--with bought favours, and ill-gotten gains, and corrupt judges, and--everything that's bad, bad, bad! mats. and then the hatred turned into liking, love, lust.... kersti. all of it poisoned.... mats. how dark it turns when the hatred breaks through! kersti. [_throwing her wreath into the tarn_] well may you say so! the devil take the wreath, as i can't have a crown.... mats. don't say that! kersti. we hold wedding like beggars, and rascals, and roving folk.... what is it you cannot eat or drink, but that tastes good for all that? it's tobacco--and that's all you get for a wedding-feast! the fire under the kettle is going out, mats. go and fetch some wood. it's all the dancing there will be. mats. if tokens tell the truth, you were born to be a queen! kersti. maybe! surely not to milk the cows! mats. and the baby, the baby, the dear little thing! kersti. the poor dear! oh, what will become of us? what can be in store for us? get some wood, mats! mother will beat me if the milk doesn't curdle. go, mats! mats. there was a time when you served my father, kersti, and now it's my turn to serve you. because he was harsh to you, i'll be good to you! kersti. yes, mats, you are good, but i am not. if i only were! mats. try to be! kersti. try to be bad, mats, and we'll see if you can. mats. you don't mean it! kersti. who can tell?--get away from here, mats, and hurry up! somebody is coming. i know her steps. it's mother! mats. your mother?--and how about the baby? kershi. [_picks up the carpet and throws it across the cradle; then she takes her sheepskin coat that has been hanging on the outside wall of the hut and spreads it on top of the carpet_] go, go, go! mats. be careful about baby--be careful now! [_he goes out_. kersti. of course, of course! mother. [_entering from the left_] was it anna that was here? kersti. it was. mother. [_looking hard at_ kersti] and she left when i came?--what a voice she has! kersti. yes, has she not? mother. and she cut the wedding poles, too, and spread the spruce? kersti. what is strange about that? mother. [_pulling_ kersti _by the hair_] storyteller, hussy, strumpet.... kersti. [_raising her hand against her_ mother] take care! mother. will you lay hand on your own mother, you trull? is that what mats has been teaching you? his father drove us from house and home, and now you take the son in your arms, daughter mine.... o! kersti. that such things can be said.... o! mother. [_pointing to the cradle_] what have you there? kersti. clothes to be aired. mother. small ones, i guess. kersti. not so very. mother. and inside the cradle? kersti. small wash--not for small ones. mother. the child is there! kersti. what child? mother. yours! kersti. there is no such thing! mother. will you swear? kersti. i swear! may the neck get me if i lie! mother. you shouldn't swear by the evil one. kersti. i will swear by no one else! mother. [_seating herself_] there is talk in the village. kersti. indeed? mother. a queer sort of talk. kersti. no, really? mother. they say that mats is to have the mill. kersti [_rising_] is it true? mother. as true as it is that rashness always gets into trouble. kersti. so mats gets the mill? then he will marry, i guess? mother. they talk of that, too. kersti. whom do you think? mother. whoever it be that his fancy will take--the crown she must surely be able to wear. kersti. oh! mother. oh, indeed!--there is gold on your finger. kersti. there is. mother. are you pledged? kersti. i am. mother. and the crown? [kersti _does not reply_] have you lost it? kersti. [_walking back and forth restlessly_] you know, it was foretold that i should wear a crown. mother. stuff and nonsense! a virgin's crown is more beautiful than a queen's. and happy is she who wears it with honour! kersti. oh! mother. and oh, indeed!--little we had. wrong we suffered. badly we fared. alas the day! kersti. little we had, but shall have plenty! luck is near! mother. race against race, hating and hated; fire and water: now it's coming to a boil. kersti. water may cool what the fire has heated. all will be well! mother. [_rising to leave_] "the joy that was mine has been turned into woe." [_she goes toward the right_] there is a wreath floating on the water--where's the crown? [_she goes out_. kersti. it will come, it will come! neck. [_appears at the foot of the falls surrounded by a bright, white light; he wears a red cap, and a silvery tunic fastened about the waist with a green sash; he is young and fair, with blond hair that is falling down his back; he has a fiddle of gold with a bow of silver, and plays to his own singing; see musical appendix, melody no_. 12] "i am hoping, i am hoping that my redeemer still liveth." kersti. [_who has been lost in thought, becomes aware of the_ neck; _when he has repeated his song twice, she remarks sneeringly_] there is no redeemer for you, i can tell you! _the_ neck _pauses for a while and looks sadly at her; then he repeats the same song twice again_. kersti. if you'll keep quiet i'll let you play at my wedding. _the_ neck _nods assent and vanishes into the rock behind the falls_. midwife. [_enters from behind the hut wearing a wide hack cloak and a close-fitting black hood; she carries a bag under her cloak, and she is very careful never to let her back be seen_] good evening, my dear. i hope my visit is not inconvenient. kersti. you are the midwife--mrs. larsson--are you not? midwife. of course, i am. it was i that helped you, my dear.... kersti. oh, yes; but you promised never to speak of it. midwife. and we won't! how--is the little one doing? kersti. [_impatiently_] oh, well enough! midwife. better not be too impatient, dear.... kersti. who says i am? midwife. the snappy voice and the tap of the little foot! but now there is gold on your finger, i see. then i shall be asked to a wedding shortly, i think. kersti. you? midwife. i am always at the baptism, but can never get to a wedding--and i think it would be such fun! kersti. no doubt it would! midwife. of all human virtues, there is one i value above the rest.... kersti. i don't suppose it is chastity. midwife. what no one has, is beyond value. that which i put value on is gratitude. kersti. you were paid, were you not? midwife. there are services that money can't pay. kersti. and people you cannot get rid of. midwife. exactly, my dear, and of those i am one.... kersti. so i find. midwife. and there is another, kersti. who can that be? midwife. the sheriff! kersti. [_startled_] the sheriff? midwife. yes, the sheriff. he is a very remarkable man, and i have heard of no one who knows the law as he does, from cover to cover.... you and i could never get all that into our heads, but--there is one chapter i have to know by heart, being a midwife.... and a most remarkable chapter it is, with a most remarkable number of paragraphs.... what's the matter? kersti. [_agitated_] tell me what you know. midwife. nothing at all i am nothing but a poor old woman who has come here to get lodging for the night.... kersti. lodging here? midwife. right here. kersti. begone! midwife. i can't be walking the woods in the dark of the night. kersti. [_threatening her with a stick_] if you won't walk, i'll make you run. midwife. [_moving back a couple of steps without turning about_] have we got that far now? you had better leave the stick alone, or.... kersti. or what? midwife. the sheriff, of course, and that chapter i spoke of.... kersti [_with the stick raised for a blow_] go to the devil, you cursed witch! [_the stick breaks into small pieces_. midwife. ha-ha! ha-ha! kersti. [_picks up the flint and steel, and strikes fire_] in the name of christ and his passion, get thee gone! midwife. [_turns and runs out with the galloping movement of a wild thing; her back, which then becomes visible, looks like that of a fox and ends in a sweeping, bushy tail; she hisses rather than speaks_] we'll meet at the wedding, bid or unbid! and the sheriff, too! ad-zee! ad-zee! ad-zee! kersti _takes a few faltering steps in direction of the tarn, as if she meant to throw herself into the water_. _then she begins to walk up and down in front of the cradle. after a while she takes off the round dalecarlian jacket she is wearing and puts it on top of the clothing already covering the cradle. finally she sits down on one of the stools by the corner of the hut and buries her face in her hands_. _the grindstone begins to whirl with a hissing sound. little bells, like those worn by goats, are heard ringing in the woods. little white flames appear among the spruces on the hillside. cow-bells are heard dose by. the_ neck _appears as before and sings the same song_. kersti _rises horror-stricken and stands like a statue_. _tones like those produced by a harmonica are heard from the tarn. unseen by_ kersti, _the_ child in white _emerges from among the water-lilies and goes to the cradle. then all sounds die out. the grindstone comes to a stop. the_ neck _disappears. all the will-o'-the-wisps but one go out_. _still unseen by_ kersti, _the_ child in white _rocks the cradle gently, puts his ear dose to it, and draws back with an expression of great sadness. at last he bursts into tears and covers his face with one arm. during this scene the beltlike tones from the tarn continue_. _the_ child in white _picks several water-lilies to pieces and strews them on the cradle, which he finally kisses before he descends into the tarn again. then the last will-o'-the-wisp disappears and the harmonica can no longer be heard_. midwife. [_enters again, carrying her bag so that it can be seen_] perhaps i shall be more welcome this time. does the fair maiden care to see the midwife now? kersti. what do you bring? midwife. [_taking a bridal crown from her bag_] this! kersti. what do you take? midwife. [_pointing toward the cradle_] "you see it, i see it, the whole world sees it, and yet it is not there."[1] kersti. take it, then! midwife. [_goes to the cradle_] i have it. [_she takes stealthily something from the cradle and drops it into her bag, which she then hides under her cloak again_] can i come to the wedding now? kersti. yes, come. midwife. you must say that i'll be welcome. kersti. that would be a lie. midwife. you must practise.... kersti. welcome, then--if you'll only leave me now! midwife. [_withdrawing backwards_] "four that whirl and twirl; eight that hurl and purl; four that flip-flap in a row; four that question where to go."[2] [_she disappears_. mats. [_is heard singing triumphantly outside; see musical appendix, melody no_. 13] "come, cosset, cosset, cosset; come, cosset, cosset!" _as_ kersti _hears him a happy look comes into her face, and she seems to swell with pride and new courage_. mats _enters, with an armful of wood, looking joyful_. kersti. [_going to meet him_] did you see anybody? mats. i did!--now for the wedding! [_he dumps the wood into the hut_] let the kettle boil over--i am boiling, too. kersti. was it your father? mats. father and mother. and i get the mill! kersti. [_showing her crown_] do you see what i...? mats. where did you get it? kersti. mother brought it for me. mats. has she been here? kersti. happy as anything! mats. but the baby, the baby! kersti. sit down, mats! sit down! you know i can always find a way! mats. [_seating himself_] but the baby! kersti. there now!--listen! now, when trouble is on the wane and life is smiling, don't you think a little patience might carry us very far.... mats. if only the course be straight.... kersti. of course, straight and short. mats. what are you after? kersti. if the big fish is to be hooked, the small ones must be overlooked. mats. can't you talk plainly? kersti. wait a little! mats. i am waiting. kersti. the old folks make conditions. mats. yes, i know. kersti. they want a croton bride. what does that mean if not a bride that wears a crown? mats. and wears it with honour! kersti. with or without! what no one sees and no one knows does not exist. mats. let me think. [_he sits silent for a few moments_] all right! and furthermore? kersti. to hook what's big, you must overlook what's less. mats. which does not mean the little one! kersti. do you mean to prove false? mats. i don't! not to you, kersti! kersti. suppose now--the banns have been read, the wedding is under way, but the little one sleeps in the forest. who will haste to the house, and milk the cows, and see that baby lacks nothing? who, i ask? mats. well may you ask! [_he broods a while_] if we only dared.... what was that you said? kersti. not a word. mats. it seems to me.... if we only dared.... kersti. what? say it! mats. say it yourself! kersti. no, it's for you! mats. somebody must take care of the little one. kersti. who? mats. there is only one. kersti. then it's easy to guess who! mats. tell whom you mean. kersti. no, you must tell. mats. beside ourselves, there is only one who knows about the baby. kersti. who is that? mats. if you know, why don't you tell? kersti. because i want you to tell. mats. it's the midwife. was that what you said? kersti. i said nothing, but you did--and, as you know, i do what you say. mats. i have my doubts. kersti. but what you said i have done already. the baby can't stay in the woods. it must have shelter when the nights grow cold. and if anything should happen, then comes--the sheriff! mats. the sheriff, you say? yes, so he does! kersti. [_leaping to her feet_] is he coming, you say? mats. yes, if something should happen.... well, where's the midwife to be found? kersti. would you like to call her? mats. i wish she were here! kersti. and what do you want her to do? mats. give the baby a home. kersti. with whom? mats. with herself. kersti. for how long? mats. till the wedding is over. kersti. but if he were taken sick while with her? mats. better than have him freeze in the woods--better than have him freeze to death! take a look at the cradle. i think i heard him! kersti. no, he's asleep.... mats. hush--i heard him. kersti. no, you didn't! mats. yes, i did. [_he rises_. kersti. [_placing herself in front of the cradle_] don't you wake him! if he should cry, somebody might hear. mats. oh.... do you think any one has--that your mother may have heard him? oh, kersti, we should never have done what we have! kersti. undone were better! mats. [_dejectedly_] we must take him to the midwife to-night. i must go to the village. kersti. i'll take him! mats. [_going to the cradle_] do! kersti. but don't wake him! mats. can't i bid him good night? kersti. don't touch him! mats. think if i should never see him again! kersti. then it would be the will of him whose will we cannot change. mats. his will be done! kersti. now you have said it! mats. what have i said that could please you like that? kersti. that--that--you submit to the will of him that performeth all things. mats. [_simply_] yes, whatever may happen is his will, of course. kersti. of course! mats. good night, then, kersti dear, and good night, baby! [_he goes out_. kersti. good night, mats. kersti _loosens the empty cradle from its fastenings and drops it into the tarn, from the waters of which the_ child in white _rises to threaten her with raised forefinger. at the sight of him_ kersti _shrinks back._ neck. [_appears in the same spot as before, but now bareheaded and carrying a golden harp, on which he accompanies himself; he has a threatening look as he sings; see musical appendix, melody no_. 20] "stilled are the waters, dark grows the sky: dark grows the sky. once in the world of the ages i lived, blessed by the sun. gone is the light, conquered by night. deep is my sin, black as the tarn. joy there is none; plenty of woe. torture and shame must i name my abode: o!" _while the_ neck _is singing_, kersti _hides the bridal crown in the hid. then she puts out the fire under the pot. as she does so, the smoke pours in large quantities from the chimney, forming a dark background against which appear fantastically shaped and vividly coloured snakes, dragons, birds, etc_. _when_ kersti _comes out of the hut again, she has on a short dalecarlian jacket and is carrying a bag and the alpenhorn. she locks the door of the hut and walks across the stage with proud bearing and firm steps just as the_ neck _is singing the last line_. _curtain_. [1] old swedish folk-riddle, the real solution of which is: the horizon. [2] an old swedish folk-riddle, the answer of which is: a carriage. the four lines describe respectively: (1) the wheels; (2) the hoofs of the horses; (3) their ears; (4) their eyes. second scene _the living-room of the mill. everything is covered by white dust. in the background, on the right-hand side, is an open trap-door, showing part of the water-wheel. the end of the flour chute, with a bag attached to it, is protruding from the right wall not far from the trap-door. near it appears a lever used for starting and stopping the water-wheel._ _large gates occupy the centre of the real wall. heavy wooden shutters dose another opening farther to the left and half-way from the floor_. _in the foreground, at the right, is a huge open fireplace, in which a coal-fire is burning. an iron pot is hanging over the fire. on the left-hand side appear a bedstead, a hand-loom, a bobbin, a red, and a spinning-wheel. there is a door in the right wall_. _the following members of the family are seated in a circle in front of the fireplace: the_ grandfather; _the_ grandmother; _the_ father _and_ mother _of_ mats; _his sisters_, brita, _who is full-grown_, anna, _who is half-grown, and_ lit-karen, _who is still a child; and his brother_, lit-mats, _who is also a mere boy. all are smoking out of small pipes with iron bowls and looking very serious_. brita _is plaiting a chain out of human hair_. lit-karen _and_ lit-mats _are playing with two dolls_. brita. [_to_ lit-karen] where did you get the doll? lit-karen. kersti gave it to me. brita. [_taking the doll from her_] away with it! [_to_ lit-mats] where did you get your doll? lit-mats. kersti gave it to me. brita. [_taking the doll_] out with it! father. hush! hush! grandfather is thinking. [_silence_. mother. [_to_ brita] what are you doing? brita. a watch-chain, but there is hardly hair enough. mother. where can you get any? brita. i know where it ought to be pulled. mother. horses pull. brita. hens are picked, pigs give bristles, and maidens are combed.--combed hair is good, but cut is better. father. hush, hush, grandfather is thinking. [_silence_. anna. [_in a low voice to_ brita] what is he thinking of? brita. you'll hear by and by. and all will have to swallow. anna. is it about mats? [brita _makes no answer_] and kersti? will there be a wedding? father. hush, hush, grandfather is thinking. [_silence_. anna. [_to_ brita] i'll give you some of my hair. brita. not the right colour. anna. who's got it? [brita _does not answer_] is it kersti you mean? brita. don't mention her. [_silence_. grandmother. [_to_ grandfather] have you thought it out? grandfather. [_who has been sitting with the bible and the hymn-book in his lap, lost in thought, wakes up_] i have! [_he opens the hymn-book at haphazard and says to the others_] it is no. 278, the fourth verse: "all at birth and death." let us have it! all. [_read in unison like children at school_] "all at birth and death are equals, as the graveyard bones proclaim, poor and rich and low and mighty in the end appear the same; and the naked new-born baby brings no evidence to prove whether poverty or fortune will attend its fated groove." grandfather. it is settled! "he that hath an ear, let him hear."--is it settled? grandmother. not yet. father. not quite. mother. the lord beholdeth! brita. what does the scripture, say? anna. "doth god pervert judgment, or doth the almighty pervert justice?" lit-karen. what do you want me to say? grandfather. you must give us your advice, child, although we may not take it. out of the mouth of babes may come the truth.... shall kersti have mats? lit-karen. if they want each other. grandfather. well spoken! [_to_ lit-mats] and you, lit-mats? lit-mats. [_with his fingers in his mouth_] i want my doll! grandfather. and mats wants his. shall he have her? lit-mats. if it is kersti, he may, for she gave me the doll. brita. listen to him! grandfather. let us search the scripture. [_he opens the bible and reads_] genesis, thirty-fourth chapter and eighth verse. "and hamor communed with them, saying, the soul of my son shechem longeth for your daughter: i pray you give her him to wife." is that enough? grandmother. enough and to spare! father. there wasn't anything about the mill. mother. let his will be done! brita. [_abruptly_] amen. anna. verily, it shall be done! lit-karen. i like kersti because she's nice. lit-mats. me, too! father. hush, hush, grandfather is thinking. [_silence_. grandfather. [_to_ father] ask your brother-in-law to come in. _the_ father _goes to the door in the background, where he stops_. grandfather. [_goes to the bed, pulls a box from under it, takes a bundle of papers from the box, and turns to the_ father _again_] let him come! father. [_opening the door in the background_] come in, stig matsson. sheriff. [_enters, dressed in uniform_] the peace of god be with you! all. [_rising_] and his blessing on you! grandfather. it is i who have called you, stig matsson, and you know the reason. kersti margaret hansdaughter--[_he sighs_]--is to become the wife of mats anders larsson, my grandson. the two families have fought and fumed at each other for a long time--all too long! at this late hour i have come to feel that an end should be put to all strife and ill will before my eyes are closed and i am carried to my last rest. take a look at these papers. [_he hands the bundle to the_ sheriff, _who opens it and glances at some of the papers_] they are legal documents, deeds, wills, receipts, authorisations--belonging to suits that have been settled or are still unsettled. have you looked them over? sheriff. i have. grandfather. [_takes back the bundle_] all right! then i shall throw them into the fire. there is a time to hate and a time to love. the time of hatred must come to an end i am longing for peace. therefore, i beg you, my next of kin, to regard all that has happened in the past as if it had not happened at all--and i ask you: will you forget everything, and will you meet your new relatives without grudge or guile, and greet them as friends? answer me! all. we will! grandfather. then i shall let the fire consume what is left of past evils. [_he throws the bundle of papers into the fire, pulls the iron lid in front of the grate, and opens three small ventilators in the lid_] let us be seated! _all seat themselves in front of the fireplace, staring at the red glare from the three ventilators_. anna. [_to_ brita, _in a low voice_] do you hear it sing? brita. no, it moans. and within me it's aching! _the_ grandfather _rises. then all the rest follow his example_. grandfather. [_to the_ father] bring them in! _the_ father _goes to the door at the right and brings in_ mats. _the_ mother _goes to the door in the rear and opens it_. kersti _enters, accompanied by her_ mother, _her father, the_ soldier, _who is wearing the old full-dress uniform of the swedish infantry of the line, and her grandfather, the_ verger. grandfather. may god bless you! and be seated, please! _all seat themselves except_ mats, kersti, _and the_ sheriff. mats _has taken hold of_ kersti _by both hands. long silence_. grandfather. when is the wedding to be? mats. in a fortnight, as soon as the banns have been read the third time. grandfather. what is the hurry? kersti _shows evidence of being offended_. mats. haven't we waited long enough? grandfather. maybe you have! mats. [_to his relatives_] have you no word to say to kersti? [_pause_] not one of you? sheriff. [_goes to_ kersti _and takes her by the hands with evident friendliness_] let us welcome the new child! _panic-stricken_, kersti _tries to tear herself loose_. sheriff. you are not afraid of me, are you?--oh, no!--look me in the face, kersti. i have dandled you on my knees when you were a little child, and i have held your pretty head in my hands.... yes, you have a very pretty head, and a forehead that makes me think of a bull. that's why you are having your own way now, i suppose. [_he lets go of her_. grandfather. let us leave the young ones alone! _alt rise, walk past_ mats _and_ kersti, _and disappear through the door in the rear_. brita. [_who is the last to leave, spits scornfully as she passes_ kersti] fie! mats. [_spitting in the same way_] fie yourself! kersti _and_ mats _are left alone_. mats. i hope you will feel at home with me, kersti! kersti. with you, yes! mats. what have you to do with the others? kersti. that's the question. mats. you are not marrying the family. kersti. but into it. mats. of course, we are not very soft or cuddlesome. kersti. that's plain.... is this the place where we are to live? mats. yes, what do you think of it? kersti. everything is white.... mats. it's the flour, you see. do you object? kersti. and damp.... mats. it's the mill-race.... kersti. and cold, too.... mats. it's the water.... kersti. shall we have new furniture? mats. there will be nothing new. everything is handed down from one generation to another. kersti. but we can sweep, can't we? mats. no, we can't! the dust in a mill is like the coating in a pipe. mustn't be touched! kersti. is that the wheel? mats. that's the wheel. _he pulls the lever, whereupon the rushing of the water through the race is heard, and the wheel begins to turn_. kersti. ugh! have we to listen to that noise? mats. it's ours! and we should be thankful as long as we hear it, because that means we have grist for the mill. kersti. and the sun never gets here? mats. never! how could it? kersti. and nothing grows here--except that green stuff on the wheel. mats. but we catch eels here and lampreys. kersti. ugh! i like it better in the pasture, where the wind is blowing.... mats. and the birches rock.... kersti. [_covering her face with the apron and weeping_] must i live in a place like this, beneath the water, at the bottom of the sea? mats. i was born here. kersti. and here we are to die--o! mats. why "o"? kersti. stop the wheel at least. mats. well, if you can't get along with the wheel, then.... kersti. [_opening a trap-door in the floor_] what's down here? mats. the river. kersti. please stop that wheel! mats. [_labours with the lever, but is unable to stop the wheel]_ well! there must be mischief abroad!--it won't stop! kersti. i shall die here! mats. i must go outside to stop it! there is mischief abroad, i tell you! kersti. and at home? mats. oh, dear! kersti. "meow, said the cat."[1] mats. what is the matter? kersti. merely that i have got what i wanted. mats. and it was not worth having? [_the noise made by the wheel has become, deafening, and the wheel itself has begun to turn in the opposite direction_] christ jesus, help! the wheel is turning backward! [_he runs out through the rear door_. kersti _remains alone_. _the handloom starts. the bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel begin to turn, each one in its own manner. the stage becomes brightly illumined as if with sunlight. then the room turns very dark. the fireplace swings around so that the glare from the ventilators confronts_ kersti _like three burning eyes. it looks as if the fireplace were chasing her. then it drops back into its accustomed place. the roar of the water-wheel increases again. the_ neck _appears in the wheel with the red cap on his head, and the golden fiddle in his hand. be sings and plays as before, repeating the brief tune several times_. neck. "i am hoping, i am hoping, that my redeemer still liveth!" kersti. [_running out through the rear door_] mats, mats! _the_ neck _disappears, but his song is still heard for a while, as it gradually dies away in the distance_. midwife. [_enters, opens the small trap-door in the floor, and drops her leather bag through it_] "if you come back, it's all off, and if you don't, it's all on!" now that's done! and i shall dance at the wedding! _she takes some dance steps, but without letting her back be seen. the hand-loom begins to rap in waltz time, accompanied by the bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel. then the_ midwife _disappears through the rear door, showing her back with the fox tail for a brief moment. the handloom, the bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel keep right on as before_. kersti _enters, and at once everything stops. a moment later the_ verger _enters_. kersti. is that you, grandfather? verger. yes, girl, i forgot something. _he picks up a large leather bag which he dropped on the bed at his first entrance_. kersti. what have you there? verger. i come from the sacristy, and i am taking home the numbers to be polished. kersti. what numbers? verger. those that show the hymns you are to sing, don't you know? kersti. let me see! verger. [_takes out of his bag a small black board, such as is found in every swedish church; it has a number of nails on which are hung numbers made of brass_] here you can see.... what's the matter, sweetheart? kersti. i don't know, grandfather, but i think i should never have come here.... verger. what talk is that, child? kersti. there is mischief astir in this house.... verger. oh, mercy, no...; no, my dear.... kersti. oh, oh, oh! everything has grown so strange all of a sudden.... verger. but how is this going to end, kersti? kersti. yes, tell me, tell me! verger. i must go now, child. i must go back to the church and get the crown so i can send it to a goldsmith. it has to be cleaned with cream of tartar.... kersti. all right, grandfather.... verger. it is for your sake the crown is to be cleaned--for your own sake, don't you know?... [_he goes out by the rear door_. _the_ soldier _enters immediately afterward_. kersti. is that you, father? soldier. yes, it's only me. i want my chaco, which i left in here. [_he picks up the chaco_. kersti. oh, father, father, i am so unhappy.... soldier. [_drily_] what has happened? kersti. nothing! soldier. why should you be unhappy, then? kersti. you don't understand! soldier. [_brusquely, as he adjusts the chin-strap of the chaco_] come to your senses, child! kersti. don't go, father! soldier. the sorrows of love pass quickly--come to your senses is my advice. do come to your senses! [_he goes out._ brita _enters_. kersti. and what have _you_ forgotten? brita. i never forget anything. kersti. what are you looking for? brita. you! kersti. how kindly! brita. yes, is it not? kersti. you hateful thing! brita. you hussy! kersti. you--sister-in-law! brita. who knows? kersti. are you telling my fortune, you witch? brita. yes--a rope! kersti. should not be mentioned in the house of a hanged man! brita. [_goes to the bag attached to the end of the flour chute_] now i shall tell your fortune! you get the mill, and the grist will be accordingly. [_she takes from the bag a handful of black mould out of which she forms a small mound on the floor; then she says_] "vagrant women grind for their men meal out of mould as only food."[1] kersti. a witch you are, indeed! brita. yes, and one who can find buried treasures! perhaps you will let me find a little treasure for you? kersti. take care, you witch! have you no shame? it's mortal sin you are practising now! you should be burned by fire, for i am sure you would float if thrown in the water! brita. [_taking a pinch of mould from the bag and pouring it on_ kersti's _head_] to the dust i wed you, and a crown of dirt shall you wear, so that your shame may find you out! kersti. fie on you! fie! voice. [_like that of a small child, repeats after her_] fie! kersti. who was that? voice. who was that? brita. guess!--that was the mocker! kersti. who is the mocker? voice. the mocker! brita. the mocker is the mocker. don't you know the mewler? kersti. the mewler, you say? what have i got to do with that one? voice. with that one! brita. the wages of sin is death! kersti. [_calling through the door_] mats! voice. mats! kersti. [_in despair_] oh! oh! [_she unfastens one of her red garters and ties it about her own neck_] let me die! let me die! brita. you shall have your wish! kersti. hang me to a tree! voice. to a tree! brita. not i! mats. [_is heard singing outside_] "kersti dear, is baby asleep?" brita. "far in the forest!" fie on you! [_she goes out_. mats. [_enters, looking very happy_] "far, far, in the forest!" [_he comes up behind_ kersti _and puts his hands over her eyes_] guess who it is! kersti. oh, you hurt me! mats. [_taking hold of the garter which is still about the neck of_ kersti] what kind of necklace is this? kersti. let go! mats. [_pulling playfully at the garter_] now i have you! now you are my prisoner, my dove, my goat that i bought for a groat! [_he leads her about by the garter_] my little white kid! my little pet cow! [_singing_] "come, cosset, cosset, cosset! come, cosset, cosset!" kersti. yes, you can be happy, mats! mats. i am, and guess why? kersti. can't any longer! mats. because i met the midwife, and she brought word of the little one. kersti. did she? mats. she did! he's sleeping, she said, so quietly, so quietly. kersti. oh! mats. far in the forest!--what's that in your hair? kersti. mould. mats. have you been buried? kersti. yes, already! mats. [_brushing the mould out of her hair_] ugh! who did that? kersti. can't you tell? mats. brita with the evil eye? kersti. can't you blind it? mats. not i! the only one who can is jesus christ! _a church-bell sounds the call to even-song_. kersti. fray for me! mats. one must do that for oneself. kersti. but suppose you can't? mats. you can if your conscience is clear. kersti. but when _is_ it? mats. do you hear the even-song bell? kersti. no! mats. but i do; so you must hear it, too. kersti. i don't, i don't! alas the day! mats. can you hear the rapids? kersti. the roar of the rapids, the beat of the flail, the tinkle of cowbells--but of holy bells not a sound! mats. that's a bad sign! i remember when the bells were rung at the burial of our former sheriff--we could see them move, but not a sound was heard. a bad sign! kersti. brita put a spell on me! mats. it will be worst for herself. kersti. come to the pasture! i must see the sun! mats. i will--kersti dear! kersti. oh! mats. [_putting his arms about her and pressing her head to his breast_] oh! _curtain_. [1] part of an old saw, the rest of which reads as follows: "when it was spanked for licking up the cream." third scene _the eve of the wedding. the house of_ kersti's _parents_. _above the door in the rear hangs a smalt tin plate on which are painted the_ soldier's _regimental number and the coat-of-arms of dalecarlia. there is a window on either side of the door, both filled with potted plants. the floor is of pine boards, full of knot-holes and nail-heads, but scrubbed immaculately dean_. _half-way down the left wall is an open fireplace with a hood. on the same side, nearer the footlights, stands a wooden seat covered with brightly coloured home-made draperies_. _against the opposite wall stands a chest of drawers surmounted by a mirror, over which a white veil has been draped. a pair of candlesticks and a few simple ornaments are arranged in front of the mirror. a table and a wooden seat are placed between the chest and the footlights. on the wall above this seat hangs the_ soldier's _old-fashioned musket, with stock of birch wood, stained yellow, red leather sling, and percussion-lock. his chaco, cartridge-case, and white bandoleer with bayonet are grouped around the musket. below appears a portrait of king charles xv of sweden in full uniform_. _a landscape with stacks of sheaves in the fields can be seen through the windows and the open door in the rear_. _when the curtain rises, a maid servant is at work by the fireplace scouring and polishing copper pans, iron pots, and coffee-kettles_. _the_ verger _is seated at the table on the right-hand side engaged in polishing the brass numbers of the hymn-board, which is lying on the table beside him. there lies also the collection-bag of red velvet with embroideries in silver and a small bell attached to the bottom of it for the rousing of sleeping worshippers_. _the_ soldier, _in undress uniform and forage-cap, is seated at the same table, looking over some papers on which he is making notes with a pencil, the point of which he wets from time to time_. lit-karen _and_ lit-mats _stand beside the table, with their chins resting on the edge of it, watching the_ verger. _their eyes are agog, and their fingers in their mouths. the_ verger _smiles at them and strokes their hair from time to time. the_ mother _is standing by the fireplace drying a couple of towels. as the curtain rises, the merry singing of girls is heard from the outside, but the atmosphere in the room is oppressive, and everybody is trying to lose himself in what he has at hand, forgetful of the rest_. girls. [_singing outside; see musical appendix, melody no_. 14] "when i was a little lassie, herding on the hill, one day i lost the bell-cow and gossamer, too. i stood upon a rock and called and cried with a will, till i heard gossamer begin to moo in a pasture far, far away. 'hush,' said pine-tree, 'she will surely find thee,' hemlock told me not to stumble; willow asked me not to grumble; birch-tree said i could not hope to miss a spanking." soldier. [_looks up from his work and remarks phlegmatically to the_ mother] say, mother! mother. we-ell? soldier. was it three quarters we got off the place last year? mother. yes, that's right. verger. haven't the girls come out of the bath yet? mother. no.... this business of the wedding takes a lot of people.... we should be bringing in the oats.... and it will soon be time to pick berries.... verger. yes, the dog-days are most over. you can see it on the flies; they're kind of drowsy.... will there be a lot of berries this year? mother. yes. [_silence_. soldier. will those girls never come back? mother. i don't know what can be keeping them so long. soldier. it's hot. verger. it must be bad in camp. soldier. well, it isn't so very hard on the infantry.... verger. you were lucky to get leave. soldier. i guess i was! mother. now they are coming. soldier. did you see that they had something to eat and drink? mother. yes, right in the bath, and plenty of it. [_silence_. _the girls are heard outside, talking and laughing_. kersti _enters first, white-faced, with her wet hair streaming down her back. she is followed by_ brita, anna, _and the four bridesmaids_, elsa, ricka, greta, _and_ lisa. _the maids are carrying jars and wine-glasses which they put down by the fireplace_. kersti, brita, _and_ anna _carry long bath-towels with coloured borders, which they hang up by the door_. _the_ mother _puts a chair in the middle of the floor and makes_ kersti _sit on it_. kersti's _hair having first been carefully dried with towels, the_ mother _begins to comb it. the maids duster on the bench at the left_. brita _seats herself so that she can stare at_ kersti. _no greetings are exchanged, and no emotion of any hind is shown_. mother. give me the mirror. kersti. don't! i don't want any mirror. brita. you ought to look at yourself, as you won't let anybody else see you. kersti. what do you mean? brita. hard to tell, isn't it?--nice hair you've got. can i have it, if it should come off? kersti. no, you can't! mother. what would you do with it? brita. watch-chain for mats. mother. [_to her daughter_] won't you let mats have it? kersti. no, i won't! brita. [_taking from her skirt-bag the same piece of work on which she was employed in the previous scene_] i'll never be able to match the colour. kersti. you can have it when i am dead. brita. that's a promise, but will you keep it? kersti. i will! [_silence_. soldier. say, mother.... please keep quiet a while, children.... do you know if the sergeant has been asked? mother. vesterlund? of course! soldier. it's to be at four o'clock in the church, isn't it? mother. that's right. soldier. [_putting his papers together_] then i'll go and see the pastor now.... and i'll go right on to the sexton.... [_to himself_] hm-hm! that was that! hm-hm! [_he goes out pensively without greeting anybody. silence_. verger. now, my dears, i hope you won't touch anything. lit-karen. i'll look after lit-mats and see that he doesn't. verger. so you're going to look after him, are you? mother. where are you going, father? verger. to the store to get the crown, which should be back from the city by this time. brita. [_sneeringly_] oh--the crown! verger. [_rising_] the goldsmith has had it, you know--to clean it with cream of tartar. that's what you do with silver: you boil it in cream of tartar. brita. [_as before_] ha-ha! mother. [_to the_ verger] wait a moment, and i'll go along to the store. verger. is it safe to leave the children alone? brita. what do you fear might happen? mother. why, they are grown-up people! brita. and kersti likes to be alone for that matter. she can't stand having anybody look at her.... mother. now, now! brita. when she is bathing, she doesn't want any company at all. but, of course, she's grown-up, so she doesn't have to be afraid.... kersti _is turning and twisting to escape the stare of brita_. mother. keep still, girl! brita. no, she's no longer any child. she's outgrown that, and a lot more. perhaps the crown won't fit her even? have you tried it on? verger. [_quietly_] that's what we are going to do in a little while. _he goes out accompanied by the_ mother. _silence_. kersti _seats herself at the table on the right-hand side and begins to play with the brass numbers_. brita. [_pursuing_ kersti _with her stare_] a merry wedding eve, isn't it? kersti. do you want to play games? brita. we might play "papa and mamma and the children." kersti. would you like to guess riddles? brita. i have already guessed.... kersti. or sing? brita. "hush-a-bye, baby," i suppose you mean?... no, let us read the bible. kersti. the bible, you say? brita. yes--genesis, thirty-fourth and eight. kersti. about shechem, you mean? brita. exactly, and about dinah, for whom his heart was longing.... do you know who dinah was? kersti. she was the daughter of jacob and leah. brita. that's right. and do you know what she was? kersti. is that a riddle? brita. not at all. do you know what she was? kersti. no. brita. she was a little--spoiled! kersti. is that a play on words? brita. more than that! kersti _lets her head fall forward as if wishing to hide her face_. brita. do you understand? [_pause_] is mrs. larsson the only one _you_ have asked? kersti. have i asked?... the midwife, you say? brita. well, so she says. kersti. then she is lying! brita. as midwife she has been sworn, although i couldn't tell whether her oath be false or fair. just now she swears that she doesn't lie. kersti _lets her head droop again_. brita. hold up your head! can't you look people in the face? kersti. [_to the other girls_] say something, girls! [_silence_. brita. it's hard to say anything when one has seen nothing. but nevertheless--one knows what one knows! sheriff. [_appearing in the doorway_] i am making free.... it won't matter if an old fellow like me gets in to the girls--although the boys have to keep out! brita. [_shaking her fist in the face of_ kersti] but you'll never wear the crown! kersti. you don't say! brita _goes out_. _the_ sheriff _pulls up a chair and sits down beside_ kersti. _the girls sneak out of the room one by one_. lit-mats _stays behind, clinging to the skirt of_ kersti. _it is plain that the intentions of the_ sheriff _are kindly, and so are his words, but the more discreet he tries to be, the more awkward he becomes, and so all his words assume an ambiguous meaning_. sheriff. [_taking one of_ kersti's _hands and looking her straight in the eyes_] what sort of a bride is this, looking so sad when she is getting her heart's desire? what is the matter? kersti. with what? sheriff. is that the way to answer an old friend who will be a kinsman by this hour to-morrow? there is more than one lass who envies you, and who would like to get to the altar ahead of you to-morrow. kersti. maybe there is. sheriff. and there is the new life ahead of you, in mill and kitchen. no more running about in the woods, where "birches nod in the blowing breeze." no more dancing in the barns on saturday nights. you'll be busy 'tending your pots, and watching the cradle, and having the meals on the table when mats comes home, and--keeping an even temper when the dark days arrive--for after sunshine there is sure to be a little rain. does it scare you to find life so serious, dear? it isn't as bad as it looks. it merely helps to make life kind of solemn. kersti. oh! sheriff. what are you oh-ing about, girl?--there seems to be something in the air that has no place in the thoughts of a young girl--something amiss. now, my dear, let me see if i can't straighten it out. [_jestingly_] the guardian of the law knows how to get the truth out of all sorts of people. what's on your mind, dear? has mats been nasty to you? kersti. oh, mercy! sheriff. has the family been playing the high-and-mighty? what have you to do with the family anyhow? lit-mats _climbs into the lap of_ kersti, _puts his arms about her, nestles up to her as close as he can get, and falls asleep_. sheriff. look at that little chap now! he likes his sister-in-law, and that's a good sign. children always know their real friends. are you fond of children, kersti? kersti. [_suspiciously_] why do you ask? sheriff. that's not the right kind of an answer!... don't you think it's nice to have a little thing like that--to hold it on your lap and feel how it trusts you--just as if there could never be any harm or deceit in the bosom that shelters it.... i think he's falling asleep. helpless as he is, he's not afraid of trusting his sleep to a stranger--who means nothing but well by him, i am sure. kersti. have you seen anything of mats? sheriff. he was busy with the boys making the mill ready for the dance to-morrow. [_silence_] it's some time since we saw a crown bride in this place. kersti. is that so? sheriff. yes, indeed. the old ways are gone, and new ones have come in--from the cities and the camps.... kersti. [_pertly_] they used to blame the fellows who came to buy the timber. sheriff. yes, but if it hadn't been for them, there would have been no mill.... kersti. they are always putting the blame on somebody else.... sheriff. you are getting a nice husband, kersti.... kersti. yes, he's fine--too fine for me! sheriff. that's a bitter answer to a kind word! kersti. there was nothing bitter about it--nothing but the truth.... sheriff. why should it be so hard for us to understand each other? it looks almost as if you didn't want us to be friends? kersti. why do you think so? sheriff. what is well meant, you take badly, and the other way around. well--that happens frequently when there is something amiss. kersti. what's amiss? sheriff. i don't know. kersti. neither do i, but it isn't customary to say things like that to a young girl. sheriff. now, now!--where there's no sick conscience, you don't have to walk in your stocking feet--but, but, but.... kersti. has the examination begun already? sheriff. i didn't mean.... kersti. the--"guardian of the law" doesn't know how to talk to ladies. sheriff. [_sharply_] kersti! kersti. what is it? sheriff. [_looking hard at her_] what do you mean? kersti. what do you mean yourself? sheriff. lo and behold! that's just the kind of questions asked by _my_ ladies when they want to find out whether i know anything. kersti. what could there be to know? sheriff. whew--is the wind in that corner? well, well! [_silence_] well--i guess i'll be going! yes, i had better be going! _he goes out by the rear door, stepping very softly and putting his forefinger across his lips as if meaning to enforce silence on himself_. kersti, _left alone, kisses the head of the sleeping_ lit-mats. mats _appears at the right-hand window_. _the twilight has come, but it is the lingering, luminous twilight of the northern summer night_. mats. hey! kersti. mats! oh, come here! mats. i mustn't come in--i have promised. kersti. yes, do! mats. no, no!--is the little one asleep? kersti. this one--yes!--hush! hush! _a bugle-call is faintly heard in the distance. it is the summons to evening service in the camp of the regiment to which_ kersti's _father belongs. (see the musical appendix, melody no_. 15.) kersti. [_scared_] are they hunting again? mats. no, who would be hunting at this time of day? kersti. what is it? mats. a soldier's daughter you are, and don't know! kersti. tell me! mats. that's at the camp, you know. they are calling them to evening prayers. kersti. of course--but everything seems strange and confused! mats. come to the window, kersti. kersti. i think.... i'll just put the little one away. mats. the little one, you say? kersti. [_rises very carefully and carries_ lit-mats _to the bench by the fireplace, where she pulls him down and covers him up_] hushaby, hushaby! _the singing of a hymn in unison is heard from the camp_. kersti _kneels beside the bench and tries to pray, bid merely wrings her hands in despair. at last she kisses the shoes of the sleeping child, struggles to her feet, and goes to window_. mats. there is something nice about children, isn't there? kersti. yes--yes! mats. are you alone? kersti. yes, they left! hating me--all of them! mats. to-morrow is our wedding-day! kersti. yes--think of it! mats. yes, think of it--to-morrow is our wedding-day! kersti. and i shall be living in the mill! mats. in the mill with me! kersti. till death us do part! mats. which won't be soon! kersti. oh! _curtain_. fourth scene _the wedding. the living-room at the mill has been cleared for the occasion. the big doors in the rear stand wide open. through the doorway is seen a large loft, where a number of tables have been spread for the impending feast, of which coffee is to form one of the principal features. the shutters covering the rectangular opening to the left of the main doorway are also open, disclosing a table with several candlesticks on it. on this table the fiddlers subsequently take up their position_. _the opening to the water-wheel appears to the right of the main door. the hand-loom, the bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel have disappeared_. _on the floor, beneath the place reserved for the fiddlers, stands the "old men's table," with a full equipment of jugs, mugs, pipes, and playing-cards_. _a number of chairs and benches occupy the middle of the floor, and on these are spread clean white sheets, pillow-cases, and towels for drying_. _as the curtain rises, six servant-girls are busily grinding coffee on as many hand-mills, while from the outside are heard the ringing of church-bells and a bridal march played on violins. when the coffee is ground, the girls begin to gather up the linen and sing while they are doing so_. girls. [_singing; see musical appendix, melody no_. 16] "dillery-deering! twelve in the clearing: twelve men glare at me, twelve swords flare at me. kine they are slaughtering; sheep they are quartering; naught but my life they're leaving: dillery-deering!" _the bridal procession is drawing near. the girls put the benches and chairs where they belong and go out with their burdens of linen_. _the stage is left empty for a few moments, all the sounds previously heard having died out_. _then the song of the_ neck _is heard from the water-wheel, while he himself remains unseen_. neck. [_singing outside_] "i am hoping, i am hoping, that my redeemer still liveth." _the trap-door in the floor is raised and the_ mewler _ascends from the hole: a blurred mass of white veils beneath which the outlines of a small infant in long clothes are barely discernible. this apparition remains hovering above the opening in the floor_. _then the bridal march is again heard outside. the song of the_ neck _ceases, and the_ mewler _disappears, the trap-door falling back into its wonted position_. _the bridal procession enters the room. first come the fiddlers, then the bridesmaids and bridesmen. after these come the bride and the groom, and then follow the_ pastor, _the parents of the couple, the members of both families, friends, and young people. everybody seems depressed, and the entrance is made in gloomy silence_. _the bride is led to a chair in the middle of the floor, placed so that she must face the trap-door in the floor. she is very pale and does not look up at all. the guests pass in front of her as in review. now and then one stops and says a few words to her. little by little they disappear into the loft in the rear_. mats. [_to_ kersti] now the worst is over, kersti. [_he goes out_. brita. [_heading the bridesmaids, to_ kersti] you have got the crown--see that you keep it! [_she and the maids go out_. kersti's mother. [_making sure that the crown is on straight_] keep your back straight and your head high, girl! [_she goes out_. soldier. [_to_ kersti] god bless you! [_goes out_. verger. [_to_ kersti] and protect you! [_goes out_. mats's grandfather. [_to_ kersti] comely you are as i am homely! [_goes out_. mats's mother. [_to_ kersti] your new family bids you welcome! [_she goes out_. mats's father. [_to_ kersti] _my_ daughter now--the old ties have been loosed! [_he goes out_. sherut. [_to_ kersti] why so pale? what draws all the blood to your heart? what is weighing on it? kersti. [_raising her head at last to give the_ sheriff _a furious look_] nothing! sheriff. so little is a lot! kersti. go! sheriff. when you ride, i'll go ahead of you--but we won't be headed for the same place. when you kneel, i shall be standing, but the cold steel you'll taste won't be in my hands. kersti. oh, i wish you'd break your neck! sheriff. [_putting the palm of his hand on her neck_] take care of your own! [_he goes out_. _the rest of_ mats's _relatives file past her, greeting her coldly_. _the fiddlers have in the meantime taken their places, and several old men have sat down at the table reserved for them and begun to smoke. now the fiddlers strike up an old swedish polka. (see the musical appendix, melody no_. 17.) _at the same time the_ neck _begins to play the melody heard in the first scene, but so powerfully that it sounds like two violins. (see musical appendix, melody no_. 18.) _as soon as the dance music is heard, cries of_ "off with the crown!" _are raised, first in the loft, and then in the living-room_. kersti _becomes alarmed_. _the_ pastor _goes up to her_. fiddlers. [_crying, as they become aware of the playing of the_ neck] who is cutting in? all. [_repeat without looking at the water-wheel or knowing from whence the strange music is heard_] who is cutting in? _then the_ neck _ceases playing, while the fiddlers continue. the_ pastor _takes the bride by the hand and begins to lead her around the room in a stately and solemn manner. just as he puts his arm about_ kersti's _waist in order to open the dance with her the_ neck _begins to play again_. kersti. [_dropping the crown, which rolls into the mill-race_] jesus christ! _all the people in the living-room get on their feet and cry_: "the crown's in the mill-race!" _those in the rear room shout back_: "what's up?" _those in the living-room repeat_: "the crown's in the mill-race!" _the fiddlers suddenly stop their playing. the whole place is in wild commotion_. mats. [_appearing in the doorway_] we must look for it! all. we must look for it! pastor. god help us and protect us! all. god help us and protect us! sheriff. let us look for it! all. let us look for it! mats. yes, let's look! _all disappear by the rear door, leaving_ kersti _alone on the stage. she seats herself on the same chair as before. in the meantime the stage has gradually been darkened._ _the water-wheel begins to turn_. neck. [_appears in the wheel with his harp, and sings_] "stilled are the waters, dark grows the sky: dark grows the sky. once in the world of the ages i lived, blessed by the sun. gone is the light, conquered by night. deep is my sin, black as the tarn. joy there is none; plenty of woe. torture and shame must i name my abode: o!" _when the_ neck _begins to sing, the trap-door flies open right at the feet of_ kersti, _and the_ mewler _appears as before_. _at first_ kersti _stares at the apparition with horror. then she seizes it and presses it to her breast_. _the_ neck _stops his song and disappears. instead the voice of a child (the_ mocker) _is heard from the opening in the floor_. mocker. cold is the river; warm is my mother's bosom. nothing you gave me in life: in death i take what is mine! kersti. [_who has been rocking the_ mewler _on her arm_, _puts a hand to her breast as if feeling acute pain_] oh, help! save me! midwife. [_trips in fussily_] here i am! here i am! mustn't take on like that! [_she takes the_ mewler _from_ kersti _and drops it through the hole in the floor_] i know how to handle little ones! i help them into the world and out of it.... and i got to the wedding after all! brita _has in the meantime appeared where the fiddlers were seated before, and she has seen the_ midwife _hide something under the floor_. midwife. the neck was also asked, i understand. did he come? kersti. what will you take to get out of here? midwife. what you have lost! kersti. you mean the crown? midwife. not exactly.... hush!... i think i heard somebody! then i'll hide in the fireplace for a while.... i got here after all, as you see! _she steps into the fireplace and closes the iron shutters behind her_. brita. [_enters and goes up to_ kersti] now it's you or me! kersti. you, then! brita. a present is waiting for you. kersti. let's see! brita. bracelets--but not from me! [_silence_] bracelets of steel! [_she places herself on the trap-door_] now my foot is on your head and on your heart! now i shall stamp your secret out of the earth, or the water, or the fire--wherever it may be! [_silence_] now i shall have your hair for my watch-chain, which is not what it seems. where is the midwife? where is the guest of honour at this virginal wedding? you stole the crown, and the neck stole it from you. you have stolen the mill, but it will be returned. shechem's dinah has proved not only spoiled, but soiled! the little one is asleep, not in the forest, but in the river! you have put my brother to shame, and our whole family, and the name that we bear! and now you shall die! kersti. [_submissively_] i am dead! i have been dying for days.... are you satisfied now? brita. no, you shall go on dying for days to come! you shall die for perjury, falsehood, murder, theft, slander, deceit! you shall die six times over! and when you really die the seventh time, it will seem so only! you shall not rest in consecrated ground! you shall have no black coffin with stars of silver on it! you shall have no spruce strewn and no bells rung.... kersti. i suppose not! brita. therefore.... [_heavy steps are heard outside_] do you hear those steps? count them! [_she counts in time with the approaching steps of the_ sheriff] one, two, three, four, five, six.... _the_ sheriff _enters from the rear_. brita _goes to him and whispers something in his ear_. sheriff. it's here, you say? brita. not the crown, i guess! sheriff. something else, then! [_he raises the trap-door and looks down_] no, it is not the crown! poor kersti! did you put it there? kersti. i did not! sheriff. no?--tell the truth! kersti. i did not put it there! brita. [_striking her on the mouth_] the truth! kersti. i did not put it there! brita. [_putting her hand in the_ sheriff's _pocket and taking out a pair of handcuffs_] on with the bracelets! sheriff. [_to_ brita] born executioner--that's what _you_ are! [_he puts his hands to his face and weeps_] god have mercy on us! pastor. [_entering from the rear_] has it been found? sheriff. not that, but.... pastor. say no more! i know.... [_putting his hands to his face and weeping_] god have mercy on us! soldier. [_entering from the rear_] have you found the crown? sheriff. not that, but.... soldier. enough! i know.... [_begins to weep, with his hands to his face_. kersti's mother. [_entering from the rear_] have you found the crown? sheriff. no, no! mother. oh! _she looks hard at_ kersti, _who is holding out her hands to meet the handcuffs, which_ brita _puts on her_. mother. [_screaming_] oh! _snatching up a pair of shears, she cuts off_ kersti's _hair and throws it to_ brita, _who catches it and sniffs at it as if enjoying its odour. the_ mother _then strips her daughter of the veil and other bridal ornaments. at last she throws a shawl over her head_. mats. [_entering from the rear, stops in front of_ kersti _and looks at her in surprise_] who is that? brita. look well! mats. [_looking more closely at_ kersti] she reminds me of somebody! brita. look well! mats. i don't know her. brita. grant god you never had! mats. the eyes are different.... but the mouth--that sweet mouth--and the little chin.... no, it is not she! [_he turns away from_ kersti _and catches sight of the open trap-door_] what's that? you are standing here as if it were a grave.... brita. it is a grave! mats. of what? brita. of everything--everything that made your life worth while! mats. that means the little one!--who did it? brita. [_pointing to_ kersti] she, and she, and she! mats. it is not true! _all who were in the room at the beginning and who left to look for the crown, have gradually returned, and are now crowded together in the background, no one saying a word or making the least noise_. brita. it is true! mats. you liar! soldier. [_to_ brita] you liar born of liars! mats's relatives. [_gathering on the left side of_ kersti] you liar born of thieves and liars! that's you! kersti's relatives [_gathering on her right side_] no, that's you! pastor. peace! peace! in the name of the lord! all. peace. sheriff. no one must be condemned untried! all. let us hear! sheriff. who brings the charge? all. who brings the charge? brita. i, brita lisa larsson. all. brita lisa larsson brings the charge. against whom? brita. against kersti margaret hansdaughter. all. against kersti margaret hansdaughter!--what is the charge? brita. if bride be spoiled, the crown is forfeit! kersti's relatives. and your evidence? brita. two witnesses make valid evidence. mats's relatives. two witnesses make valid evidence! kersti's relatives. we challenge them! sheriff. no challenging without good cause! brita. "if unmarried woman puts away child that comes to its death, the life of the mother shall be forfeit!" mats's relatives. her life is forfeit! kersti's relatives. [_drawing closer with menacing gestures_] "empty-headed men and meanly tempered never know that they are far from faultless."[1]--the fault is mats's! mats's relatives. the fault is not mats's! kersti's relatives. the fault is his who did the deed! mats's relatives. [_with raised fists_] what deed? you had better ask kersti! kersti's relatives. ask her! sheriff. [_to_ kersti] did you kill the child? kersti. i did! mats's relatives. there you hear! kersti's relatives. god have mercy! mats's relatives. now you can hear! mats _has been standing at the fireplace lost in thought, with his back to the rest. suddenly he tears off everything that indicates his character of bridegroom. after a brief moment of hesitation, he leaps like mad on the table in the rear and disappears through the opening where the fiddlers were seated before_. pastor. [_who has been weeping silently, with his hands covering his face, goes to the open trap-door and says_] "to the dead give peace, o lord, and console the living!"[2] _all bend their heads, shade their faces with one hand, and pray in silence, as the custom is when the lord's prayer is read in a swedish church or at a grave_. pastor. may the lord bless you and protect you! all. [_with their faces buried in their hands_] amen! _everybody leaves silently and sadly. when_ kersti _alone remains, the_ sheriff _locks the doors in the rear. then he fastens the shutters covering the opening where the fiddlers were seated_. _from the fireplace is heard a loud noise as of thunder_. neck. [_appears in the water-wheel with his fiddle and plays and sings as before_] "i am hoping, i am hoping that thy redeemer still liveth." _this he repeats several times, while_ kersti _is kneeling on the floor with her handcuffed arms raised toward heaven._ _the_ child in white _enters from behind the fireplace with a basket full of spruce branches and flowers_. _the_ neck _stops singing and disappears_. _the_ child in white _strews the spruce branches on the floor so that a green path is formed to the edge of the trap-door. when he has reached this, he drops flowers into the hole, from which the bell-like notes of the harmonica are heard_. _unseen by_ kersti, _he goes up to her, places his hands on her head and stands still with upturned face as if in prayer_. _the face of_ kersti, _which until then has shown deep despair, assumes an expression of quiet happiness_. _curtain_. [1] from the poetic edda: "the song of the high one." see introduction. [2] from the poetic edda: "the song of the sun." see introduction. fifth scene _the porch of a country church appears at the right in the foreground. it is brilliantly white, with a roof of black shingle_. near the entrance is a sort of pillory, at the foot of which kersti _lies in penitential garb, with the hood pulled forward to cover her face_. _a big lake, surrounded by a typical dalecarlian landscape, forms the background. at the foot of the open place before the church is a boat-landing. a point of land projects into the lake at the right, and there stands the scaffold, consisting of a simple wooden platform with a block on it. two soldiers, fully armed, stand "at ease" by the entrance to the porch, from within which an organ prelude is heard when the curtain rises_. _two large "church-boats" (of the kind used on lake siljan in dalecarlia) gliding slowly forward from opposite directions, arrive at the landing simultaneously. the rowers have raised their oars and appear to be disputing about the right of landing_. mats's relatives _are in the boat at the left_; kersti's relatives _in the boat at the right_. mats's relatives. look out, mewlings! kersti's relatives. look out, millers! mats's relatives. [_raising their oars in menace_] look out! kersti's relatives. [_in the same way_] look out! mats's relatives. can you match us with eight pairs? kersti's relatives. with sixteen, if needs be! come on! mats's relatives. at 'em! at 'em! _they begin to fight with the oars_. pastor. [_standing bareheaded in prow of the boat at the left_] peace! peace in the name of the lord jesus christ! kersti's relatives. peace! mats's relatives. war! war on life and death! pastor. peace! mats's relatives. war! _the_ verger _comes running from the porch, seizes the bell-rope and begins to toll the bell_. _at the first stroke, all oars are lowered, the boats are brought to the landing and tied up side by side. the_ pastor _is the first one to leave the boat at the left. he is followed by_ mats, _who carries a small white coffin trimmed with lace. then the relatives and friends of_ mats _gradually step on shore_. _the_ soldier _leaves the other boat ahead of all the rest and is followed by his wife. then come the relatives and friends of_ kersti. _the people on both sides adjust their clothing while throwing angry glances at their opponents_. _at last_ mats _with the coffin leads the way up to the church, followed by the_ pastor. mats. [_whose face shows intense despair, stops in front of_ kersti] here is the little one now. he's so light--as light as the mind of a bad woman. he's asleep--and soon you will be sleeping, too. kersti. [_raising her head so that the hood falls back_] o! mats. "o," indeed! it's the end, while a is the beginning. between those two lie many letters, but the last one of all is o. cry "o" again--the last time of all--so that the little one may hear it. he will tell the lord and the saviour, and ask them to forgive you! no? well, kiss his white coffin then--kiss it where his small feet are resting--the small, small feet that never had a chance to tread this sinful earth! [kersti _kisses the coffin_] that's right! now we'll take him into the church and play and sing and toll the bells over him--but no clergyman can read him into his grave--because of you! i will speak the words myself when we get to the grave. we'll plant him in the sod like a seed in order that he may sprout and grow into a winged blossom. some day, perhaps, he will spread his wings and fly to heaven--lifted by the wind when the midsummer sun is shining! pastor. [_taking_ mats _by the arm and drawing him toward the church_] that's enough, mats! come now! mats. i am coming. _they disappear into the porch, followed gradually by the rest_. soldier. [_stops in front of_ kersti, _shakes his head sadly and tries to find words_] well.... well.... [_he goes into the church_. kersti's mother. [_speaking drily, with a vain attempt to show emotion_] yes, here we are now!--was it bad in the castle? kersti _shakes her head_. mother. is there anything you want? to eat or drink--you can have it now, you know.... did they give you any tobacco while you were in the castle? kersti _shakes her head_. mother. keep your head high, kersti, and don't let the mill-folk put us to shame. don't weep so much either. your father is a man of war, you know, and he can't stand that kind of thing. [_handing her daughter a hymn-book_] take this book--and read where i have put the mark. and look at the mark--i got it from some one--some one who is thinking of you in your moment of need. and it is a sure cure against the shakes farther than this i won't keep you company, kersti.... i can't--i really can't, being as old as i am.... kersti. do what you feel like, mother. i have found my comforter! i know that my redeemer still liveth! mother. it's all right, then, child. that's all i wanted to know.... and you don't want me to go with you? kersti. no, mother, you must spare yourself.... you have had enough trouble on my account as it is. mother. then i'll take your word for it, so that the mill-folk won't have anything to talk about. i take your word for it, so that i can tell them: "kersti didn't want it--it was her own will, and of course her last will was as good as law to me!" and that's just what it is! [_she goes into the church._ brita. [_stops in front of_ kersti _and points toward the scaffold_] a queen you were, and a crown you wore: there's your throne now, with heaven above and hell beneath!--now you would be glad enough to be milking cows! now you wouldn't mind picking wood, and scouring pots, and cleaning shoes, and rocking the cradle--now, when you have brought shame on my family and your own, on our parish and our province, so that the whole country is talking of it! fie on you! kersti _bends lower and lower over the hymn-book._ brita. my brother must carry your brat to the grave-_my_ brother! but i shall keep you company to the block when you get spanked! i shall be your bridesmaid when you're wedded to the axe! "there's a corpse that isn't dead, and a babe that wasn't bred, and a bride without a wedding!" lit-mats. hush up, brita! kersti is nice! brita. indeed! lit-mats. yes, she is! but i don't like her to have on that ugly cloak.... that would be right for you, brita! oh, kersti, why are you lying here? are you waiting for communion? and why did you run away from the wedding? who is lying in the white box? is all this a fairy-tale? do you know that i lost my doll--the one you gave me?... oh, kersti dear, why are you so sorry? [_he throws his arms about her neck_. kersti. [_taking him on her lap and kissing his shoes_] oh, lit-mats, lit-mats! brita. [_to the soldiers_] is that allowed? _the soldiers stand at attention, but make no reply_. brita. [_taking_ lit-mats _away from_ kersti] come on now! kersti. [_to_ lit-mats] go with your sister, lit-mats! and you had better keep away from me! [_she begins to read in a low voice out of the hymn-book_. brita. [_to_ kersti] shall i tell him? kersti. for god's sake, don't tell the child! brita. for the child's sake, i won't! kersti. thank you, brita--for the child's sake! brita _goes into the church with_ lit-mats. _the only ones that remain outside are_ kersti _and the two soldiers_. _the_ headsman _enters from the right, carrying a black box. he keeps in the background and does not look in the direction of_ kersti. kersti. [_catching sight of him_] christ jesus, saviour of the world, help me for the sake of thy passion and death! midwife. [_enters from the left and goes up to the_ headsman] listen, my dear man.... if it comes off, would you mind my getting quite close to it?... i need a little of that red stuff, you know--for a sick person--one who has the falling sickness.... _the_ headsman _goes out to the left without answering_. midwife. oh, he is of the kind that won't listen. [_going to_ kersti] ah, there you are, my dear.... kersti. [_with a deprecatory gesture_] begone! midwife. [_keeping behind the pillory so that she cannot be seen by the soldiers_] wait a little! wait a little! listen now, my dear! i can do what others can't! the hour is near, and the black one is waiting! kersti. in the name of christ jesus, begone! midwife. listen! i can do what others can't! i can set you free! kersti. i have found my saviour! his name is christ jesus! midwife. i can make the judge as soft as wax.... kersti. he who shall judge the quick and the dead; he who is the resurrection and the life: he has sentenced me to death in the flesh, and to--life everlasting. midwife. look at the soldiers! they have gone to sleep! take my cloak and run! kersti. are the soldiers asleep? midwife. their eyes are closed!--run, run, run! kersti _rises and looks at the soldiers, who have closed their eyes_. midwife. run, run, run! kersti. [_lying down again_] no, much better is it to fall into the hands of the living god!--depart from me! _she raises the hymn-book so that the golden cross on its front cover faces the_ midwife. midwife. [_shrinking back_] shall we meet a thursday night at the crossroads? kersti. on the path to the cross i shall meet with my redeemer, but not with you! depart! midwife. [_drawing away_] there is a boat down at the shore--horse and carriage are waiting on the other side mats is there, but the sheriff not.... run, run, run! kersti [_struggling with herself_] o lord, lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil! midwife. shash-ash-ash-ash! horse and carriage! kersti _seizes the bell-rope and pulls it three times. at the third stroke of the bell, the_ midwife _takes flight_. midwife. ad-zee! ad-zee! ad-zee! [_she disappears_. _the_ child in white _comes forward from behind one of the pillars of the porch. his dress is that worn by girls at rättvik, dalecarlia (the one with liberty cap, white waist and striped apron, which is probably more familiar to foreigners than any other swedish peasant costume), but all its parts are white, including the shoes_. kersti. [_as if blinded by his appearance_] who are you, child--you who come when the evil one departs? _the_ child in white _puts a finger across his lips_. kersti. white as snow, and white as linen.... why are you so white? child in white [_in a low voice_] thy faith has saved thee! out of faith has sprung hope! [_he goes toward_ kersti. kersti. please, dear, don't step on the ant! child in white. [_stoops and picks up something on a leaf_] but the greatest of these be love--love of all living things, great or small! now i shall send this ant into the woods to tell the king of all the ants, so that the little people may come here and gnaw the ropes to pieces, and you will be set free. kersti. no, no! don't talk like that! child in white. doubt not--but believe! believe, kersti!--believe! kersti. how can i? child in white. believe! _he steps behind the pillar again and disappears_. _the stage grows darker_. neck. [_appears with his harp in the middle of the lake and sings to the same melody as before_] "i am hoping, i am hoping, that thy redeemer still liveth!" kersti. he sings of _my_ redeemer! he brings hope to me, who denied it to him! _the_ neck _sinks beneath the waters_. sheriff. [_enters reading a document; he approaches a few steps at a time, now looking at the ground, and now at the paper in his hand_] kersti! kersti _looks up, only to drop her head at once_. sheriff. [_slowly and with frequent pauses_] behold the sheriff!--you are only scared by him!--do you think everybody feels like that? suppose that the sheriff has been summoned to help some one in a moment of dire need. do you think he will be welcome then? of course, he will!... did you ever see such a lot of ants, kersti? kersti _raises her head again and becomes attentive_. sheriff. look at them! files of them, and whole hosts! look!--do you know what that means? it is a good omen! but, of course, you never expect anything good to come from me. you wouldn't believe it _that_ time either--and that's what led to your exposure! look at those ants! look at them! they are making straight for you, kersti. are you not afraid of them? kersti. i used to be, but i am not. sheriff. big wood-ants, and i think the ant-king himself is with them. do you know what can be done by the king, and by no other authority? do you know that? all other authorities can pass judgment--all of them can do that--harshly or mercifully; but there is only one that can grant pardon. that's the king!--shall we ask the antking if he will grant pardon? [_he puts his hand to his ear as if to hear better_] would your majesty be willing to pardon her--that is, in regard to the worst part?... did you hear what he answered? i thought he said yes. but i may have been mistaken.... and being the sheriff, i can't go by hearsays, but must have everything in writing. let us ask the ant-king to write it down. he has plenty of pens--sharp as needles--and he has ink of his own, that burns. if we could only find a piece of paper! [_he pretends to search his pockets, and finally he brings out the paper he was reading when he entered_] oh, here we are! look at this! the king has written it with his own hand. do you see? c-a-r-l, which makes carl. [_he raises his cap for a moment in salute_] you haven't seen such big letters since you went to school, kersti. and look at the red seal--that smelled like resin in the woods when the sealing-wax still was warm. and look at the silken cords, yellow and blue--and all these lions and crowns.... that's royal, every bit of it!... read it yourself, kersti, while i give my orders to the soldiers. kersti _takes the paper from his hand and reads_. _the_ sheriff _turns to the soldiers and says something that cannot be heard by the public_. _the soldiers leave_. _when_ kersti _has finished reading she hands the document back to the_ sheriff _in a quiet, dignified manner_. sheriff. are you glad, kersti? kersti. i am thankful that my family and yours will be spared the greatest shame of all. i cannot be glad, for eternal life is better than a life in fetters. sheriff. regard it as a time of preparation. kersti. i will! sheriff. are you still afraid of me? kersti. having looked death in the face, i fear nothing else. sheriff. come with me, then. kersti. you must set me free first. _the_ sheriff _unties the ropes with which she has been bound_. _an organ prelude is heard from the church_. kersti _stretches her arms toward heaven_. _curtain_. sixth scene _the stage represents the frozen surface of a big lake, the shores of which form the background. deep snow covers the ice. tall pine branches stuck into the snow serve to mark the tracks used in crossing the lake_. _in the centre of the stage, toward the background, a large rectangular opening has been cut in the ice. a number of small spruce-trees have been set along the edges of it to warn against danger_. _long-tailed ducks_ (heralda glacialis _or_ clangula glacialis) _are floating on the open water. now and then one of them utters its peculiarly melodious cry. (see musical appendix, melody no_. 19.) _a number of short fishing-rods are placed along the edges of the open water, with their lines out_. _a gloomy old structure with turrets and battlements appears on the shore in the background. it is known as the "castle", but is in reality a penitentiary_. _it is about daybreak_. _the_ fisherman _enters from the right dressed in a sheepskin coat and hauling a sledge on which lies an ice-hook. all the ducks dive when he comes in sight. he begins to examine his fishlines_. midwife. [_entering from the left_] how dare you fish on easter sunday? fisherman. i am not fishing--i'm just looking. midwife. perhaps you, who are so clever, can also tell a poor, strayed old woman where she is? fisherman. if you give me a light. midwife. if you have flint and steel. fisherman. [_handing her two pieces of ice_] here they are. midwife. ice? well, water is fire, and fire is water! _she tears off a piece of her cloak to serve as tinder; then, she strikes the two pieces of ice against each other; hiving set the tinder on fire in that way, she hands it to the_ fisherman, _who lights his pipe with it_. fisherman. oh, you are that kind? then i know where i am. midwife. but where am i? fisherman. in the middle of krummedikke's lake, and over there you see his castle. he was a king who lived long, long ago, and, like herod, he caused all male babes to be slain because he was afraid for his crown. but now his castle holds all the girls who have not been afraid for theirs. midwife. what are they doing in there? fisherman. spinning flax. midwife. that's the jail, then? fisherman. that's what it is. midwife. and the lake? fisherman. oh, it's a good one! there used to be dry land where the lake is now, and on that piece of land stood a church, and that church started a feud. it was a question of pews, you see. the mill-folk, who thought themselves above the rest, wanted to sit next to the altar, but the mewlings were the stronger. one easter sunday it broke loose, right in the nave, and blood was shed. the church was profaned so that it could never be cleansed again. instead it was closed up and deserted, and by and by it sank into the earth, and now there are fifty feet of water above the weathercock on the spire. by this time the lake has been washing it and washing it these many hundred years, but as long as mill-folk and mewlings keep on fighting, the temple will never be cleansed. midwife. why are they called mewlings? fisherman. because they are descended from krummedikke, who slew the infants. midwife. and they are still fighting? fisherman. still fighting, and still slaying.... you remember, don't you, kersti, the soldier's daughter? midwife. of course, i do. fisherman. she is in the castle, but to-day she will be out to do her yearly public penance at the church. midwife. is that so? fisherman. the mewlings are coming to bring her over, and the mill-folk are coming to look on. midwife. do you hear the ice tuning up? fisherman. i do. midwife. does it mean thaw? fisherman. maybe. midwife. then the ice will begin to break from the shore? fisherman. quite likely. but if the water should rise, the rapids down there will carry it off. midwife. are the rapids far from here? fisherman. naw! you can hear the neck quite plainly. to-day he will be up betimes, as he is expecting something. midwife. what can he be expecting? fisherman. oh, you know! midwife. no, i don't. please tell me. fisherman. this is what they tell: every easter sunday morning, at the hour when the saviour ascended from his grave, the church of krummedikke rises out of the lake. and he who gets a look at it has peace in his soul for the rest of the year. midwife. [_gallops out toward the right_] ad-zee! ad-zee! ad-zee! fisherman. that was a bad meeting.... [_he lands a fish and takes it from the hook_] i got you! _the fish slips out of his hand and leaps into the water. the_ fisherman _tries to catch it with his dip-net. then a whole row of fish-heads appear above the water_. fisherman. dumb, but not deaf! "what roars more loudly than a crane? what is whiter by far than a swan?"[1] child in white. [_dressed as in the preceding scene, enters on skis, carrying a torch_;] the thunder of heaven roars more loudly than the crane, and he who does no evil is whiter than the swan. _the fish-heads disappear_. fisherman. who read my riddle? child in white. who can free the prisoner from his bonds and set the tongue of the fish talking? fisherman. no one! child in white. no man by man begotten, but one born of the all-creative god.... he who has built the bridge of glass can break it, too!... beware! [_he goes out to the right_. _the_ fisherman _begins to gather up his implements_. _the_ mill-folk (mats's _relatives) enter from the left; all are on skis and carry long staffs_. mats _carries a torch_. mats. where is the winter road? fisherman. do you mean the road of the fish in the water? mats. no, the road of the horse on the snow. fisherman. does it lead to court or church? mill-folk. to church. fisherman. for the man who has lost his way, all roads lead to the rapids. [_a rumbling noise is made by the ice_] the roof is cracking! mill-folk. where is the road to the church? fisherman. everywhere! mill-folk. where is the church? fisherman. you are standing on it, and walking over it, and soon it will be here. mill-folk. is this krummedikke's lake? fisherman. it's krummedikke's castle and krummedikke's lake; it's krummedikke's church, and soon it will break. mill-folk. lord have mercy! [_they go out to the right_. _the_ mewlings (kersti's _relatives) enter from the left_, on _skis and carrying staffs. the_ soldier _carries a torch_. mewlings. is this the road to the church? fisherman. this is the road to the rapids! turn back! mewlings. ridges and open water everywhere! the floe is breaking loose! fisherman. go eastward! the sun is tarrying. mewlings. let's go eastward! [_they go out to the right_. _the_ mill-folk _return from the right_. fisherman. turn back! the floe has broken loose down that way! mill-folk. and eastward, too! let's turn northward! fisherman. there's the river! mill-folk. southward, then! fisherman. there are the rapids! mill-folk. [_leaning dejectedly on their staffs_] god have mercy on us! mats. the mewlings put us on the wrong track. brita. as they have always done! father. and they'll be first at church! grandfather. never mind! but i can't help regretting the day when i burned the papers. mother. will there ever be peace? grandmother. "men who are mild and gentle live in peace and know but little sorrow."[2] mill-folk. [_raising their staffs_] the mewlings! mewlings. [_entering from the right, with raised staffs]_ will you bide now, mill-folk? you put us on the wrong track! mill-folk. you liars! mewlings. the same to you! mill-folk. quibblers! mewlings. and what are you? _the ice begins to crash and rumble_. fisherman. peace in the name of christ jesus! the water is rising! all. [_crying aloud_] the water is rising! mats's grandfather. the ice is sinking. stay where you are! mats's grandmother. to-day we must die, and then comes the day of judgment! _the_ mill-folk _embrace each other. the women pick up the children into their arms. the_ mewlings _do likewise_. mats's mother. [_to_ mats] for the sake of your foolish fondness, we must die! kersti's mother. "another's love should by no one be blamed: wise men are often snared by beauty, but fools never."[2] soldier. "this fault of his should by no one be blamed: love, in its might, will often turn the sons of men from wisdom to folly."[3] mats. [_holding out his hand to the_ soldier] thank you for those words! you are the man i named father for a brief while! soldier. "all at birth and death are equals." mats's father. there you took the word away from me! your hand! soldier. [_giving his hand after a little hesitation_] here it is! we are all christians, and this is the great day of atonement. let not the sun rise on our wrath! mewlings. let us have peace! mill-folk. yes, let us have peace! _the two parties are approaching each other with hands stretched out, when a terrific crash is heard, and the ice opens at their feet, separating them from each other_. mats's grandfather. parted in life and parted in death! mats's grandmother. the bridge has broken under the burden of crime. mats's mother. where is kersti? mill-folk. where is kersti? mewlings. where is kersti? soldier. "and lo, it was expedient that one should die for the people." mats's grandfather. "then said they unto him: what shall we do unto thee, that the sea may be calm unto us?" kersti's mother. "take me up, and cast me forth into the sea: for i know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you." mats's grandmother. is it settled? all. it is settled! kersti's mother. "behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?" mewlings. where is kersti? mill-folk. where is kersti? _the_ pastor _enters, followed by the_ verger. pastor. [_to the_ soldier] "and the lord said: lay not thine hand upon the child, for now i know that thou fearest god, seeing thou hast not withheld thine only child from me." all. [_to the_ minister] save us! pastor. "there is but one god, the saviour!" let us pray! _all kneel on the ice_. pastor. "out of the depths i cry unto thee, o lord!" all. "lord, hear my voice!" pastor. o lord, have mercy! all. christ, have mercy! _the_ sheriff _enters from the rear with a torch in his hand. he is followed by four soldiers, carrying the dead body of_ kersti _between them_. _all get on their feet_. pastor. whom are you bringing with you? sheriff. we are bringing the crown bride--kersti! pastor. is she alive? sheriff. she is dead. the waters took her! pastor. may the lord take her soul! soldier. o lord, have respect unto our offering, as thou hast given thyself for us an offering. pastor. "for god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son!" brita. the water is falling! all. the water is falling! _the gap in the ice is closed up again_. mats _and_ brita _walk over to the_ mewlings, _break branches from the spruces set in the snow, and spread these over the body of_ kersti. pastor. will there be peace after this? all. peace and reconciliation! pastor. [_beside the body of_ kersti] "to the dead give peace, o lord, and console the living!" _in the background a church is seen rising out of the lake: first the gilded weathercock; then the cross resting on a globe; and finally the spire, the roof covered with black shingles, and the white walls of the round-arched church_. neck. [_is heard playing and singing in the distance, but now his melody has been transposed into d minor_] "i am hoping, i am hoping, that my redeemer still liveth." pastor. let us give praise and thanks unto the lord! all. we thank and praise thee, o lord! mats _and_ brita _kneel beside the body of_ kersti. _all the rest kneel around them and sing no_. 6 _from the "old" _swedish hymn-book_ (which is a free rendering of luther's_ "herr gott, dich loben wir," _and practically identical with the ambrosian_ "te deum laudamus"). all. [_singing_] "o god, we give thee praise! o lord, we give thee thanks! eternal father, whom the whole world worships! thy praise is sung by angels and all the heavenly powers; by cherubim and seraphim thy praise is sung incessantly: holy, holy, holy, lord god of sabaoth!" _curtain_. [1] old swedish folk-riddle, the expected answers to the questions being respectively: the thunder and an angel. [2] from the poetic edda: "the song of the high one." see introduction. [3] id. note 2. the spook sonata (spök-sonaten) chamber plays: opus iii 1907 characters old hummel _the_ student, _named arkenholtz_ _the_ milkmaid, _an apparition_ _the_ janitress _the_ ghost _of the consul_ _the_ dark lady, _daughter of the consul and the_ janitress _the_ colonel _the_ mummy, _wife of the_ colonel _the_ young lady, _supposedly the_ colonel's _daughter_, _but in reality the daughter of_ old hummel _the_ dandy, _called baron skansenkorge and engaged to the_ dark lady johansson, _in the service of_ hummel bengtsson, _the valet of the_ colonel _the_ fiancée, _a white-haired old woman, formerly engaged to_ hummel _the_ cook _a_ servant-girl beggars first scene _the stage shows the first and second stories of a modern corner home. at the left, the house continues into the wings; at the right, it faces on a street supposed to be running at right angle to the footlights_. _the apartment on the ground floor ends at the corner in a round room, above which is a balcony belonging to the apartment on the second floor. a flagstaff is fixed to the balcony_. _when the shades are raised in the windows of the round room, a statue of a young woman in white marble becomes visible inside, strongly illumined by sunlight. it is surrounded by palms. the windows on the left side of the round room contain a number of flower-pots, in which grow blue, white, and red hyacinths_. _a bedquilt of blue silk and two pillows in white cases are hung over the railing of the balcony on the second floor. the windows at the left of the balcony are covered with white sheets on the inside_. _a green bench stands on the sidewalk in front of the house. the right corner of the foreground is occupied by a drinking fountain; the corner at the left, by an advertising column_. _the main entrance to the house is near the left wing. through the open doorway appears the foot of the stairway, with steps of white marble and a banister of mahogany with brass trimmings. on the sidewalk, flanking the entrance, stand two laurel-trees in wooden tubs_. _at the left of the entrance, there is a window on the ground floor, with a window-mirror outside_. _it is a bright sunday morning_. _when the curtain rises, the bells of several churches are heard ringing in the distance_. _the doors of the entrance are wide open, and on the lowest step of the stairway stands the_ dark lady. _she does not make the slightest movement_. _the_ janitress _is sweeping the hallway. then she polishes the brass knobs on the doors. finally she waters the laurel-trees_. _near the advertising column_, old hummel _is reading his paper, seated in an invalid's chair on wheels. his hair and beard are white, and he wears spectacles_. _the_ milkmaid _enters from the side street, carrying milk-bottles in a crate of wire-work. she wears a light dress, brown shoes, black stockings, and a white cap_. _she takes off her cap and hangs it on the fountain; wipes the perspiration from her forehead; drinks out of the cup; washes her hands in the basin, and arranges her hair, using the water in the basin as a mirror_. _a steamship-bell is heard outside. then the silence is broken fitfully by a few bass notes from the organ in the nearest church_. _when silence reigns again, and the_ milkmaid _has finished her toilet, the_ student _enters from the left, unshaved and showing plainly that he has spent a sleepless night. he goes straight to the fountain. a pause ensues_. student. can i have the cup? _the_ milkmaid _draws back with the cup_. student. are you not almost done? _the_ milkmaid _stares at him with horror_. hummel. [_to himself_] with whom is he talking? i don't see anybody. wonder if he's crazy? [_he continues to look at them with evident surprise_. student. why do you stare at me? do i look so terrible--it is true that i haven't slept at all, and i suppose you think i have been making a night of it.... _the_ milkmaid _remains as before_. student. you think i have been drinking, do you? do i smell of liquor? _the_ milkmaid _remains as before_. student. i haven't shaved, of course.... oh, give me a drink of water, girl. i have earned it. [_pause_] well? must i then tell you myself that i have spent the night dressing wounds and nursing the injured? you see, i was present when that house collapsed last night.... now you know all about it. _the_ milkmaid _rinses the cup, fills it with water, and hands it to him_. student. thanks! _the_ milkmaid _stands immovable_. student. [_hesitatingly_] would you do me a favour? [_pause_] my eyes are inflamed, as you can see, and my hands have touched wounds and corpses. to touch my eyes with them would be dangerous.... will you take my handkerchief, which is clean, dip it in the fresh water, and bathe my poor eyes with it?--will you do that?--won't you play the good samaritan? _the_ milkmaid _hesitates at first, but does finally what he has asked_. student. thank you! [_he takes out his purse_. _the_ milkmaid _makes a deprecatory gesture_. student. pardon my absent-mindedness. i am not awake, you see.... _the_ milkmaid _disappears_. hummel. [_to the_ student] excuse a stranger, but i heard you mention last night's accident.... i was just reading about it in the paper.... student. is it already in the papers? hummel. all about it. even your portrait. they are sorry, though, that they have not been able to learn the name of the young student who did such splendid work.... student. [_glancing at the paper_] oh, is that me? well! hummel. whom were you talking to a while ago? student. didn't you see? [_pause_. hummel. would it be impertinent--to ask--your estimable name? student. what does it matter? i don't care for publicity. blame is always mixed into any praise you may get. the art of belittling is so highly developed. and besides, i ask no reward.... hummel. wealthy, i suppose? student. not at all--on the contrary--poor as a durmouse! hummel. look here.... it seems to me as if i recognised your voice. when i was young, i had a friend who always said "dur" instead of door. until now he was the one person i had ever heard using that pronunciation. you are the only other one.... could you possibly be a relative of the late mr. arkenholtz, the merchant? student. he was my father. hummel. wonderful are the ways of life.... i have seen you when you were a small child, under very trying circumstances.... student. yes, i have been told that i was born just after my father had gone bankrupt. hummel. so you were. student. may i ask your name? hummel. i am mr. hummel. student. you are? then i remember.... hummel. have you often heard my name mentioned at home? student. i have. hummel. and not in a pleasant way, i suppose? _the_ student _remains silent_. hummel. that's what i expected.--you were told, i suppose, that i had ruined your father?--all who are ruined by ill-advised speculations think themselves ruined by those whom they couldn't fool. [_pause_] the fact of it is, however, that your father robbed me of seventeen thousand crowns, which represented all my savings at that time. student. it is queer how the same story can be told in quite different ways. hummel. you don't think that i am telling the truth? student. how can i tell what to think? my father was not in the habit of lying. hummel. no, that's right, a father never lies.... but i am also a father, and for that reason.... student. what are you aiming at? hummel. i saved your father from misery, and he repaid me with the ruthless hatred that is born out of obligation.... he taught his family to speak ill of me. student. perhaps you made him ungrateful by poisoning your assistance with needless humiliation. hummel. all assistance is humiliating, sir. student. and what do you ask of me now? hummel. not the money back. but if you will render me a small service now and then, i shall consider myself well paid. i am a cripple, as you see. some people say it is my own fault. others lay it to my parents. i prefer to blame life itself, with its snares. to escape one of these snares is to walk headlong into another. as it is, i cannot climb stairways or ring door-bells, and for that reason i ask you: will you help me a little? student. what can i do for you? hummel. give my chair a push, to begin with, so that i can read the bills on that column. i wish to see what they are playing to-night. student. [_pushing the chair as directed_] have you no attendant? hummel. yes, but he is doing an errand. he'll be back soon. are you a medical student? student. no, i am studying philology, but i don't know what profession to choose.... hummel. well, well! are you good at mathematics? student. reasonably so. hummel. that's good! would you care to accept a position? student. yes, why not? hummel. fine! [_studying the playbills_] they are playing "the valkyr" at the matinee.... then the colonel will be there with his daughter, and as he always has the end seat in the sixth row, i'll put you next to him.... will you please go over to that telephone kiosk and order a ticket for seat eighty-two, in the sixth row? student. must i go to the opera in the middle of the day? hummel. yes. obey me, and you'll prosper. i wish to see you happy, rich, and honoured. your début last night in the part of the brave rescuer will have made you famous by to-morrow, and then your name will be worth a great deal. student. [_on his way out to telephone_] what a ludicrous adventure! hummel. are you a sportsman? student. yes, that has been my misfortune. hummel. then we'll turn it into good fortune.--go and telephone now. _the_ student _goes out_. hummel _begins to read his paper again. in the meantime the_ dark lady _has come out on the sidewalk and stands talking to the_ janitress. hummel _is taking in their conversation, of which, however, nothing is audible to the public_. _after a while the_ student _returns_. hummel. ready? student. it's done. hummel. have you noticed this house? student. yes, i have been watching it.... i happened to pass by yesterday, when the sun was making every window-pane glitter.... and thinking of all the beauty and luxury that must be found within, i said to my companion: "wouldn't it be nice to have an apartment on the fifth floor, a beautiful young wife, two pretty little children, and an income of twenty thousand crowns?"... hummel. so you said that? did you really? well, well! i am very fond of this house, too.... student. do you speculate in houses? hummel. mm-yah! but not in the way you mean. student. do you know the people who live here? hummel. all of them. a man of my age knows everybody, including their parents and grandparents, and in some manner he always finds himself related to every one else. i am just eighty--but nobody knows _me_--not through and through. i am very much interested in human destinies. _at that moment the shades are raised in the round room on the ground floor, and the_ colonel _becomes visible, dressed in civilian clothes. he goes to one of the windows to study the thermometer outside. then he turns back into the room and stops in front of the marble statue_. hummel. there's the colonel now, who will sit next to you at the opera this afternoon. student. is _he_--the colonel? i don't understand this at all, but it's like a fairy-tale. hummel. all my life has been like a collection of fairy-tales, my dear sir. although the tales read differently, they are all strung on a common thread, and the dominant theme recurs constantly. student. whom does that statue represent? hummel. his wife, of course. student. was she very lovely? hummel. mm-yah--well.... student. speak out. hummel. oh, we can't form any judgment about people, my dear boy. and if i told you that she left him, that he beat her, that she returned to him, that she married him a second time, and that she is living there now in the shape of a mummy, worshipping her own statue--then you would think me crazy. student. i don't understand at all. hummel. i didn't expect you would. then there is the window with the hyacinths. that's where his daughter lives? she is out for a ride now, but she will be home in a few moments. student. and who is the dark lady talking to the janitress? hummel. the answer is rather complicated, but it is connected with the dead man on the second floor, where you see the white sheets. student. who was he? hummel. a human being like you or me, but the most conspicuous thing about him was his vanity.... if you were born on a sunday, you might soon see him come down the stairway and go out on the sidewalk to make sure that the flag of the consulate is half-masted. you see, he was a consul, and he revelled in coronets and lions and plumed hats and coloured ribbons. student. you spoke of being born on a sunday.... so was i, i understand. hummel. no! really?... oh, i should have known.... the colour of your eyes shows it.... then you can see what other people can't. have you noticed anything of that kind? student. of course, i can't tell what other people see or don't see, but at times.... oh, such things you don't talk of! hummel. i was sure of it! and you can talk to me, because i--i understand--things of that kind.... student. yesterday, for instance.... i was drawn to that little side street where the house fell down afterward.... when i got there, i stopped in front of the house, which i had never seen before.... then i noticed a crack in the wall.... i could hear the floor beams snapping.... i rushed forward and picked up a child that was walking in front of the house at the time.... in another moment the house came tumbling down.... i was saved, but in my arms, which i thought held the child, there was nothing at all.... hummel. well, i must say!... much as i have heard.... please tell me one thing: what made you act as you did by the fountain a while ago? why were you talking to yourself? student. didn't you see the milkmaid to whom i was talking? hummel. [_horrified_] a milkmaid? student. yes, the girl who handed me the cup. hummel. oh, that's what it was.... well, i haven't that kind of sight, but there are other things.... _a white-haired old woman is seen at the window beside the entrance, looking into the window-mirror_. hummel. look at that old woman in the window. do you see her?--well, she was my fiancée once upon a time, sixty years ago.... i was twenty at that time.... never mind, she does not recognise me. we see each other every day, and i hardly notice her--although once we vowed to love each other eternally.... eternally! student. how senseless you were in those days! we don't talk to our girls like that. hummel. forgive us, young man! we didn't know better.--can you see that she was young and pretty once? student. it doesn't show.... oh, yes, she has a beautiful way of looking at things, although i can't see her eyes clearly. _the_ janitress _comes out with a basket on her arm and begins to cover the sidewalk with chopped hemlock branches, as is usual in sweden when a funeral is to be held_. hummel. and the janitress--hm! that dark lady is her daughter and the dead man's, and that's why her husband was made janitor.... but the dark lady has a lover, who is a dandy with great expectations. he is now getting a divorce from his present wife, who is giving him an apartment-house to get rid of him. this elegant lover is the son-in-law of the dead man, and you can see his bedclothes being aired on the balcony up there.... that's a bit complicated, i should say! student. yes, it's fearfully complicated. hummel. it certainly is, inside and outside, no matter how simple it may look. student. but who was the dead man? hummel. so you asked me a while ago, and i answered you. if you could look around the corner, where the servants' entrance is, you would see a lot of poor people whom he used to help--when he was in the mood.... student. he was a kindly man, then? hummel. yes--at times. student. not always? hummel. no-o.... people are like that!--will you please move the chair a little, so that i get into the sunlight? i am always cold. you see, the blood congeals when you can't move about.... death isn't far away from me, i know, but i have a few things to do before it comes.... just take hold of my hand and feel how cold i am. student. [_taking his hand_] i should say so! [_he shrinks back_. hummel. don't leave me! i am tired now, and lonely, but i haven't always been like this, you know. i have an endlessly long life back of--enormously long.... i have made people unhappy, and other people have made me unhappy, and one thing has to be put against the other, but before i die, i wish to see you happy.... our destinies have become intertwined, thanks to your father--and many other things.... student. let go my hand! you are taking all my strength! you are freezing me! what do you want of me? hummel. patience, and you'll see, and understand.... there comes the young lady now.... student. the colonel's daughter? hummel. his daughter--yes! look at her!--did you ever see such a masterpiece? student. she resembles the marble statue in there. hummel. it's her mother. student. you are right.... never did i see such a woman of woman born!--happy the man who may lead her to the altar and to his home! hummel. you see it, then? her beauty is not discovered by everybody.... then it is written in the book of life! _the_ young lady _enters from the left, wearing a close-fitting english riding-suit. without looking at any one, she walks slowly to the entrance, where she stops and exchanges a few words with the_ janitress. _then she disappears into the house. the_ student _covers his eyes with his hand_. hummel. are you crying? student. can you meet what is hopeless with anything but despair? hummel. i have the power of opening doors and hearts, if i can only find an arm to do my will.... serve me, and you shall also have power.... student. is it to be a bargain? do you want me to sell my soul? hummel. don't sell anything!... you see, all my life i have been used to _take_. now i have a craving to give--to give! but no one will accept.... i am rich, very rich, but have no heirs except a scamp who is tormenting the life out of me.... become my son! inherit me while i am still alive! enjoy life, and let me look on--from a distance, at least! student. what am i to do? hummel. go and hear "the valkyr" first of all. student. that's settled--but what more? hummel. this evening you shall be in the round room. student. how am i to get there? hummel. through "the valkyr." student. why have you picked me to be your instrument? did you know me before? hummel. of course, i did! i have had my eyes on you for a long time.... look at the balcony now, where the maid is raising the flag at half-mast in honour of the consul.... and then she turns the bedclothes.... do you notice that blue quilt? it was made to cover two, and now it is only covering one.... [_the_ young lady _appears at her window, having changed dress in the meantime; she waters the hyacinths_] there is my little girl now. look at her--look! she is talking to her flowers, and she herself looks like a blue hyacinth. she slakes their thirst--with pure water only--and they transform the water into colour and fragrance.... there comes the colonel with the newspaper! he shows her the story about the house that fell down--and he points at your portrait! she is not indifferent--she reads of your deeds.... it's clouding up, i think.... i wonder if it's going to rain? then i shall be in a nice fix, unless johansson comes back soon [_the sun has disappeared, and now the stage is growing darker; the white-haired old woman closes her window_] now my fiancée is closing her window.... she is seventy-nine--and the only mirror she uses is the window-mirror, because there she sees not herself, but the world around her--and she sees it from two sides--but it has not occurred to her that she can be seen by the world, too.... a handsome old lady, after all.... _now the_ ghost, _wrapped in winding sheets, comes out of the entrance_. student. good god, what is that i see? hummel. what _do_ you see? student. don't _you_ see?... there, at the entrance.... the dead man? hummel. i see nothing at all, but that was what i expected. tell me.... student. he comes out in the street.... [_pause_] now he turns his head to look at the flag. hummel. what did i tell you? and you may be sure that he will count the wreaths and study the visiting-cards attached to them.... and i pity anybody that is missing! student. now he goes around the corner.... hummel. he wants to count the poor at the other entrance.... the poor are so decorative, you know.... "followed by the blessings of many".... but he won't get any blessing from me!--between us, he was a big rascal! student. but charitable.... hummel. a charitable rascal, who always had in mind the splendid funeral he expected to get.... when he knew that his end was near, he cheated the state out of fifty thousand crowns.... and now his daughter goes about with ... another woman's husband, and wonders what is in his will.... yes, the rascal can hear every word we say, and he is welcome to it!--there comes johansson now. johansson _enters from the left_. hummel. report! johansson _can be seen speaking, but not a word of what he says is heard_. hummel. not at home, you say? oh, you are no good!--any telegram?--not a thing.... go on!--six o'clock to-night?--that's fine!--an extra, you say?--with his full name?--arkenholtz, a student, yes.... born.... parents.... that's splendid! i think it's beginning to rain.... what did he say?--is that so?--he won't?--well, then he must!--here comes the dandy.... push me around the corner, johansson, so i can hear what the poor people have to say.... [_to the_ student] and you had better wait for me here, arkenholtz.... do you understand?--[_to_ johansson] hurry up now, hurry up! johansson _pushes the chair into the side street and out of sight. the_ student _remains on the same spot, looking at the_ young lady, _who is using a small rake to loosen up the earth in her pots. the_ dandy _enters and joins the_ dark lady, _who has been walking back and forth on the sidewalk. he is in mourning_. dandy. well, what is there to do about it? we simply have to wait. dark lady. but i can't wait! dandy. is that so? then you'll have to go to the country. dark lady. i don't want to! dandy. come this way, or they'll hear what we are saying. _they go toward the advertising column and continue their talk inaudibly_. johansson. [_entering from the right; to the_ student] my master asks you not to forget that other thing. student. [_dragging his words_] look here.... tell me, please.... who _is_ your master? johansson. oh, he's so many things, and he has been everything.... student. is he in his right mind? johansson. who can tell?--all his life he has been looking for one born on sunday, he says--which does not mean that it must be true.... student. what is he after? is he a miser? johansson. he wants to rule.... the whole day long he travels about in his chair like the god of thunder himself he looks at houses, tears them down, opens up new streets, fills the squares with buildings.... at the same time he breaks into houses, sneaks through open windows, plays havoc with human destinies, kills his enemies, and refuses to forgive anything.... can you imagine that a cripple like him has been a don juan--but one who has always lost the women he loved? student. how can you make those things go together? johansson. he is so full of guile that he can make the women leave him when he is tired of them.... just now he is like a horse thief practising at a slave-market.... he steals human beings, and in all sorts of ways.... he has literally stolen me out of the hands of the law.... hm.... yes.... i had been guilty of a slip. and no one but he knew of it. instead of putting me in jail, he made a slave of me. all i get for my slavery is the food i eat, which might be better at that.... student. and what does he wish to do in this house here? johansson. no, i don't want to tell! it's too complicated.... student. i think i'll run away from the whole story.... _the_ young lady _drops a bracelet out of the window so that it falls on the sidewalk_. johansson. did you see the young lady drop her bracelet out of the window? _without haste, the_ student _picks up the bracelet and hands it to the_ young lady, _who thanks him rather stiffly; then he returns to_ johansson. johansson. so you want to run away? that is more easily said than done when _he_ has got you in his net.... and he fears nothing between heaven and earth except one thing or one person rather.... student. wait--i think i know! johansson. how could you? student. i can guess! is it not--a little milkmaid that he fears? johansson. he turns his head away whenever he meets a milk wagon.... and at times he talks in his sleep.... he must have been in hamburg at one time, i think.... student. is this man to be trusted? johansson. you may trust him--to do anything! student. what is he doing around the corner now? johansson. watching the poor dropping a word here and a word there.... loosening a stone at a time ... until the whole house comes tumbling down, metaphorically speaking.... you see, i am an educated man, and i used to be a book dealer.... are you going now? student. i find it hard to be ungrateful.... once upon a time he saved my father, and now he asks a small service in return.... johansson. what is it? student. to go and see "the valkyr".... johansson. that's beyond me.... but he is always up to new tricks.... look at him now, talking to the police-man! he is always thick with the police. he uses them. he snares them in their own interests. he ties their hands by arousing their expectations with false promises--while all the time he is pumping them.... you'll see that he is received in the round room before the day is over! student. what does he want there? what has he to do with the colonel? johansson. i think i can guess, but know nothing with certainty. but you'll see for yourself when you get there! student. i'll never get there. johansson. that depends on yourself!--go to "the valkyr." student. is that the road? johansson. yes, if he has said so--look at him there--look at him in his war chariot, drawn in triumph by the beggars, who get nothing for their pains but a hint of a great treat to be had at his funeral. old hummel _appears standing in his invalid's chair, which is drawn by one of the_ beggars, _and followed by the rest_. hummel. give honour to the noble youth who, at the risk of his own, saved so many lives in yesterday's accident! three cheers for arkenholtz! _the_ beggars _bare their heads, but do not cheer. the_ young lady _appears at her window, waving her handkerchief. the_ colonel _gazes at the scene from a window in the round room. the_ fiancée _rises at her window. the_ maid _appears on the balcony and hoists the flag to the top_. hummel. applaud, citizens! it is sunday, of course, but the ass in the pit and the ear in the field will absolve us. although i was not born on a sunday, i have the gift of prophecy and of healing, and on one occasion i brought a drowned person back to life.... that happened in hamburg on a sunday morning just like this.... _the_ milkmaid _enters, seen only by the_ student _and_ hummel. _she raises her arms with the movement of a drowning person, while gazing fixedly at_ hummel. hummel. [_sits down; then he crumbles in a heap, stricken with horror_] get me out of here, johansson! quick!--arkenholtz, don't forget "the valkyr!" student. what is the meaning of all this? johansson. we'll see! we'll see! _curtain_. second scene _in the round room. an oven of white, glazed bricks occupies the centre of the background. the mantelpiece is covered by a large mirror. an ornamental clock and candelabra stand on the mantelshelf_. _at the right of the mantelpiece is a door leading into a hallway, back of which may be seen a room papered in green, with mahogany furniture. the_ colonel _is seated at a writing-desk, so that only his back is visible to the public_. _the statue stands at the left, surrounded by palms and with draperies arranged so that it can be hidden entirely_. _a door at the left of the mantelpiece opens on the hyacinth room, where the_ young lady _is seen reading a book_. bengtsson, _the valet, enters from the hallway, dressed in livery. he is followed by_ johansson _in evening dress with white tie_. bengtsson. now you'll have to do the waiting, johansson, while i take the overclothes. do you know how to do it? johansson. although i am pushing a war chariot in the daytime, as you know, i wait in private houses at night, and i have always dreamt of getting into this place.... queer sort of people, hm? bengtsson. yes, a little out of the ordinary, one might say. johansson. is it a musicale, or what is it? bengtsson. the usual spook supper, as we call it. they drink tea and don't say a word, or else the colonel does all the talking. and then they munch their biscuits, all at the same time, so that it sounds like the gnawing of a lot of rats in an attic. johansson. why do you call it a spook supper? bengtsson. because they look like spooks.... and they have kept this up for twenty years--always the same people, saying the same things or keeping silent entirely, lest they be put to shame. johansson. is there not a lady in the house, too? bengtsson. yes, but she is a little cracked. she sits all the time in a closet, because her eyes can't bear the light. [_he points at a papered door_] she is in there now. johansson. in there, you say? bengtsson. i told you they were a little out of the ordinary.... johansson. how does she look? bengtsson. like a mummy.... would you care to look at her? [_he opens the papered door_] there she is now! johansson. mercy! mummy. [_talking baby talk_] why does he open the door? haven't i told him to keep it closed? bengtsson. [_in the same way_] ta-ta-ta-ta! polly must be nice now. then she'll get something good. pretty polly! mummy. [_imitating a parrot_] pretty polly! are you there, jacob? currrrr! bengtsson. she thinks herself a parrot, and maybe she's right [_to the_ mummy] whistle for us, polly. _the_ mummy _whistles_. johansson. much i have seen, but never the like of it! bengtsson. well, you see, a house gets mouldy when it grows old, and when people are too much together, tormenting each other all the time, they lose their reason. the lady of this house.... shut up, polly!... that mummy has been living here forty years--with the same husband, the same furniture, the same relatives, the same friends.... [_he closes the papered door_] and the happenings this house has witnessed! well, it's beyond me.... look at that statue. that's the selfsame lady in her youth. johansson. good lord! can that be the mummy? bengtsson. yes, it's enough to make you weep!--and somehow, carried away by her own imagination, perhaps, she has developed some of the traits of the talkative parrot.... she can't stand cripples or sick people, for instance.... she can't bear the sight of her own daughter, because she is sick.... johansson. is the young lady sick? bengtsson. don't you know that? johansson. no.--and the colonel--who is he? bengtsson. that remains to be seen! johansson. [_looking at the statue_] it's horrible to think that.... how old is she now? bengtsson. nobody knows. but at thirty-five she is said to have looked like nineteen, and that's the age she gave to the colonel.... in this house.... do you know what that japanese screen by the couch is used for? they call it the death screen, and it is placed in front of the bed when somebody is dying, just as they do in hospitals.... johansson. this must be an awful house! and the student was longing for it as for paradise.... bengtsson. what student? oh, i know! the young chap who is coming here to-night.... the colonel and the young lady met him at the opera and took a great fancy to him at once.... hm!... but now it's my turn to ask questions. who's your master? the man in the invalid's chair?... johansson. well, well! is he coming here, too? bengtsson. he has not been invited. johansson. he'll come without invitation--if necessary. old hummel _appears in the hallway, dressed in frock coat and high hat. he uses crutches, but moves without a noise, so that he is able to listen to the two servants._ bengtsson. he's a sly old guy, isn't he? johansson. yes, he's a good one! bengtsson. he looks like the very devil. johansson. he's a regular wizard, i think because he can pass through locked doors.... hummel. [_comes forward and pinches the ear of_ johansson] look out, you scoundrel! [_to_ bengtsson] tell the colonel i am here. bengtsson. we expect company.... hummel. i know, but my visit is as good as expected, too, although not exactly desired, perhaps.... bengtsson. i see! what's the name? mr. hummel? hummel. that's right. bengtsson _crosses the hallway to the green room, the door of which he closes behind him_. hummel. [_to_ johansson] vanish! johansson _hesitates_. hummel. vanish, i say! johansson _disappears through the hallway_. hummel. [_looking around and finally stopping in front of the statue, evidently much surprised_] amelia!--it is she!--she! _he takes another turn about the room, picking up various objects to look at them; then he stops in front of the mirror to arrange his wig; finally he returns to the statue_. mummy. [_in the closet_] prrretty polly! hummel. [_startled_] what was that? is there a parrot in the room? i don't see it! mummy. are you there, jacob? hummel. the place is haunted! mummy. jacob! hummel. now i am scared!... so that's the kind of secrets they have been keeping in this house! [_he stops in front of a picture with his back turned to the closet_] and that's he.... he! mummy. [_comes out of the closet and pulls the wig of_ hummel] currrrr! is that currrrr? hummel. [_almost lifted off his feet by fright_] good lord in heaven!... who are you? mummy. [_speaking in a normal voice_] is that you, jacob? hummel. yes, my name is jacob.... mummy. [_deeply moved_] and my name is amelia! hummel. oh, no, no, no!--merciful heavens!... mummy. how i look! that's right!--and _have_ looked like that! [_pointing to the statue_] life is a pleasant thing, is it not?... i live mostly in the closet, both in order to see nothing and not to be seen.... but, jacob, what do you want here? hummel. my child our child.... mummy. there she sits. hummel. where? mummy. there--in the hyacinth room. hummel. [_looking at the_ young lady] yes, that is she! [_pause_] and what does her father say.... i mean the colonel.... your husband? mummy. once, when i was angry with him, i told him everything.... hummel. and?... mummy. he didn't believe me. all he said was: "that's what all women say when they wish to kill their husbands."--it is a dreadful crime, nevertheless. his whole life has been turned into a lie--his family tree, too. sometimes i take a look in the peerage, and then i say to myself: "here she is going about with a false birth certificate, just like any runaway servant-girl, and for such things people are sent to the reformatory." hummel. well, it's quite common. i think i recall a certain incorrectness in regard to the date of your own birth. mummy. it was my mother who started that.... i was not to blame for it.... and it was you, after all, who had the greater share in our guilt.... hummel. no, what wrong we did was provoked by your husband when he took my fiancée away from me! i was born a man who cannot forgive until he has punished. to punish has always seemed an imperative duty to me--and so it seems still! mummy. what are you looking for in this house? what do you want? how did you get in?--does it concern my daughter? if you touch her, you must die! hummel. i mean well by her! mummy. and you have to spare her father! hummel. no! mummy. then you must die ... in this very room ... back of that screen.... hummel. perhaps.... but i can't let go when i have got my teeth in a thing.... mummy. you wish to marry her to the student? why? he is nothing and has nothing. hummel. he will be rich, thanks to me. mummy. have you been invited for to-night? hummel. no, but i intend to get an invitation for your spook supper. mummy. do you know who will be here? hummel. not quite. mummy. the baron--he who lives above us, and whose father-in-law was buried this afternoon.... hummel. the man who is getting a divorce to marry the daughter of the janitress.... the man who used to be--your lover! mummy. another guest will be your former fiancée, who was seduced by my husband.... hummel. very select company! mummy. if the lord would let us die! oh, that we might only die! hummel. but why do you continue to associate? mummy. crime and guilt and secrets bind us together, don't you know? our ties have snapped so that we have slipped apart innumerable times, but we are always drawn together again.... hummel. i think the colonel is coming. mummy. i'll go in to adèle, then.... [_pause_] consider what you do, jacob! spare him.... [_pause; then she goes out_. colonel. [_enters, haughty and reserved_] won't you be seated, please? hummel _seats himself with great deliberation; pause_. colonel. [_staring at his visitor_] you wrote this letter, sir? hummel. i did. colonel. your name is hummel? hummel. it is. [_pause_. colonel. as i learn that you have bought up all my unpaid and overdue notes, i conclude that i am at your mercy. what do you want? hummel. payment--in one way or another. colonel. in what way? hummel. a very simple one. let us not talk of the money. all you have to do is to admit me as a guest.... colonel. if a little thing like that will satisfy you.... hummel. i thank you. colonel. anything more? hummel. discharge bengtsson. colonel. why should i do so? my devoted servant, who has been with me a lifetime, and who has the medal for long and faithful service.... why should i discharge him? hummel. those wonderful merits exist only in your imagination. he is not the man he seems to be. colonel. _who is_? hummel. [_taken back_] true!--but bengtsson must go! colonel. do you mean to order my household? hummel. i do ... as everything visible here belongs to me ... furniture, draperies, dinner ware, linen and other things! colonel. what other things? hummel. everything! all that is to be seen is mine! i own it! colonel. granted! but for all that, my coat of arms and my unspotted name belong to myself. hummel. no--not even that much! [_pause_] you are not a nobleman! colonel. take care! hummel. [_producing a document_] if you'll read this extract from the armorial, you will see that the family whose name you are using has been extinct for a century. colonel. [_reading the document_] i have heard rumours to that effect, but the name was my father's before it was mine.... [_reading again_] that's right! yes, you are right--i am not a nobleman! not even that!--then i may as well take off my signet-ring.... oh, i remember now.... it belongs to you.... if you please! hummel. [_accepting the ring and putting it into his pocket_] we had better continue. you are no colonel, either. colonel. am i not? hummel. no, you have simply held the title of colonel in the american volunteer service by special appointment. after the war in cuba and the reorganisation of the army, all titles of that kind were abolished.... colonel. is that true? hummel. [_with a gesture toward his pocket_] do you wish to see for yourself? colonel. no, it won't be necessary.--who are you, anyhow, and with what right are you stripping me naked in this fashion? hummel. you'll see by and by. as to stripping you naked--do you know who you are in reality? colonel. how dare you? hummel. take off that wig, and have a look at yourself in the mirror. take out that set of false teeth and shave off your moustache, too. let bengtsson remove the iron stays--and perhaps a certain x y z, a lackey, may begin to recognise himself--the man who used to visit the maid's chamber in a certain house for a bite of something good.... _the_ colonel _makes a movement toward a table on which stands a bell, but is checked by_ hummel. hummel. don't touch that bell, and don't call bengtsson! if you do, i'll have him arrested.... now the guests are beginning to arrive.... keep your composure, and let us continue to play our old parts for a while. colonel. who are you? your eyes and your voice remind me of somebody.... hummel. don't try to find out! keep silent and obey! student. [_enters and bows to the_ colonel] colonel! colonel. i bid you welcome to my house, young man. your splendid behaviour in connection with that great disaster has brought your name to everybody's lips, and i count it an honour to receive you here.... student. being a man of humble birth, colonel and considering your name and position.... colonel. may i introduce?--mr. arkenholtz--mr. hummel. the ladies are in there, mr. arkenholtz--if you please--i have a few more things to talk over with mr. hummel.... _guided by the_ colonel, _the_ student _goes into the hyacinth room, where he remains visible, standing beside the_ young lady _and talking very timidly to her_. colonel. a splendid young chap--very musical--sings, and writes poetry.... if he were only a nobleman--if he belonged to our class, i don't think i should object.... hummel. to what? colonel. oh, my daughter.... hummel. _your_ daughter, you say?--but apropos of that, why is she always sitting in that room? colonel. she has to spend all her time in the hyacinth room when she is not out. that is a peculiarity of hers.... here comes miss betty von holstein-kron--a charming woman--a secular canoness, with just enough money of her own to suit her birth and position.... hummel. [_to__himself_] my fiancée! _the_ fiancée _enters. she is white-haired, and her looks indicate a slightly unbalanced mind_. colonel. miss von holstein-kron--mr. hummel. _the_ fiancée _curtseys in old-fashioned manner and takes a seat. the_ dandy _enters and seats himself; he is in mourning and has a very mysterious look._ colonel. baron skansenkorge.... hummel. [_aside, without rising_] that's the jewelry thief, i think.... [_to the_ colonel] if you bring in the mummy, our gathering will be complete. colonel. [_going to the door of the hyacinth room_] polly! mummy. [_enters_] currrrr! colonel. how about the young people? hummel. no, not the young people! they must be spared. _the company is seated in a circle, no one saying a word for a while_. colonel. shall we order the tea now? hummel. what's the use? no one cares for tea, and i can't see the need of pretending. [_pause_. colonel. shall we make conversation? hummel. [_speaking slowly and with frequent pauses._] talk of the weather, which we know all about? ask one another's state of health, which we know just as well? i prefer silence. then thoughts become audible, and we can see the past. silence can hide nothing--but words can. i read the other day that the differentiation of languages had its origin in the desire among savage peoples to keep their tribal secrets hidden from outsiders. this means that every language is a code, and he who finds the universal key can understand every language in the world--which does not prevent the secret from becoming revealed without any key at times, and especially when the fact of paternity is to be proved--but, of course, legal proof is a different matter. two false witnesses suffice to prove, anything on which they agree, but you don't bring any witnesses along on the kind of expedition i have in mind. nature herself has planted in man a sense of modesty, which tends to hide that which should be hidden. but we slip into situations unawares, and now and then a favourable chance will reveal the most cherished secret, stripping the impostor of his mask, and exposing the villain.... _long pause during which everybody is subject to silent scrutiny by all the rest_. hummel. how silent everybody is! [_long silence_] here, for instance, in this respectable house, this attractive home, where beauty and erudition and wealth have joined hands.... [_long silence_] all of us sitting here now--we know who we are, don't we? i don't need to tell.... and all of you know me, although you pretend ignorance.... in the next room is my daughter--_mine_, as you know perfectly well. she has lost the desire to live without knowing why.... the fact is that she has been pining away in this air charged with crime and deceit and falsehood of every kind.... that is the reason why i have looked for a friend in whose company she may enjoy the light and heat radiated by noble deeds [_long silence_] here is my mission in this house: to tear up the weeds, to expose the crimes, to settle all accounts, so that those young people may start life with a clean slate in a home that is my gift to them. [_long silence_] now i grant you safe retreat. everybody may leave in his due turn. whoever stays will be arrested. [_long silence_] do you hear that clock ticking like the deathwatch hidden in a wall? can you hear what it says?--"it's time! it's time!"--when it strikes in a few seconds, your time will be up, and then you can go, but not before. you may notice, too, that the clock shakes its fist at you before it strikes. listen! there it is! "better beware," it says.... and i can strike, too [_he raps the top of a table with one of his crutches_] do you hear? _for a while everybody remains silent_. mummy. [_goes up to the dock and stops it; then she speaks in a normal and dignified tone_] but i can stop time in its course. i can wipe out the past and undo what is done. bribes won't do that, nor will threats--but suffering and repentance will [_she goes to_ hummel] we are miserable human creatures, and we know it. we have erred and we have sinned--we, like everybody else. we are not what we seem, but at bottom we are better than ourselves because we disapprove of our own misdeeds. and when you, jacob hummel, with your assumed name, propose to sit in judgment on us, you merely prove yourself worse than all the rest. you are not the one you seem to be--no more than we! you are a thief of human souls! you stole mine once upon a time by means of false promises. you killed the consul, whom they buried this afternoon--strangling him with debts. you are now trying to steal the soul of the student with the help of an imaginary claim against his father, who never owed you a farthing.... _having vainly tried to rise and say something_, hummel _sinks back into his chair; as the_ mummy _continues her speech he seems to shrink and lose volume more and more_. mummy. there is one dark spot in your life concerning which i am not certain, although i have my suspicions.... i believe bengtsson can throw light on it. [_she rings the table-bell_. hummel. no! not bengtsson! not him! mummy. so he _does_ know? [_she rings again_. _the_ milkmaid _appears in the hallway, but is only seen by_ hummel, _who shrinks back in horror. then_ bengtsson _enters, and the_ milkmaid _disappears_. mummy. do you know this man, bengtsson? bengtsson. oh yes, i know him, and he knows me. life has its ups and downs, as you know. i have been in his service, and he has been in mine. for two years he came regularly to our kitchen to be fed by our cook. because he had to be at work at a certain hour, she made the dinner far ahead of time, and we had to be satisfied with the warmed-up leavings of that beast. he drank the soup-stock, so that we got nothing but water. like a vampire, the sucked the house of all nourishment, until we became reduced to mere skeletons--and he nearly got us into jail when we dared to call the cook a thief. later i met that man in hamburg, where he had another name. then he was a money-lender, a regular leech. while there, he was accused of having lured a young girl out on the ice in order to drown her, because she had seen him commit a crime, and he was afraid of being exposed.... mummy. [_making a pass with her hand over the face of_ hummel _as if removing a mask_] that's you! and now, give up the notes and the will! johansson _appears in the hallway and watches the scene with great interest, knowing that his slavery will now come to an end_. hummel _produces a bundle of papers and throws them on the table_. mummy. [_stroking the back of_ hummel] polly! are you there, jacob? hummel. [_talking like a parrot_] here is jacob!--pretty polly! currrr! mummy. may the clock strike? hummel. [_with a clucking noise like that of a clock preparing to strike_] the dock may strike! [_imitating a cuckoo-clock]_ cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.... mummy. [_opening the closet door_] now the clock has struck! rise and enter the closet where i have spent twenty years bewailing our evil deed. there you will find a rope that may represent the one with which you strangled the consul as well as the one with which you meant to strangle your benefactor.... go! hummel _enters the closet_. mummy. [_closes the door after him_] put up the screen, bengtsson.... the death screen! bengtsson _places the screen in front of the door._ mummy. it is finished! god have mercy on his soul! all. amen! _long silence. then the_ young lady _appears in the hyacinth room with the_ student. _she seats herself at a harp and begins a prelude, which changes into an accompaniment to the following recitative_: student. [_singing_] "seeing the sun, it seemed to my fancy that i beheld the spirit that's hidden. man must for ever reap what he planted: happy is he who has done no evil. wrong that was wrought in moments of anger never by added wrong can be righted. kindness shown to the man whose sorrow sprang from your deed, will serve you better. fear and guilt have their home together: happy indeed is the guiltless man!" _curtain_. third scene _a room furnished in rather bizarre fashion. the general effect of it is oriental. hyacinths of different colours are scattered everywhere. on the mantelshelf of the fireplace is seen a huge, seated buddha, in whose lap rests a bulb. from that bulb rises the stalk of a shallot_ (allium ascalonicum), _spreading aloft its almost globular cluster of white, starlike flowers_. _an open door in the rear wall, toward the right-hand side, leads to the round room, where the_ colonel _and the_ mummy _are seated. they don't stir and don't utter a word. a part of the death screen is also visible_. _another door, at the left, leads to the pantry and the kitchen. the_ young lady _[adèle] and the_ student _are discovered near a table. she is seated at her harp, and he stands beside her_. young lady. sing to my flowers. student. is this the flower of your soul? young lady. the one and only.--are you fond of the hyacinth? student. i love it above all other flowers. i love its virginal shape rising straight and slender out of the bulb that rests on the water and sends its pure white rootlets down into the colourless fluid. i love the colour of it, whether innocently white as snow or sweetly yellow as honey; whether youthfully pink or maturely red; but above all if blue--with the deep-eyed, faith-inspiring blue of the morning sky. i love these flowers, one and all; love them more than pearls or gold, and have loved them ever since i was a child. i have always admired them, too, because they possess every handsome quality that i lack.... and yet.... young lady. what? student. my love is unrequited. these beautiful blossoms hate me. young lady. how do you mean? student. their fragrance, powerful and pure as the winds of early spring, which have passed over melting snow--it seems to confuse my senses, to make me deaf and blind, to crowd me out of the room, to bombard me with poisoned arrows that hurt my heart and set my head on fire. do you know the legend of that flower? young lady. tell me about it. student. let us first interpret its symbolism. the bulb is the earth, resting on the water or buried in the soil. from that the stalk rises, straight as the axis of the universe. at its upper end appear the six-pointed, starlike flowers. young lady. above the earth--the stars! what lofty thought! where did you find it? how did you discover it? student. let me think.... in your eyes!--it is, therefore, an image of the cosmos. and that is the reason why buddha is holding the earth-bulb in his lap, brooding on it with a steady gaze, in order that he may behold it spread outward and upward as it becomes transformed into a heaven.... this poor earth must turn into a heaven! that is what buddha is waiting for! young lady. i see now.... are not the snow crystals six-pointed, too, like the hyacinth-lily? student. you are right! thus the snow crystal is a falling star.... young lady. and the snowdrop is a star of snow--grown out of the snow. student. but the largest and most beautiful of all the stars in the firmament, the red and yellow sirius, is the narcissus, with its yellow-and-red cup and its six white rays.... young lady. have you seen the shallot bloom? student. indeed, i have! it hides its flowers within a ball, a globe resembling the celestial one, and strewn, like that, with white stars.... young lady. what a tremendous thought! whose was it? student. yours! young lady. no, yours! student. ours, then! we have jointly given birth to something: we are wedded.... young lady. not yet. student. what more remains? young lady. to await the coming ordeal in patience! student. i am ready for it. [_pause_] tell me! why do your parents sit there so silently, without saying a single word? young lady. because they have nothing to say to each other, and because neither one believes what the other says. this is the way my father puts it: "what is the use of talking, when you can't fool each other anyhow?" student. that's horrible.... young lady. here comes the cook.... look! how big and fat she is! student. what does she want? young lady. ask me about the dinner.... you see, i am looking after the house during my mother's illness. student. have we to bother about the kitchen, too? young lady. we must eat.... look at that cook.... i can't bear the sight of her.... student. what kind of a monster is she? young lady. she belongs to the hummel family of vampires. she is eating us alive. student. why don't you discharge her? young lady. because she won't leave. we can do nothing with her, and we have got her for the sake of our sins.... don't you see that we are pining and wasting away? student. don't you get enough to eat? young lady. plenty of dishes, but with all the nourishment gone from the food. she boils the life out of the beef, and drinks the stock herself, while we get nothing but fibres and water. in the same way, when we have roast, she squeezes it dry. then she eats the gravy and drinks the juice herself. she takes the strength and savour out of everything she touches. it is as if her eyes were leeches. when she has had coffee, we get the grounds. she drinks the wine and puts water into the bottles.... student. kick her out! young lady. we can't! student. why not? young lady. we don't know! but she won't leave! and nobody can do anything with her. she has taken all our strength away from us. student. will you let me dispose of her? young lady. no! it has to be as it is, i suppose.--here she is now. she will ask me what i wish for dinner, and i tell her, and then she will make objections, and in the end she has her own way. student. why don't you leave it to her entirely? young lady. she won't let me. student. what a strange house! it seems to be bewitched! young lady. it is!--now she turned back on seeing you here. cook. [_appearing suddenly in the doorway at that very moment_] naw, that was not the reason. [_she grins so that every tooth can be seen_. student. get out of here! cook. when it suits me! [_pause_] now it does suit me! [_she disappears_. young lady. don't lose your temper! you must practise patience. she is part of the ordeal we have to face in this house. we have a chambermaid, too, after whom we have to put everything back where it belongs. student. now i am sinking! _cor in aethere!_ music! young lady. wait! student. music! young lady. patience!--this is named the room of ordeal.... it is beautiful to look at, but is full of imperfections. student. incredible! yet such things have to be borne. it is very beautiful, although a little cold. why don't you have a fire? young lady. because the smoke comes into the room. student. have the chimney swept! young lady. it doesn't help.--do you see that writing-table? student. remarkably handsome! young lady. but one leg is too short. every day i put a piece of cork under that leg. every day the chambermaid takes it away when she sweeps the room. every day i have to cut a new piece. both my penholder and my inkstand are covered with ink every morning, and i have to clean them after that woman--as sure as the sun rises. [_pause]_ what is the worst thing you can think of? student. to count the wash. ugh! young lady. that's what i have to do. ugh! student. anything else? young lady. to be waked out of your sleep and have to get up and dose the window--which the chambermaid has left unlatched. student. anything else? young lady. to get up on a ladder and tie on the cord which the chambermaid has torn from the window-shade. student. anything else? young lady. to sweep after her; to dust after her; to start the fire again, after she has merely thrown some wood into the fireplace! to watch the damper in the fireplace; to wipe every glass; to set the table over again; to open the wine-bottles; to see that the rooms are aired; to make over your bed; to rinse the water-bottle that is green with sediment; to buy matches and soap, which are always lacking; to wipe the chimneys and cut the wicks in order to keep the lamps from smoking and in order to keep them from going out when we have company, i have to fill them myself.... student. music! young lady. wait! the labour comes first--the labour of keeping the filth of life at a distance. student. but you are wealthy, and you have two servants? young lady. what does that help? what would it help to have three? it is troublesome to live, and at times i get tired.... think, then, of adding a nursery! student. the greatest of joys.... young lady. and the costliest.... is life really worth so much trouble? student. it depends on the reward you expect for your labours.... to win your hand i would face anything. young lady. don't talk like that. you can never get me. student. why? young lady. you mustn't ask. [_pause_. student. you dropped your bracelet out of the window.... young lady. yes, because my hand has grown too small.... [_pause_. _the_ cook _appears with a bottle of japanese soy in her hand_. young lady. there is the one that eats me and all the rest alive. student. what has she in her hand? cook. this is my colouring bottle that has letters on it looking like scorpions. it's the soy that turns water into bouillon, and that takes the place of gravy. you can make cabbage soup out of it, or mock-turtle soup, if you prefer. student. out with you! cook. you take the sap out of us, and we out of you. we keep the blood for ourselves and leave you the water--with the colouring. it's the colour that counts! now i shall leave, but i stay just the same--as long as i please! [_she goes out_. student. why has bengtsson got a medal? young lady. on account of his great merits. student. has he no faults? young lady. yes, great ones, but faults bring you no medals, you know. [_both smile_. student. you have a lot of secrets in this house.... young lady. as in all houses.... permit us to keep ours! [_pause_. student. do you care for frankness? young lady. within reason. student. at times i am seized with a passionate craving to say all i think.... yet i know that the world would go to pieces if perfect frankness were the rule. [_pause_ i attended a funeral the other day--in one of the churches--and it was very solemn and beautiful. young lady. that of mr. hummel? student. yes, that of my pretended benefactor. an elderly friend of the deceased acted as mace-bearer and stood at the head of the coffin. i was particularly impressed by the dignified manner and moving words of the minister. i had to cry--everybody cried.... a number of us went to a restaurant afterward, and there i learned that the man with the mace had been rather too friendly with the dead man's son.... _the_ young lady _stares at him, trying to make out the meaning of his words_. student. i learned, too, that the dead man had borrowed money of his son's devoted friend.... [_pause_] and the next day the minister was arrested for embezzling the church funds.--nice, isn't it? young lady. oh! [_pause_. student. do you know what i am thinking of you now? young lady. don't tell, or i'll die! student. i must, lest _i_ die! young lady. it is only in the asylum you say all that you think.... student. exactly! my father died in a madhouse.... young lady. was he sick? student. no, perfectly well, and yet mad. it broke out at last, and these were the circumstances. like all of us, he was surrounded by a circle of acquaintances whom he called friends for the sake of convenience, and they were a lot of scoundrels, of course, as most people are. he had to have some society, however, as he couldn't sit all alone. as you know, no one tells people what he thinks of them under ordinary circumstances, and my father didn't do so either. he knew that they were false, and he knew the full extent of their perfidy, but, being a wise man and well brought up, he remained always polite. one day he gave a big party.... it was in the evening, naturally, and he was tired out by a hard day's work. then the strain of keeping his thoughts to himself while talking a lot of damned rot to his guests.... [_the_ young lady _is visibly shocked_] well, while they were still at the table, he rapped for silence, raised his glass, and began to speak.... then something loosed the trigger, and in a long speech he stripped the whole company naked, one by one, telling them all he knew about their treacheries. at last, when utterly tired out, he sat down on the table itself and told them all to go to hell! young lady. oh! student. i was present, and i shall never forget what happened after that. my parents had a fight, the guests rushed for the doors--and my father was taken to a madhouse, where he died! [_pause_] to keep silent too long is like letting water stagnate so that it rots. that is what has happened in this house. there is something rotten here. and yet i thought it paradise itself when i saw you enter here the first time.... it was a sunday morning, and i stood gazing into these rooms. here i saw a colonel who was no colonel. i had a generous benefactor who was a robber and had to hang himself. i saw a mummy who was not a mummy, and a maiden--how about the maidenhood, by the by?... where is beauty to be found? in nature, and in my own mind when it has donned its sunday clothes. where do we find honour and faith? in fairy-tales and childish fancies. where can i find anything that keeps its promise? only in my own imagination!... your flowers have poisoned me and now i am squirting their poison back at you.... i asked you to become my wife in a home full of poetry, and song, and music; and then the cook appeared.... _sursum corda!_ try once more to strike fire and purple out of the golden harp.... try, i ask you, i implore you on my knees.... [_as she does not move_] then i must do it myself! [_he picks up the harp, but is unable to make its strings sound_] it has grown deaf and dumb! only think that the most beautiful flower of all can be so poisonous--that it can be more poisonous than any other one.... there must be a curse on all creation and on life itself.... why did you not want to become my bride? because the very well-spring of life within you has been sickened.... now i can feel how that vampire in the kitchen is sucking my life juices.... she must be a lamia, one of those that suck the blood of children. it is always in the servants' quarters that the seed-leaves of the children are nipped, if it has not already happened in the bedroom.... there are poisons that blind you, and others that open your eyes more widely. i must have been born with that second kind of poison, i fear, for i cannot regard what is ugly as beautiful, or call evil good--i cannot! they say that jesus christ descended into hell. it refers merely to his wanderings on this earth--his descent into that madhouse, that jail, that morgue, the earth. the madmen killed him when he wished to liberate them, but the robber was set free. it is always the robber who gets sympathy! woe! woe is all of us! saviour of the world, save us--we are perishing! _toward the end of the_ student's _speech, the_ young lady _has drooped more and more. she seems to be dying. at last she manages to reach a bell and rings for_ bengtsson, _who enters shortly afterward_. young lady. bring the screen! quick! i am dying! bengtsson _fetches the screen, opens it and places it so that the_ young lady _is completely hidden behind_. student. the liberator is approaching! be welcome, thou pale and gentle one!--sleep, you beauteous, unhappy and innocent creature, who have done nothing to deserve your own sufferings! sleep without dreaming, and when you wake again--may you be greeted by a sun that does not burn, by a home without dust, by friends without stain, by a love without flaw! thou wise and gentle buddha, who sitst waiting there to see a heaven sprout from this earth, endow us with patience in the hour of trial, and with purity of will, so that thy hope be not put to shame! _the strings of the harp begin to hum softly, and a white light pours into the room_. student. [_singing_] "seeing the sun, it seemed to my fancy that i beheld the spirit that's hidden. man must for ever reap what he planted: happy is he who has done no evil. wrong that was wrought in moments of anger never by added wrong can be righted. kindness shown to the man whose sorrow sprang from your deed, will serve you better. fear and guilt have their home together: happy indeed is the guiltless man!"[1] _a faint moaning sound is heard from behind the screen_. student. you poor little child--you child of a world of illusion, guilt, suffering, and death--a world of eternal change, disappointment, and pain--may the lord of heaven deal mercifully with you on your journey! _the whole room disappears, and in its place appears boecklin's "the island of death" soft music, very quiet and pleasantly wistful, is heard from without_. _curtain_. [1] the lines recited by the _student_ are a paraphrase of several passages from "the song of the sun" in the poetic edda. it is characteristic of strindberg's attitude during his final period that this eddic poem, which apparently has occupied his mind great deal, as he has used it a number of times in "the bridal crown" also, is the only one of that ancient collection which is unmistakably christian in its colouring. it has a certain apocryphal reputation and is not regarded on a par with the other contents of the poetic edda. the first warning (första varningen) a comedy in one act 1893 characters _the_ husband, _thirty-seven (axel brunner)_ _the_ wife, _thirty-six (olga brunner)_ rose, _fifteen_ _the_ baroness, _her mother, forty-seven_ _a_ maid _the scene is laid in germany, about_ 1890. _a german dining-room, with a rectangular dinner-table occupying the middle of the floor. a huge wardrobe stands at the right. there is an oven of glazed bricks_. _the door in the background stands open, disclosing a landscape with vineyards, above which appears a church spire_. _at the left is a door papered like the rest of the wait. a travelling-bag is placed on a chair by the wardrobe_. _the_ wife _is writing at the table, on which lie a bunch of flowers and a pair of gloves_. husband. [_entering_] good morning--although it's noon already. did you sleep well? wife. splendidly, considering the circumstances. husband. yes, we might have broken away a little earlier from that party last night.... wife. i seem to remember that you made the same remark a number of times during the night.... husband. [_playing with the flowers_] do you really remember that much? wife. i remember also that you got mad because i sang too much.... please don't spoil my flowers! husband. which previously belonged to the captain, i suppose? wife. yes, and which probably belonged to the gardener before the florist got them. but now they are mine. husband. [_throwing away the flowers_] it's a nice habit they have in this place--of sending flowers to other people's wives. wife. i think it would have been well for you to go to bed a little earlier. husband. i am perfectly convinced that the captain was of the same opinion. but as my one choice was to stay and be made ridiculous, or go home alone and be made equally ridiculous, i preferred to stay.... wife. ... and make yourself ridiculous. husband. can you explain why you care to be the wife of a ridiculous man? i should never care to be the husband of a ridiculous woman. wife. you are to be pitied! husband. right you are. frequently i have thought so myself. but do you know what is the most tragical feature of my ridiculousness? wife. i am sure your own answer will be much cleverer than any one i could give. husband. it is--that i am in love with my wife after fifteen years of marriage.... wife. fifteen years! have you begun to use a pedometer? husband. for the measurement of my thorny path, you mean? no. but you, who are dancing on roses, might do well in counting your steps to me you are still as young as ever--unfortunately--while my own hair is turning grey. but as we are of the same age, my looks should tell you that you must be growing old yourself.... wife. and that is what you are waiting for? husband. exactly. how many times have i not wished that you were old and ugly, that you were pock-marked, that your teeth were gone, just to have you to myself and be rid of this worry which never leaves me! wife. how charming! and once you had me old and ugly, then everything would be so very peaceful until you began to worry about somebody else, and i was left to enjoy all that peace alone, by myself. husband. no! wife. yes! it has been well proved that your love loses its fervour the moment you have no reason to be jealous. do you remember last summer, when there was not a soul on that island but we two? you were away all day, fishing, hunting, getting up an appetite, putting on flesh--and developing a self-assurance that was almost insulting. husband. and yet i recall being jealous--of the hired man. wife. merciful heavens! husband. yes, i noticed that you couldn't give him an order without making conversation; that you couldn't send him out to cut some wood without first having inquired about the state of his health, his future prospects, and his love-affairs.... you are blushing, i think? wife. because i am ashamed of you.... husband ... who.... wife. ... have no sense of shame whatever. husband. yes, so you say. but will you please tell me why you hate me? wife. i don't hate you. i simply despise you! why? probably for the same reason that makes me despise all men as soon as they--what do you call it?--are in love with me. i am like that, and i can't tell why. husband. so i have observed, and my warmest wish has been that i might hate you, so that you might love me. woe is the man who loves his own wife! wife. yes, you are to be pitied, and so am i, but what can be done? husband. nothing. we have roved and roamed for seven years, hoping that some circumstance, some chance, might bring about a change. i have tried to fall in love with others, and have failed. in the meantime your eternal contempt and my own continued ridiculousness have stripped me of all courage, all faith in myself, all power to act. six times i have run away from you--and now i shall make my seventh attempt. [_he rises and picks up the travelling-bag_. wife. so those little trips of yours were attempts to run away? husband. futile attempts! the last time i got as far as genoa. i went to the galleries, but saw no pictures--only you. i went to the opera, but heard nobody--only your voice back of every note. i went to a pompeian café, and the one woman that pleased me looked like you--or seemed to do so later. wife. [_revolted_] you have visited places of that kind? husband. yes, that far have i been carried by my love--and by my virtue, which has embarrassed me by making me ridiculous. wife. that's the end of everything between us two! husband. so i suppose, as i can't make you jealous. wife. no, i don't know what it is to be jealous--not even of rose, who loves you to distraction. husband. how ungrateful of me not to notice it! on the other hand, i have had my suspicions of the old baroness, who is all the time finding excuses for visiting that big wardrobe over there. but as she is our landlady, and the furniture belongs to her, i may be mistaken as to the motive that makes our rooms so attractive to her.... now i'll get dressed, and in half an hour i shall be gone--without any farewells, if you please! wife. you seem rather afraid of farewells. husband. particularly when you are concerned in them! _he goes out. the_ wife _remains alone a few moments. then_ rose _enters. she is carelessly dressed, and her hair is down. a scarf wrapped about her head and covering her cheeks and chin indicates toothache. there is a hole on the left sleeve of her dress, which ends half-way between her knees and her ankles_. wife. well, rose!--what's the matter, child? rose. good morning, mrs. brunner. i have such a toothache that i wish i were dead! wife. poor little thing! rose. to-morrow is the corpus christi festival, and i was to walk in the procession--and to-day i should be binding my wreath of roses, and mr. axel has promised to help me with it.... oh, those teeth! wife. let me see if there are any signs of decay--open your mouth now!--what wonderful teeth you have! perfect pearls, my dear child! [_she kisses_ rose _on the mouth_. rose. [_annoyed_] you mustn't kiss me, mrs. olga! you mustn't! i don't want it! [_she climbs up on the table and puts her feet on one of the chairs_ ] really, i don't know what i want! i should have liked to go to that party yesterday--but i was forced to stay at home all by myself in order to get my lessons done--just as if i were nothing but a child--and then i have to sit on the same bench with those kids! but all the same i won't let the captain chuck me under the chin any longer, for i am no child! no, i am not! and if my mother tries to pull my hair again--i don't know what i'll do to her! wife. what's the matter, my dear rose? what has happened, anyhow? rose. i don't know what is the matter, but i have shooting pains in my head and in my teeth, and i feel as if i had a red-hot iron in my back--and i am disgusted with life. i should like to drown myself. i should like to run away, and go from one fair to another, and sing, and be insulted by all sorts of impudent fellows.... wife. listen, rose! listen to me now! rose. i wish i had a baby! oh, i wish it were not such an awful shame to have a baby! oh, mrs. olga [_she catches sight of the travelling-bag_] who is going away? wife. my ... my husband. rose. then you have been nasty to him again, mrs. olga.--where is he going? is he going far away? when will he be back? wife. i--_i_ know nothing at all! rose. oh, you don't? haven't you asked him even? [_she begins to ransack the bag_] but i--_i_ can see that he is going far away, because here is his passport. very far, i am sure! how far, do you think?--oh, mrs. olga, why can't you be nice to him, when he is so kind to you? [_she throws herself weeping into the arms of mrs. brunner_. wife. now, now, my dear child! poor little girl--is she crying? poor, innocent heart! rose. i like mr. axel so much! wife. and you are not ashamed of saying so to his own wife? and you want me to console you--you, who are my little rival?--well, have a good cry, my dear child. that helps a whole lot. rose. [_tearing herself away_] no! if i don't want to cry, i don't have to! and if it suits me to pick up what you are throwing away, i'll do so!--i don't ask any one's permission to like anybody or anything! wife. well, well, well! but are you so sure that he likes you? rose. [_throwing herself into the elder woman's arms again, weeping_] no, i am not. wife. [_tenderly, as if talking to a baby_] and now perhaps you want me to ask mr. axel to like you? is that what mrs. olga has to do? rose. [_weeping_] ye-es!--and he mustn't go away! he mustn't!--please be nice to him, mrs. olga! then he won't go away. wife. what in the world am i going to do, you little silly? rose. i don't know. but you might let him kiss you as much as he wishes.... i was watching you in the garden the other day, when he wanted, and you didn't--and then i thought.... baroness. [_entering_] sorry to disturb you, madam, but with your permission i should like to get into the wardrobe. wife. [_rising_] you're perfectly welcome, baroness. baroness. oh, there is rose.--so you are up again, and i thought you were in bed!--go back to your lessons at once. rose. but you know, mamma, we have no school to-morrow because of the festival. baroness. you had better go anyhow, and don't bother mr. and mrs. brunner all the time. wife. [_edging toward the door in the background_] oh, rose is not bothering us at all. we couldn't be better friends than we are.... we were just going into the garden to pick some flowers, and then we meant to try on the white dress rose is to wear to-morrow. rose. [_disappears through the door in the background with a nod of secret understanding to the_ wife] thank you! baroness. you are spoiling rose fearfully. wife. a little kindness won't spoil anybody, and least of all a girl like rose, who has a remarkable heart and a head to match it. _the_ baroness _is digging around in the wardrobe for something. the_ wife _stands in the doorway in the rear. entering by the door at the left with a number of packages, the_ husband _exchanges a glance of mutual understanding with his wife. then hath watch the_ baroness _smilingly for a moment. at last the_ wife _goes out, and the_ husband _begins to put his packages into the travelling-bag_. baroness. pardon me for disturbing you.... i'll be through in a moment.... husband. please don't mind me, baroness. baroness. [_emerging from the wardrobe_] are you going away again, mr. brunner? husband. i am. baroness. far? husband. perhaps--and perhaps not. baroness. don't you know? husband. i never know anything about my own fate after having placed it in the hands of another person. baroness. will you pardon me a momentary impertinence, mr. brunner? husband. that depends.... you are very friendly with my wife, are you not? baroness. as friendly as two women can be with each other. but my age, my experience of life, my temperament.... [_she checks herself abruptly_] however--i have seen that you are unhappy, and as i have suffered in the same way myself, i know that nothing but time will cure your disease. husband. is it really i who am diseased? is not my behaviour quite normal? and is not my suffering caused by seeing other people behave abnormally or--pathologically? baroness. i was married to a man whom i loved.... yes, you smile! you think a woman cannot love because.... but i did love him, and he loved me, and yet--he loved others, too. i suffered from jealousy so that--so that--i made myself insufferable. he went into the war--being an officer, you know--and he has never returned. i was told that he had been killed, but his body was never found, and now i imagine that he is alive and bound to another woman.--think of it! i am still jealous of my dead husband. at night i see him in my dreams together with that other woman.... have you ever known torments like that, mr. brunner? husband. you may be sure i have!--but what makes you think that he is still alive? [_he begins to arrange his things in the travelling-bag_. baroness. a number of circumstances combined to arouse my suspicions at one time, but for years nothing happened to revive them. then you came here four months ago, and, as a strange fate would have it, i noticed at once a strong resemblance between you and my husband. it served me as a reminder. and as my dreams took on flesh and blood, so to speak, my old suspicions turned into certainty, and now i really believe that he is alive? i am in a constant torment of jealousy--and that has enabled me to understand you. husband. [_becoming attentive, after having listened for a while with apparent indifference_] you say that i resemble your husband.--won't you be seated, baroness? baroness. [_sits down at the table with her back to the public; the_ husband _takes a chair beside her_] he looked like you, and--barring certain weaknesses--his character also.... husband. he was about ten years older than i.... and he had a scar on his right cheek that looked as if it had been made by a needle.... baroness. that's right! husband. then i met your husband one night in london. baroness. is he alive? husband. i have to figure it out--for the moment i can't tell.... let's see! that was five years ago--in london, as i told you. i had been to a party--men and women--and the atmosphere had been rather depressed. on leaving the place, i joined the first man who gave me a chance to unburden myself. we were _en rapport_ at once, and our chat developed into one of those endless sidewalk conversations, during which he let me have his entire history--having first found out that i came from his own district. baroness. then he is alive?... husband. he was not killed in the war--that much is certain--because he was taken prisoner. then he fell in love with the mayor's daughter, ran away with her to england, was deserted by his fair lady, and began to gamble--with constant bad luck. when we separated in the morning hours, he gave me the impression of being doomed. he made me promise that if chance should ever put you in my way after a year had gone by, and provided that he had not in the meantime communicated with me by advertisement in a newspaper i am always reading, i was to consider him dead. and when i met you, i was to kiss you on the hand, and your daughter on the brow, saying on his behalf: "forgive!" _as he kisses the hand of the_ baroness, rose _appears on the veranda, outside the open door, and watches them with evident excitement_. baroness. [_agitated_] then he is dead? husband. yes, and i should have given you his message a little more promptly, if i had not long ago forgotten the man's name as well as the man himself. [_the_ baroness _is pulling at her handkerchief, apparently unable to decide what to say or do_] do you feel better now? baroness. yes, in a way, but all hope is gone, too. husband. the hope of suffering those sweet torments again.... baroness. besides my girl, i had nothing to interest me but my anxiety.... how strange it is that even suffering can be missed! husband. you'll have to pardon me, but i do think that you miss your jealousy more than your lost husband. baroness. perhaps--because my jealousy was the invisible tie connecting me with that image of my dreams.... and now, when i have nothing left [_she takes hold of his hand_] you, who have brought me his last message--you, who are a living reminder of him, and who have suffered like me.... husband. [_becomes restless, rises and looks at his watch_] pardon me, but i have to take the next train--really, i must! baroness. i was going to ask you not to do so. why should you go? don't you feel at home here? rose _disappears from the veranda_. husband. your house has brought me some of the best hours i have experienced during these stormy years, and i leave you with the greatest regret--but i must baroness. on account of what happened last night? husband. not that alone--it was merely the last straw.... and now i must pack, if you'll pardon me. [_he turns his attention to the travelling-bag again_. baroness. if your decision is irrevocable.... won't you let me help you, as no one else is doing so? husband. i thank you ever so much, my dear baroness, but i am almost done.... and i shall ask you to make our leave-taking less painful by making it short.... in the midst of all trouble, your tender cares have been a sweet consolation to me, and i find it almost as painful to part from you as_--[the_ baroness _looks deeply moved_]--from a good mother. i have read compassion in your glances, even when discretion compelled you to remain silent, and i have thought at times that your presence tended to improve my domestic happiness--as your age permitted you to say things that a younger woman would not like to hear from one of her own generation.... baroness. [_with some hesitation_] you must forgive me for saying that your wife is no longer young.... husband. in my eyes she is. baroness. but not in the eyes of the world. husband. so much the better, although, on the other hand, i find her coquetry the more disgusting the less her attractions correspond to her pretensions--and if a moment comes when they begin to laugh at her.... baroness. they are doing so already. husband. really? poor olga! [_he looks thoughtful; then, as a single stroke of a bell is heard from the church tower outside, he pulls himself together_] the clock struck. i must leave in half an hour. baroness. but you cannot leave without your breakfast. husband. i am not hungry. as always, when starting on a journey, i am so excited that my nerves tremble like telephone wires in very cold weather.... baroness. then i'll make you a cup of coffee. you'll let me do that, won't you? and i'll send up the maid to help you pack. husband. your kindness is so great, baroness, that i fear being tempted into weaknesses that i should have to regret later on. baroness. you would never regret following my advice--if you only would! [_she goes out_. _the_ husband _remains alone for a few moments. then_ rose _enters from the rear_ with a basketful of roses. husband. good morning, miss rose. what's the matter? rose. why? husband. why.... because you have your head wrapped up like that. rose. [_tearing off the scarf and hiding it within her dress_] there is nothing the matter with me. i am perfectly well. are you going away? husband. yes, i am. _the_ maid _enters_. rose. what do you want? maid. the baroness said i should help mr. brunner to pack. rose. it isn't necessary. you can go! _the_ maid _hesitates_. rose. go, i tell you! _the_ maid _goes out_. husband. isn't that rather impolite to me, miss rose? rose. no, it is not. i wanted to help you myself. but you are impolite when you run away from your promise to help me with the flowers for to-morrow's festival. not that i care a bit--as i am not going to the festival to-morrow, because--i don't know where i may be to-morrow. husband. what does that mean? rose. can't i help you with something, mr. axel? won't you let me brush your hat? [_she picks up his hat and begins to brush it_. husband. no, i can't let you do that, miss rose. [_he tries to take the hat away from her_. rose. let me alone! [_she puts her fingers into the hole on her sleeve and tears it open_] there, now! you tore my dress! husband. you are so peculiar to-day, miss rose, and i think your restiveness is troubling your mother. rose. well, what do i care? i am glad if it troubles her, although i suppose that will hurt _you_. but i don't care any more for you than i care for the cat in the kitchen or the rats in the cellar. and if i were your wife, i should despise you, and go so far away that you could never find me again!--you should be ashamed of kissing another woman! shame on you! husband. oh, you saw me kissing your mother's hand, did you? then i must tell you that it was nothing but a final greeting from your father, whom i met abroad after you had seen him for the last time. and i have a greeting for you, too.... _he goes to_ rose _and puts his hands about her head in order to kiss her brow, but_ rose _throws her head back so that her lips meet his. at that moment the_ wife _appears on the veranda, shrinks back at what she sees and disappears again_. husband. my dear child, i meant only to give you an innocent kiss on the brow. rose. innocent? ha-ha! yes, very innocent!--and you believe those fairy-tales mother tells about father, who died several years ago! that was a man, i tell you, who knew how to love, and who dared to make love! he didn't tremble at the thought of a kiss, and he didn't wait until he was asked! if you won't believe me, come with me into the attic, and i'll let you read the letters he wrote to his mistresses.... come! [_she opens the papered door, so that the stairs leading to the attic become visible_] ha-ha-ha! you're afraid that i am going to seduce you, and you look awfully surprised ... surprised because a girl like me, who has been a woman for three years, knows that there is nothing innocent about love! do you imagine that i think children are born through the ear? now i can see that you despise me, but you shouldn't do that, for i am neither worse nor better than anybody else.... i am like this! husband. go and change your dress before your mother comes, miss rose. rose. do you think i have such ugly arms? or don't you dare to look at them?--now i think i know why why your wife why you are so jealous of your wife! husband. well, if that isn't the limit! rose. look at him blush! on my behalf, or on your own? do you know how many times i have been in love? husband. never! rose. never with a bashful fellow like you!--tell me, does that make you despise me again? husband. a little!--take care of your heart, and don't put it where the birds can pick at it, and where it gets--dirty. you call yourself a woman, but you are a very young woman--a girl, in other words.... rose. and for that reason just for that reason.... but i can become a woman.... husband. until you have--i think we had better postpone conversations of this kind. shake hands on that, miss rose! rose. [_with tears of anger_] never! never! oh, you! husband. are we not going to part as friends--we who have had so many pleasant days together during the gloomy winter and the slow spring? wife. [_enters, carrying a tray with the coffee things on it; she seems embarrassed and pretends not to notice_ rose] i thought you might have time to drink a nice cup of coffee before you leave. [rose _tries to take the tray away from her_] no, my little girl, i can attend to this myself. husband. [_watching his wife in a questioning and somewhat ironic manner_] that was an excellent idea of yours.... wife. [_evading his glance_] i am glad ... that.... rose. perhaps i had better say good-bye now--to mr. brunner.... husband. so you mean to desert me now, miss rose.... rose. i suppose i must ... because ... your wife is angry with me. wife. i? why in the world.... rose. you promised to try on my dress.... wife. not at this time, child. you can see that i have other things to do now. or perhaps you wish to keep my husband company while i get the dress ready? husband. olga! wife. what is it? rose _puts her fingers into her mouth, looking at once embarrassed and angry_. wife. you had better dress decently, my dear young lady, if you are to go with us to the train. rose _remains as before_. wife. and suppose you take your flowers with you, if there is to be any demonstration.... husband. that's cruel, olga! rose. [_dropping a curtsey_] good-bye, mr. brunner. husband. [_shaking hands with her_] good-bye, miss rose. i hope you will be happy, and that you will be a big girl soon-a very big girl. rose. [_picking up her flowers_] good-bye, mrs. brunner. [_as she gets no answer_] good-bye! [_she runs out_. husband _and_ wife _look equally embarrassed; she tries to avoid looking him in the face_. wife. can i be of any help? husband. no, thank you, i am practically done. wife. and there are so many others to help you. husband. let me have a look at you! [_he tries to take hold of her head_. wife. [_escaping him_] no, leave me alone. husband. what is it? wife. perhaps you think that i am--that i am jealous? husband. i think so when you say it, but i could never have believed it before. wife. of a schoolgirl like that--ugh! husband. the character of the object seems immaterial in cases of this kind. i felt jealous of a hired man you saw, then, that.... wife. that you kissed her! husband. no, it was she who kissed me. wife. how shameless! but minxes like her are regular apes! husband. yes, they take after the grown-up people. wife. you seem to be pleased by her attentions anyhow. husband. little used as i am to such attentions.... wife. on the part of young ladies, perhaps--but you seem less timid with the old ones.... husband. you saw that, too, did you? wife. no, but rose told me. apparently you are quite a lady-killer. husband. so it seems. it's too bad that i can't profit by it. wife. you'll soon be free to choose a younger and prettier wife. husband. i am not aware of any such freedom. wife. now when i am old and ugly! husband. i can't make out what has happened. let me have another look at you. [_he comes close to her_. wife. [_hiding her face at his bosom_] you mustn't look at me! husband. what in the world does this mean? you are not jealous of a little schoolgirl or an old widow.... wife. i have broken--one of my front teeth. please don't look at me! husband. oh, you child!--with pain comes the first tooth, and with pain the first one goes. wife. and now you'll leave me, of course? husband. not on your life! [_closing the bag with a snap_] to-morrow we'll start for augsburg to get you a new tooth of gold. wife. but we'll never come back here. husband. not if you say so. wife. and now your fears are gone? husband. yes--for another week. baroness. [_enters carrying a tray; looks very embarrassed at seeing them together_] excuse me, but i thought.... husband. thank you, baroness, i have had coffee already, but for your sake i'll have another cup. and if you--[rose, _dressed in white, appears in the doorway at that moment_] and miss rose care to keep us company, we have no objection. on the contrary, nothing could please us better, as my wife and i are leaving on the first train to-morrow morning. _curtain_. gustavus vasa (gustaf vasa) historic drama in five acts 1899 characters gustavus i, _king of sweden_ margaret leijonhufvud (_lion-head_), _his second queen_ prince eric, _the only son of the king's first marriage_ prince johan, _eldest son of the king's second marriage_ ebba carlsdaughter, _a nun at the convent of vreta and mother-in-law of the king_ master olavus petri, _commonly known as master olof_ christine, _his wife_ reginald, _their son_ herman israel, a _councillor of the free city of luebeck_ jacob israel, _his son_ mons nilsson of aspeboda } anders persson of rankhyttan } _free miners of dalecarlia_ inghel hansson } nils of söderby } jorghen persson, _secretary to_ prince eric master stig, _pastor at copperberg (falun), dalecarlia_ mons nilsson's wife barbro, _his daughter_ agda, a _barmaid_ karin monsdaughter, a _flower girl_ marcus } david } _hanseatic clerks_ engelbrecht, a _free miner who was one of the dalecarlian ski-runners that overtook_ gustavus vasa _on his flight to norway and brought him back to head the dalecarlian revolt against king christian ii of denmark_ captain of the guard a courtier a messenger two beggars scenario act i. the house of mons nilsson at copperberg act ii. scene i. the hanseatic office at stockholm scene ii. the blue dove inn act iii. the king's study act iv. scene i. square in front of the hanseatic office scene ii. the study of master olavus act v. the garden terrace in front of the royal palace at stockholm act i _the main living-room in_ mons nilsson's _house at copperberg (which is the old name of the present city of falun in dalecarlia)._ _there is a door in the rear, with a window on either side, through which are visible small city houses with snow-covered roofs and the flames belching from many blast-furnaces. a large open fireplace with mantelpiece occupies the center of the right wall. a fine log fire is going in the fireplace. on the same side, nearer the footlights, is a door_. _a long tablefills the middle of the floor. at its farther end stands an armchair with cushions on the seat and bright textiles draped over the back and the arm supports. wooden benches run along the two long sides of the table_. _wooden seats are placed along the left wall_. _above the wainscotting of the walls appear large, simple frescoes depicting the adventures of_ gustavus vasa _in dalecarlia (at the beginning of the war of liberation). the one at the left of the rear door shows him at the home of master john at svärdsjö; the one at the right pictures him threshing in the barn of_ anders persson of rankhyttan _(while danish soldiers are searching the place for him)_. _the ringing of a church-bell is heard from the outside as the curtain rises_. mons nilsson _is seated at the table, writing. his_ wife _is arranging tankards and beakers of silver on the mantelshelf_. mons. that's four o'clock, is it not? wife. of course. mons. sounds like fire. wife. is that any special sound? mons. yes, it sounds like "help-help, help-help!" wife. that's the way it has sounded ever since the king carried off our bells, it seems to me. mons. be quiet! and don't talk behind anybody's back. the king will soon be here himself. wife. has the king sent word of his visit, as you have put everything in order to receive him? mons. not exactly, but when he sends word that he is coming to copperberg, it is not to be expected that he will pass by his friend mons nilsson, who helped him in the days of trial, and who has stood by him both against master knut and peder the chancellor, not to speak of the false sture.[1] and he acted as godfather for my girl besides. wife. that was a good while ago; but when the king's bailiff came here to get the bells two years ago, you helped to kill him. mons. that was two years ago, and i guess he was set on having our heads at that time. but just then king christian broke into the country from norway. our own king turned meek as a lamb at once, and when he asked us for help, we dalecarlians stood by him like one man, and gave him all the help he wanted. so i think we can call it even. wife. so _you_ think, but the king never calls it even except when it is to his own advantage. mons. perhaps not. but as long as christian still is free, he will not dare to break with us. wife. well, is christian still free? mons. i have heard nothing to the contrary. anyhow, the king owes us such a lot of money that, leaving old friendship aside.... wife. god bless you! and i hope he will protect you from the friend that is always breaking his word and safe-conduct! mons. don't open the old wounds, but let bygones be bygones. wife. if you do that, and he won't, you can hardly call it a reconciliation. take care! mons. the sound of that bell is really dreadful! wife. so it is to my ears, because it always reminds me of the big mary, which the bailiff took away. do you remember when the mary was cast out of the best refined copper and the whole town brought milk and cream to give the clay of the form more firmness--and then, when the melt was ready, we threw in one-half of our table silver to improve the tone? it was baptised at candlemas and rung for the first time at the burial of my father.... and then it went to herman israel at luebeck, who made coin out of it. mons. all that is perfectly true, but now it _must_ be forgotten--or we shall never have peace. barbro, _their daughter, enters with a basket full of finely chopped spruce branches; she is dressed in black and white, and so are several younger children who follow her, also carrying baskets. all of them begin to spread the chopped spruce over the floor_. wife. [_to_ mons] is there to be a funeral? mons. no, but not being the season, we couldn't get any leaves. wife. i think the children might put off their mourning at least. mons. no, that's just what they should not do, because when the king asks whom they are mourning--well, what are you to answer, barbro? barbro. "we mourn our beloved teacher, pastor john at svärdsjö." mons. and what are you to say, if the king asks you why? barbro. "because he was an early friend of king gustavus and saved his precious life for our country." mons. what year was that? barbro. "the very year when christian the tyrant cut the head off the swedish nobility."[2] mons. that's right, children. and over there you see the picture of master john when he is holding the towel for the outlaw who has been threshing in the barn. [_to his_ wife] on the other hand, it is not necessary to tell the children that the king took his friend's head two years ago. wife. have you really that much sense left?--do you think the king likes any reminder of a deed that has brought him so little honour? mons. let him like it or dislike it, he'll have to swallow it. it was an ugly deed, and master john was a saint and a martyr, who died for his faith--the faith of his childhood, which he would not forswear. barbro. [_standing by the armchair at the end of the table_] is the king to sit here? mons. yes, child, that's where the marvellous man of god is to sit when he visits his friend mons nilsson of aspeboda. his whole life is like a miracle story, children: how the lord guided him out of a danish prison up to dalecarlia, and how, after many hardships, he finally freed his country from oppression. those pictures on the walls tell you the whole story, down to the moment when the ski-runner overtook him at sälen, close by the norwegian border-line. barbro. [_looking at the picture just indicated_] is it true, father, that the ski-runner was named engelbrecht, like the great chieftain we had in the past century? mons. yes, it's true, child, and we used to speak of it as "the finger of god," but now we call it mere superstition. wife. don't put that sort of thing into the children's heads! mons. oh, keep quiet! i teach the children nothing but what is right and proper.--and bear in mind, little girls, that, no matter what you may hear, you must never believe or say anything bad of the king. earth bears no heavier burden than a thankless man. and for that reason you must sing the ballad of king gustav when he comes here. do you still remember it? barbro. oh, yes! mons. let me hear you read it then. barbro. [_reciting_], "king gustav, he rode his trusty steed across the battle-field; have thanks, my brave dalecarlians, for your true loyalty." children. [_in chorus_], "have thanks, my brave dalecarlians, for your true loyalty!" barbro. "you have by my side been fighting like faithful swedish men. if god will spare my life-blood, i'll do you good in stead." children. "if god will spare my life-blood, i'll do you good in stead!" mons. that's good, children. go back to your own room now, and be ready when the time comes. barbro _and the_ children. [_as they start to go out to the right_] but won't the king frighten us? mons. oh, he is not at all dangerous, and he is very fond of children. besides, he is your godfather, barbro. barbro _and the_ children _leave the room_. wife. do you know what you are doing? mons. hope so! of course, i know what you mean? wife. what do i mean? mons. that i should take your advice. so i have done in the past, and it has ended badly every time. wife. try it once more! mons. no! wife. then--may the will of god be done! [_pause_, mons. that's the longest afternoon i have ever lived through!--and my friends don't seem to be coming. wife. yes, i think i hear them outside. mons. well, you were right that time! _the stamping of feet is heard from the hallway outside_. _then enter_: anders persson of rankhyttan, nils söderby, inghel hansson, _and_ master stig [_in clerical costume_]. _each one says as he comes into the room_: "good evening, everybody!" mons. [_shaking hands with them_] god be with you, anders persson! god be with you, nils söderby! god be with you, inghel hansson! god be with you, master stig! come forward and be seated. _all seat themselves at the long table_. anders. you are getting ready, i see. mons. so we are.--and where's the king? anders. the other side of the hill, says the ski-runner that just returned. mons. as near as that?--and what errand is supposed to bring him here? anders. ask nils of söderby. nils. they say he is headed for norway to fight christian. inghel. there are others who think that he is coming to thank us dalecarlians for the good help rendered in his last fight. stig. that would not be like him. anders. to thank anybody--no, indeed! mons. do you think there is any cause for fear? nils. not while christian is still free. inghel. it's queer that we should have to look to christian for safety. stig. we knew what we had, but not what we might get. christian took the heads of the noble lords and left the people alone. this one leaves the lords alone and rides roughshod over the people. who should be called a tyrant? mons. be quiet now! anders. in other words, the last war of liberation was fought _against_ our liberator. did we know at all what we were doing at that time? inghel. we were to clear the country of the danes; and the first man to raise his hand for the king against the danes in our parts was rasmus dane, who killed nils westgoth. that was a strange beginning.... nils. a strange beginning, indeed, but just like the ending. [_to_ mons's wife] look out for the silver, goodwife! _she turns and looks inquiringly at him_. nils. the king is coming. mons. in the name of the lord, be quiet! that kind of talk will bring no peace.--all that you say is true, of course, but what has happened was the will of providence-stig. which let the children have their will in order that they should see their own folly. anders. are you quite sure that the king will visit you, mons nilsson? mons. what a question! anders. remember master john! mons. let us forget! everything must be forgotten. anders. no wonder if you and nils want to forget that you burned the king's house at hedemora and looted räfvelstad two years ago! but _he_ will never forget it. _the roll of muffled drums is heard from the outside_. all. [_leaping to their feet_] what's that? mons. don't you know the hornet that buzzes before it stings? anders. that's the kind of noise he made that ash wednesday at tuna flat. inghel. don't mention that blood-bath, or i can't control myself. [_passionately_] don't talk of it! nils. hear him spinning, spinning like a cat! no, don't trust him! _the roll of the drums comes nearer_. stig. might it not be wise for you, as personal friends of the king, to meet him and bid the stem master welcome? mons. i wonder. then he might not come here afterward.... wife. stay, mons! stay where you are! mons. oh, the place smells of spruce, and the drums are flattened as for a funeral. [_somebody raps three times at the door from the outside_] who's that? [_he goes to the door and opens it_. wife. [_to_ master stig _as she leaves the room by the door_ _at__the right_] pray for us! master olavus _and_ herman israel _enter_. mons. who is doing me the honour? olavus. i am the acting secretary of his highness, the king. and this is the venerable representative of the free city of luebeck. mons. come in, my good sirs, and--let us hear the news! olavus. the king is here and has pitched his camp on falu flat. personally he has taken his abode at the gildhall of saint jorghen. mons. what is the errand that has made the king cross långhed forest and brunbeck ford without permission and safe-conduct?[3] olavus. he hasn't told. mons. then i had better go and ask him. olavus. with your leave, this is the message our gracious lord, the king, sends you through us: "greetings to the goodly miners of the copperberg, and let every man stay in his own house." if he desires speech with any one, that one will be called. mons. what is the meaning of it? olavus. [_seating himself_] i don't know. [_pause_. anders. has the danish war come to an end, sir? olavus. i don't know. anders. do you know with whom you are talking? olavus. no, i don't. anders. i am anders persson of rankhyttan. have you ever heard that name before? olavus. yes--it's a good name. herman israel _has in the meantime been studying the wall paintings and the silver on the mantelpiece. he wears a pair of large, horn-rimmed eye-glasses. at last he seats himself in the armchair at the end of the table_. mons. [_indicating_ israel _to_ olavus] is that chap from luebeck a royal person, too? olavus. [_in a low voice_] no, he is not, but he is in charge of the national debt, and we must never forget that our gracious king was able to free our country of the danes _only_ with the help of luebeck. mons. with the help of luebeck _only_? and how about the dalecarlians? olavus. oh, of course, they helped, too. mons. does he speak swedish? olavus. i don't think so, but i am not sure of it. mons. is that so? olavus. we happened to arrive together, but i have not yet spoken to him. mons. very strange! i suppose the king has sent him? olavus. probably. mons. perhaps he is the fellow who buys up the bells? olavus. perhaps. mons. and the church silver? olavus. and the church silver, too! mons. what was his name again? olavus. herman israel. mons. oh, israel! _he whispers to_ anders persson, _who in turn whispers to the rest_. _a rap at the door is heard_. master olavus _gets up quickly and opens the door_. _a_ messenger _in full armour enters, whispers something to_ master olavus, _and leaves again_. olavus. our gracious lord, the king, requests inghel hansson to meet him at saint jorghen's gild. inghel. [_rising_] well, well, am i to be the first? nils. the oldest first. mons. stand up for yourself, inghel, and tell the truth. the king is a gracious gentleman who won't mind a plain word in proper time. inghel. don't you worry. i have said my say to kings before now. [_he goes out_. olavus. well, nils, how is the mining nowadays? nils. not bad, thank you. the last fall flood left a little water in the mine, but otherwise we have nothing to complain of. olavus. times are good, then? nils. well, you might say so.... hm! good times will mean better taxes, i suppose? olavus. i know nothing about the taxes. [_pause; then to_ anders persson] and how about the crops? i hear you have plenty of tilled ground, too. anders. oh, yes, and plenty of cattle in the pastures, too. olavus. old dalecarlia is a pretty good country, is it not? mons. [_giving_ anders _a poke with his elbow_] yes, everything is fat here--dripping with fat, so that one can eat the bark off the trees even. olavus. yes, they have told me that you have to eat bark and chew resin now and then. is that a common thing or does it happen only once in a while? nils. when the famine comes, you have to eat what you can get. olavus. [_to_ master stig, _who has been keeping in the background_] there is something you should know, master stig. how was it during the last famine, when the king sent grain to be distributed here: did it go to those who needed it? stig. yes, it did, although there was not enough of it. olavus. [_to_ anders] was there not enough of it? anders. that depends on what you mean by "enough." olavus. [_to_ mons] do you know what is meant by "enough," mons nilsson? mons. oh, well, everybody knows that. olavus. [_to_ stig] as we now know what is meant by "enough," i ask you, master stig larsson, if anybody perished from hunger during the last famine? stig. man doth not live by bread only.... olavus. there you spoke a true word, master stig, but.... _a rap on the door is heard_. master olavus _opens. the same_ messenger _appears, whispers to him, and leaves again_. olavus. the king requests nils söderby to meet him at saint jorghen's gildhall. nils. won't inghel hansson come back first? olavus. i don't know. nils. well, nobody is afraid here, and.... olavus. what have you to be afraid of? nils. nothing! [_to his friends_] the big bell at mora has not been taken out of siljan valley yet, anders persson and mons nilsson. that's a devil of a bell, and when it begins to tinkle, they can hear it way over in norway, and fourteen thousand men stand like one! olavus. i don't understand what you mean. nils. [_shaking hands with_ anders _and_ mons] but you two understand! god bless you and defend you! mons. what do you mean? anders. what are you thinking of, nils? nils. oh, my thoughts are running so fast that i can't keep up with them. but one thing i am sure of: that it's going hard with inghel hansson. [_he goes out_. olavus. is this sulphur smoke always hanging over the place? mons. mostly when the wind is in the east. mons _and_ anders _withdraw to the left corner of the room and sit down there. master stig shows plainly that he is much alarmed_. olavus. is it the quartz or the pyrites that make the worst smoke? anders. why do you ask? olavus. that's a poor answer! mons. may i ask you in return whether king christian still is free? olavus. [_looking hard at him_] do you put your trust in the enemy? [_pause_] what kind of a man is nils of söderby? mons. his friends think him better and his enemies worse than anybody else. olavus. what kind of a bell in the siljan valley was that you spoke of? mons. it's the largest one in all dalecarlia. olavus. have you many bells of that kind? anders. of the kind that calls the people to arms we have still a lot. mons _pokes him warningly_. olavus. i am glad to hear it, and i am sure it will please his highness still more.--are the people attending church diligently, master stig? stig. i can't say that they are. olavus. are the priests bad, or is the pure word of god not preached here? stig. there are no bad priests here, and nothing but the pure word of god is preached! olavus. that's the best thing i have heard yet! nothing but the pure word of god, you say! [_pause_] nils intimated a while ago that fourteen thousand men will take up arms when you ring the big bell at mora. that was mere boasting, i suppose? mons. oh, if you ring it the right way, i think sixteen thousand will come. what do you say, anders persson? anders. sixteen, you say? i should say eighteen! olavus. fine! then we shall ring it the right way when the dane comes next time. only seven thousand answered the last call--to fight the _enemies_ of our country. mons. [_to_ anders] that fellow is dangerous. we had better keep quiet after this. stig. [_to_ olavus] why has inghel hansson not come back? olavus. i don't know. stig. then i'll go and find out. _he goes to the door and opens it, but is stopped by the_ messenger, _who is now accompanied by several pike-men_. master olavus _meets the_ messenger, _who whispers to him_. olavus. master stig larsson is commanded before the king at once! stig. commanded? who commands here? olavus. the king. mons. [_leaping to his feet_] treachery! olavus. exactly: treachery and traitors!--if you don't go at once, master stig, you'll ride bareback! stig. to hell! olavus. yes, _to_ hell!--away! mons _and_ anders _rise and start for the door_. mons. do you know who i am--that i am a free miner and a friend of the king? olavus. be seated then, and keep your peace. if you are a friend of the king, there has been a mistake. sit down, anders persson and mons nilsson! no harm will befall you or anybody else who is innocent. let master stig go, and don't get excited. where does the thought of violence come from, if not from your own bad conscience? stig. that's true. we have done nothing wrong, and no one has threatened us.--be quiet, friends. i shall soon be back. [_he goes out_. mons. that's right! olavus. throw a stick at the pack, and the one that is hit will yelp. anders. [_to_ mons] that was stupid of us! let us keep calm! [_aloud_] you see, doctor, one gets suspicious as one grows old, particularly after having seen so many broken words and promises.... olavus. i understand. in these days, when people change masters as the snake changes its skin, a certain instability of mind is easily produced. in young men it may be pardonable, but it is absolutely unpardonable in old and experienced persons. mons. as far as age is concerned, there is nothing to say about the king, who still is in his best years.... olavus. and for that reason pardonable.... mons. [_to_ anders] i think he must be the devil himself! anders. [_to_ olavus] how long are we to wait here? and what are we to wait for? olavus. the king's commands, as you ought to know. mons. are we regarded as prisoners, then? olavus. by no means, but it is not wise to venture out for a while yet. mons _and_ anders _move from one chair to another and give other evidence of agitation_. mons. some great evil is afoot. i can feel it within me. anders. it must be very hot in here.... i am sweating. would you like a glass of beer, doctor? olavus. no, thank you. anders. or a glass of wine? olavus. not for me, thanks! mons. but it's real hock. master olavus _shakes his head. at that moment drum-beats are heard outside_. anders. [_beyond himself_] in the name of christ, will this never come to an end? olavus. [_rising_] yes, this is the end! _he goes to the door and opens it_. _the_ messenger _enters and throws on the table the bloodstained coats of_ inghel hansson, nils of söderby, _and_ master stig. olavus. look! mons _and_ anders. another blood-bath! mons. without trial or hearing! olavus. the trial took place two years age, and sentence was passed. but the king put mercy above justice and let the traitors remain at large to see whether their repentance was seriously meant. when he learned that they remained incorrigible and went on with their rebellious talk as before, he decided to execute the sentences. that's how the matter looks when presented truthfully. mons. and yet there was a lot of talk about everything being forgiven and forgotten.... olavus. so it was, provided the same offence was not repeated. but it was repeated, and what might have been forgotten was again remembered. all that is clear as logic. [_to_ herman israel] these two trustworthy men.... [_to_ mons _and_ anders] you are trustworthy, are you not? mons _and_ anders. hope so! olavus. answer yes or no! are you trustworthy? mons _and_ anders. yes! olavus. [_to_ israel] in the presence of you as my witness, syndic, these two trustworthy men have given a true report of conditions in dalecarlia. they have unanimously assured us that the mines are being worked profitably; that agriculture and cattle-breeding prosper no less than the mining; that famines occur but rarely, and that, during the last one, our gracious king distributed grain in quantities not insufficient, which went to those that really were in need. these trustworthy and upright miners have also confirmed the following facts: that bells to summon the congregations still remain in all the churches; that no bad priests are spreading devices of men, and that nothing is preached here but the pure word of god. you have likewise heard them say, syndic, that the province of dalecarlia can raise from sixteen to eighteen thousand men capable of bearing arms--the figures vary as their courage falls or rises. being in charge of the current debt, and for that reason entitled to know the actual _status_ of the country, you have now heard the people declare with their own lips, that all the dalecarlian grievances are unwarranted, and that those who have spread reports to the contrary are traitors and liars. mons. _veto!_ anders. i deny it! olavus. if you deny your own words, then you are liars twice over! mons. he is drawing the noose tighter! better keep silent! anders. no, i most speak. [_to_ olavus] i want to know what our fate is to be. olavus. so you shall. your fate is in your own hands. you are invited to stockholm and given full safe-conduct. you can travel freely by yourselves. this is granted you as old friends of the king, to whom he acknowledges a great debt of gratitude. mons. more guile! olavus. no guile at all. here is the king's safe-conduct, signed by his own hand. anders. we know all about his safe-conducts! mons. [_to_ anders] we must consent and submit in order to gain time! [_to_ olavus] will you let us go into the next room and talk the matter over? olavus. you can now go wherever you want--except to the king. mons _and_ anders _go toward the left_. mons. [_as he opens the door_] we'll bring you an answer shortly. olavus. as you please, and when you please. mons _and_ anders _go out_. olavus. [_to_ israel] a stiff-necked people, true as gold, but full of distrust. israel. a very fine people. olavus. rather stupid, however. did you notice how i trapped them? israel. that was good work. how did you learn to do it? olavus. by long observation of innumerable human beings i have been led to conclude at last that vanity the primal sin and mother of all the vices. to get the truth out of criminals, i have merely to set them boasting. israel. what wisdom! what wisdom! and you are not yet an old man!--but there are modest people, too, and out of these you cannot get the truth, according to what you have just said. olavus. modest people boast of their modesty, so that is all one. israel. [_looking attentively at him_] if you'll pardon me--master olavus was your name, i think? you cannot be olavus petri? olavus. i am. israel. [_surprised_] who carried out the reformation? olavus. i am that man. israel. and who was subsequently tried for high treason on suspicion of having known about a plot against the king's life? olavus. confidences given me under the seal of confession, so that i had no right to betray them. israel. [_gazing curiously at_ olavus] hm-hm! [_pause_] a mysterious story it was, nevertheless. olavus. no, i don't think so. gorius holst and hans bökman were found guilty. and it was so little of a secret, that the people of hamburg heard of the king's murder as an accomplished fact long before the plot was exposed at stockholm. israel. that is just what i call mysterious, especially as we knew nothing about it at luebeck. olavus. yes, i call that mysterious, too, because the road to hamburg goes through luebeck as a rule. [israel _makes no reply_] and it was rumoured at the time, that marcus meyer and juerghen wollenweber were no strangers to the plot. israel. i have never heard of it, and i don't believe it. [_pause; then, pointing to the blood-stained coats_] must those things stay here? olavus. yes, for the present. israel. it seems to me that these royal visits are rather sanguinary affairs. olavus. i don't allow myself to pass judgment on the actions of my king, partly because i am not capable of doing so, and partly because i know there is a judge above too, who guides his destiny. israel. that is beautifully said and thought. have you always been equally wise? olavus. no, but what you have not been you frequently become. [_pause_. israel. won't those people in there try to get away? olavus. that, too, has been foreseen, just as their desire to discuss the matter had been reckoned with. do you know what they are talking of? israel. no, i have not the slightest idea. olavus. they still imagine that king christian is free, and they are planning to seek help from him. israel. what a senseless thought! olavus. especially as christian is a prisoner. israel. it sounds like madness, but when you hear how devoted these good men of the mining districts are to their king, it cannot surprise you that they may have in mind the oath binding them to their only lawful sovereign.... olavus. now, with your pardon, i _am_ surprised.... israel. oh, mercy, i am merely putting myself in their place. olavus. it is always dangerous to put oneself in the place of traitors. [_pause_. barbro. [_entering from the right, followed by the smaller children_] is father here? [_she looks around and discovers_ israel _seated in the armchair prepared for the king_] goodness, here is the king! [_she kneels, the other children following her example_. israel. no, no, dear children, i am not the king. i am only a poor merchant from luebeck. olavus. a noble answer! [_to the children_] this is herman israel, the far-famed and influential councillor, who, with cord könig and nils bröms, saved our king out of danish captivity and enabled him to carry out the war of liberation. you will find him on the picture in saint jorghen's gildhall which represents gustavus vasa appearing before the city council of luebeck. honour to the man who has honour deserved. give homage to the friend of your country and your king. barbro _and the_ children _clap their hands_. israel. [_rises, evidently touched_] my dear little friends.... all i can do is to thank you.... i have really not deserved this.... you see, a merchant does nothing except for payment, and i have been richly paid. olavus. don't believe him! but bear in mind that there are services that can never be paid, and beautiful deeds that can never be wiped out by ingratitude or forgetfulness.--go back to your own room now. your father will come in a moment. barbro _and the_ children _go out to the right_. israel. i had never expected such a thing of you, doctor. olavus. i think i understand why. however, my dear syndic, don't ever compel us to become ungrateful. ingratitude is such a heavy burden to carry. israel. what is the use of talking of it? there is nothing of that kind to be feared. mons nilsson _and_ anders persson _enter from the left_. mons. after talking it over, we have decided to go to stockholm with the king's good word and safe-conduct, so that we can quietly discuss the matter with him and the lords of the realm. olavus. then my errand here is done, and both of us can leave. i wish you, mons nilsson, and you, anders persson, welcome to the capital. mons. thank you, doctor. master olavus _and_ herman israel _go out_. mons. [_picking up the bloodstained coats as soon as they are out of sight_] these shall be our blood-stained banners! king christian will furnish the staffs, and then--on to stockholm! anders. and down with it! olavus. [_returning unexpectedly_] there was one thing i forgot to tell you. do you hear? anders. [_angrily_] well! olavus. king christian has been captured and made a prisoner at sonderborg castle, in the island of als. mons _and_ anders _show how deeply the news hits them; neither one has a word to say_. olavus. you understand, don't you?--stinderborg castle, in the island of als? _curtain_. [1] peder jacobsson sunnanväder, bishop at vesterås, and his archdeacon, master knut, both members of the old catholic clergy, tried to raise the dalecarlians against the king in 1524-5, when his hold on the new throne was still very precarious. the false sture was a young dalecarlian named john hansson, who had acquired gentle manners as a servant in noble houses and who posed as the natural son of sten sture the younger, "national director" of sweden until 1520. this pretender, who headed another dalecarlian uprising in 1527, figures also in ibsen's early historical drama, "lady inger." the taking of the church-bells mentioned by mons nilsson's wife took place in 1531 and resulted in the killing of several of the king's representatives by the dalecarlians. [2] in 1520 christian ii of denmark made a temporarily successful effort to bring sweden back into the union with the other two scandinavian kingdoms. having defeated the swedish "national director," sten sture the younger, and been admitted to the city of stockholm, he caused about eighty of the most influential members of the swedish nobility to be beheaded in a single day. that was the "blood-bath of stockholm," by which king gustavus lost his father and brother-in-law. on the same occasion his mother and sister were imprisoned, and both died before they could be set free. [3] långheden is a wooded upland plain on the southern border of dalecarlia. brunbeck ferry or ford was for centuries the main crossing point of the dal river for all who entered the province of dalecarlia from the south. rendered arrogant by the part they had played in the wars of liberation between 1434 and 1524, the dalecarlians had established a claim that not even the king himself had the right to pass those two border points at the head of an armed force without first having obtained their permission. act ii first scene _the office of_ herman israel. _a large room, the walls of which are covered by cupboards. door in the rear; doors in both side walls; few windows, and these very small. a fireplace on the left-hand side. a large table in the middle of the floor; armchairs about it. above the rear door and the fireplace appears the coat of arms of luebeck, in black, red, and silver_. _at the right, a desk with writing material and a pair of scales. the room contains also several sets of shelves filled with goods in bundles_. _one of the cupboard doors stands open, disclosing a number of altar vessels of gold and silver_. marcus _is weighing some of the vessels at the desk, while_ david _is noting down the weights given him_. marcus. a crucifix of silver, gilded; weighs twelve ounces. david. [_writing_] twelve ounces.... marcus. item: a monstrance of gold--a perfect thumper. weighs.... let me see now.... oh, it's hollow--and the base is filled with lead.... put down a question-mark. david. question-mark it is. marcus. a paten of silver--well, i don't know. [_he tests the vessel with his teeth_] it tastes like copper at least. put it down as "white metallic substance." david. white metallic substance.--do you think those rustics are cheating us? marcus. us? nobody can cheat us! david. don't be too certain. niegels bröms, the goldsmith, says that interlopers from holland are going through the country selling church vessels full of coggery, probably meant to be exchanged for the genuine goods. marcus. we'll have to get it back on the bells, which contain a lot of silver, according to old traditions. david. the bells--yes, they were to go to luebeck, but instead they are going to the royal gun-foundry to be cast into culverins and bombards. marcus. so it is said. if only the dalecarlians knew of it, they would come galloping across the border forests, i suppose. david. i think their galloping came to an end with the recent fall slaughter. marcus. no, there will be no end to it while the two blackest rogues are still at leisure.... david. you mean mons nilsson of aspeboda and anders persson of rankhyttan, who are still hanging about the town, hoping to get an audience with the king? marcus. those are the ones. david. calling them rogues is rather an exaggeration, and our principal seems to put great store on them. marcus. now, david, don't forget the first and last duty of a hanseatic clerk--which is to keep his mouth closed. and bear in mind the number of talkative young fellows who have vanished for ever through water-gates and cellar holes. you had better remember! david. i'll try, although it seems about time for the hansa itself to be thinking of the great silence. [_pause_. marcus. do you know where the principal is? david. with the king, i suppose, taking an inventory of eskil's chamber.[1] jacob israel. [_enters; he is the son of_ herman israel; _a richly dressed young man, carrying a racket in his hand; his forehead is bandaged_] is my father here? marcus. no, he is not. i think the principal is with the king. jacob. then i'll sit down here and wait. go on with your writing. i won't disturb you. [_he seats himself at the big table_. prince eric. [_enters; he is somewhat older than_ jacob] why did you leave me, jacob? jacob. i was tired of playing. eric. i don't think that was the reason. some one offended you--some one who is not my friend. jacob. no one has offended me, prince, but i have such a strong feeling that i ought not to appear at court. eric. oh, jacob, my friend, why do you cease to call your old schoolmate by name? and why do you look at me like a stranger? give me your hand you won't? and i, who have been lonely and deserted ever since my mother died; who am hated by my stepmother, by my father, and by my half-brother; i am begging for the friendship which you gave me once and which you are now taking back. jacob. i am not taking back anything, eric, but we are not allowed to be friends. the fact that we two, as mere boys, formed ties of friendship that were nursed by common sufferings, has been ignored or tolerated by our fathers so far. now, when you are about to marry a foreign princess and take possession of a duchy, it has been deemed politic to separate us. eric. your words are stilted, as if you meant to hide your own thoughts, but your feelings are not to be concealed.... jacob. pardon me, eric, but this is not the place for a conversation like this.... eric. because this is a place for trading, you mean--as if the parties to such a transaction were degraded by it? i don't object to it, although i am rather inclined to think the seller more broad-minded than the buyer. jacob _indicates by a gesture the presence of the two clerks_. eric. oh, let them hear. marcus and i are old friends, and we met at the blue dove last night. jacob. ugh! why do you visit a vulgar place like that, prince? eric. where can i go? i have no one to talk with at home; and it seems to me, for that matter, that people are equally good or bad everywhere--although i prefer what is generally called bad company.--do you know john andersson? jacob. [_embarrassed_] i have never heard his name even. who is he? marcus _and_ david _go quietly out to the left_. eric. a man from småland who is full of sensible ideas.--do you still need to have your forehead bandaged? jacob. do you think i wear the bandage as an ornament, or as a souvenir of the city mob? eric. you should not bear a grudge against the good folk because some scamp has misbehaved himself. jacob. i don't, my friend, and i know perfectly well what a stranger must expect in a hostile country. if you come to luebeck, you will see how they stone swedes. eric. you talk just like jorghen persson. do you know him? jacob. i don't. eric. he looks at everything in the same way as you do. jacob. how do you mean? eric. he thinks every one is right, and that whatever happens is _juste_. there is something sensible and enlightened in his view of life. that's why my father hates him.... jacob. don't talk badly of your father. it sounds dreadful--if you will pardon me! eric. but if he acts badly, why shouldn't i say so? and i hate him, for that matter! jacob. don't say that--don't! the greatness of your royal father is so boundless that you can't grasp it. eric. it only looks that way--i know! last night he came up to me and put his arm around my shoulders--for the first time in my life--and i, who have been living in the belief that i barely came up to his hip, found to my surprise that i am as tall as he. but as soon as i looked at him from a distance again, he grew taller and turned into a giant. jacob. that's what he is. and he resembles one of buonarotti's prophets--isaiah, i think. and, verily, the lord on high is with him. eric. do you really believe in god? jacob. are you not ashamed of yourself? eric. well, what are you to believe in times like these, when kings and priests persecute the faithful and profane everything that used to be held sacred. and yet they call themselves "defenders of the faith." jacob. can't we talk of something else? please, let us! eric. that's what the king always says when i go after him, and for that reason i hate him still more--as he hates me! do you know that it was your father who brought my mother to him from lauenburg?[2] jacob. no, i didn't know that. eric. yes, but the marriage turned out badly. they hated each other beyond all bounds--and one day [_he rises in a state of great agitation_] i saw him raise his stick against her--[_roaring out the words_] against my mother--and he struck her! that day i lost my youth[3]--and i can never forgive him--never! jacob. [_leaps to his feet and put his arms about_ eric] look at me, eric! look at me! i have a stepmother, too--who is always tormenting me when i am at home--but hush, hush! if it can help you to hear that i am worse off than you--very much worse--then--you know it now! remember that it won't last for ever, as we are growing up to freedom.... eric. and you don't hate her? jacob. such a feeling has no place beside the new one that is now filling my soul. eric. that means--you are in love. jacob. that's what we may call it.... and when your own time comes, you, too, will see your hatred change form and vanish. eric. i wonder!--perhaps you are right the lovelessness in which i was born and brought up has turned into a flame that is consuming my soul. my blood was poisoned at my birth, and i doubt the existence of an antidote.... why do you leave me? jacob. because ... because we are not allowed to be friends--because we cannot be friends. eric. do you think me so vile? jacob. no, no!--but i mustn't say anything more. let us part. i shall always watch your fate with sympathy, for i think you were born to misfortune. eric. what makes you utter what i have thought so many times?--do you know that i was also born to be in the way? i stand in the way of my father's desire to see johan on the throne. i stand in the way of his wish to forget the hated german woman. my mind has not the true swedish quality, and the fault lies in my german blood. although i am a vasa, i am saxony, too, and lauenburg, and brunswick. i am so little of a swede that it gives me pleasure when the free city of luebeck imposes a penal tax on my country--and keeps it humiliated. jacob. [_looking hard at him_] is that the truth, or do you merely talk like that out of politeness? eric. [_puts his hand to his sword, bid regains self-control immediately_] do you notice how much i love you, seeing that i pardon such a question?--yes, my friend, the first words taught me by my mother were german, and in german i learned to say my evening prayers--that old and beautiful "heil dir, maria, mutter gottes".... oh, that time--that time.... [_he weeps_] oh, damn it! i am crying, i think!--come to the blue dove to-night, jacob there you'll find rhine wine and merry maidens! jorghen will be there, too. he's a man you should know. jacob. [_coldly and shrewdly_] i--shall--come. eric. thank you, friend! [_rising_] really, the place has a look of pawn-shop. jacob. [_sharply_] that was just what i had in mind before. eric. well, then we agree to that extent at least. until to-night, then! do you know agda? jacob. [_brusquely_] no! eric. [_haughtily, giving him two fingers to shake_, jacob _pretending not to notice it_] farewell!--what became of those two little pawnbrokers? jacob _does not answer_. eric. [_arrogantly_] good-bye, then, baruch!--have you read the book of baruch? _going toward the background, he jingles the altar vessels as he passes them_. "the ring of gold, and rattling dice, and wine brings light to tipsy eyes. but in the night that light must lack, to wenches leads each crooked track." that's a good one, isn't it? i made it myself! [_he goes out through the rear door_. herman israel. [_enters from the right_] are you alone? jacob. yes, father. israel. i heard somebody speaking. jacob. that was the heir apparent. israel. what did he want? jacob. i don't think he has the slightest idea of what he wants. israel. is he your friend? jacob. yes, so he calls himself, but i am not his. because he thinks that he is honouring me with his friendship, he flatters himself with the belief that i return it. israel. you are frightfully wise for a young man of your age. jacob. why, it's an axiom in the art of living, that you must not be the friend of your enemy. israel. can he be made useful? jacob. running errands, perhaps, provided you keep him wholesomely ignorant of the matter at stake. otherwise i don't think i ever saw an heir apparent more useless than this one. israel. do you hate him? jacob. no, i pity him too much for that. he is more unfortunate than he deserves. that he will end badly, seems pretty certain. it seems clear to himself, too, and to such an extent that he appears anxious to hasten the catastrophe. israel. listen, my son. i have long noticed that i can keep no secrets from you, and so i think it is better for me to tell you everything. sit down and give me your attention while i walk back and forth.... i can think only when i am walking.... jacob. talk away, father. i am thinking all the time. israel. you have probably guessed that some great event is preparing under the surface you have probably noticed that our free city of luebeck is fighting for its rights here in the north. i speak of rights, because we have the right of the pioneer who has broken new roads--roads of trade in this case--to demand compensation and profit from the country on which he has spent his energy. we have taught these people to employ their natural products and to exchange them with profit; and we have set sweden free. having used us, they wish now to cast us aside. that's always the way: use--and cast aside! but there are greater and more powerful interests than those of trade that should compel the north to join hands with the free cities. the emperor and the pope are one. our free cities made themselves independent first of the emperor and then of the pope. now, when this country has been helped by us and its great king to do the same, we must, willy-nilly, remain allies against the common enemy. and until quite recently we did stick together. then an evil spirit seemed to take possession of this vasa. whether misled by pride or fatigue, he wishes now to enter a path that must lead us all to disaster. jacob. wait a little.--all of us, you say? you had better say "us of luebeck," for the swedes will gain by entering that path. israel. are you on their side? jacob. no, i am not. but i can perfectly well see where their advantage lies. and i beg you, father, don't try to fight against vasa, for he is guided by the hand of the lord! have you not recognised that already? israel. i wonder how i could be such a fool as to give my confidence to one still in his nonage! jacob. it won't hurt you to have your plans discussed from another point of view than your own while there is still time to correct them. and you know, of course, that you can rely on me. go on, now! israel. no, i can't now. jacob. the pen won't write when its point has been broken. if you will not get angry, i can tell you a little more myself. marcus. [_enters_] the one you have been waiting for is outside, sir. jacob. i suppose it is john andersson. israel. let him wait. [_motions_ marcus _out of the room; then to_ jacob] do you know him, too? jacob. i have never seen him, but now i can figure out who he is. israel. [_astounded_] you can figure it out, you say? jacob. i merely add one thing to another. now, when the dalecarlians have been squelched, a new beginning will have to be made with the good folk of småland. israel. of småland, you say? jacob. yes, i understand that this john andersson is from småland. i don't think his name is john andersson, however, but--[_in a lower voice_] nils dacke![4] israel. have you been spying? jacob. no, i merely listen, and look, and add together. israel. well, you have made a false calculation this time. jacob. thus you tell me that there are two persons concerned in the matter, and that nils dacke is the silent partner who will not appear until the war has begun. israel. i am afraid of you. jacob. you shouldn't be, father. i dare not do anything wrong, because then i am always made to suffer. israel. do you think i am doing anything wrong? jacob. you are more likely than i to do so, because, like prince eric, you believe in nothing. israel. and such a thing i must hear from my own child! jacob. it is better than to hear it from other people's children--later on. marcus. [_enters_] two dalecarlians ask to see you. israel. tell them to wait. marcus _goes out_. jacob. they'll pay for it with their heads. israel. who are they, then? jacob. anders persson of rankhyttan and mons nilsson of aspeboda, who have tried in vain to get an audience with the king, and who are now moved by their futile anger to turn to you for revenge. israel. so you know that, too? jacob. without wishing to show you any disrespect, father--how can a man of your age believe that secrets exist? israel. time has run away from me. i don't know any longer where i stand. jacob. now you speak the truth! and i don't think that you estimate the results of your venture correctly. israel. that will appear in due time. but now you must go, for even if you know of my venture, you must not become involved in it. jacob. i shall obey, but you must listen to me. israel. no, you must listen to me! tell marcus that i shall expect my visitors in the hall of state. you stay here with david and pack all valuables into boxes ready to be sent southward. jacob. father! israel. silence! jacob. one word: don't rely on me if you should do anything wrong! israel. there is one thing _you_ may rely on; that, having power of life and death in this house, i shall see that every traitor is tried and executed, whether he be my own son or no. first comes my country, then my family; but first and last--my arty! [_he puts his hand on his sword_] and now--go! _curtain_. second scene _a large room in the blue dove inn. wainscotted walls, with tankards and jugs ranged along the shelf above the panels. benches fastened to the walls and covered with cushions and draperies. in the background, a corner-stand with potted flowers and bird-cages. sconces containing wax candles are hung on the walls; candelabra stand on a table that also contains bowls of fruit, beakers, goblets, tumblers, dice, playing-cards, and a lute_. _it is night_. prince eric _and_ jorghen persson _are seated at the table. they are looking pale and tired, and have ceased drinking_. eric. you want to go to sleep, jorghen, and i prefer to dream while still awake. to go to bed is to me like dying: to be swathed in linen sheets and stretch out in a long bed like a coffin. and then the corpse has the trouble of washing itself and reading its own burial service. jorghen. are you afraid of death, prince? eric. as the children are afraid of going to bed, and i am sure i'll cry like a child when my turn comes. if i only knew what death is! jorghen. some call it a sleep, and others an awakening, but no one knows anything with certainty. eric. how could we possibly know anything of that other life, when we know so little of this one? jorghen. yes, what is life? eric. one large madhouse, it seems to me! think of my sane and shrewd and sensible father--doesn't he act like a madman? he rids the country of foreigners and takes the heads of those that helped him. he rids the country of foreigners only to drag in a lot of others, like peutinger and norman,[5] whom he puts above the lords of the realm and all other authorities. he is mad, of course!--he rids the church of human inventions only to demand the acceptance of new inventions at the penalty of death. this liberator is the greatest tyrant that ever lived, and yet this tyrant is the greatest liberator that ever lived! this evening, you know, he wanted to prohibit me from coming here; and when i insisted on going all the same, he threw his hungarian war-hammer after me, as if he had been the god thor chasing the trolls. he came within an inch of killing me, just as it is said--which you may not have heard--that he killed my mother. jorghen. [_becoming attentive_] no, i never heard of that. eric. that's what they say. and i can understand it. there is greatness in it. to feel raised above all human considerations; to kill whatever stands in the way? and trample everything else.... sometimes, you know, when i see him coming in his big, soft hat and his blue cloak, using his boar-spear in place of a stick, i think he is odin himself. when he is angry, the people say that they can hear him from the top story down to the cellars, and that the sound of it is like thunder. but i am not afraid of him, and that's why he hates me. at the same time he has a great deal of respect for me. [jorghen _smiles sceptically_] yes, you may smile! that's only because you have no respect for anything; not, even for yourself. jorghen. that least of all. eric. are you really such a beast? jorghen. that's what every one thinks me, so i suppose i must believe it. eric. [_returning to his previous idea_] and.... there is a thought that pursues me.... he looks like old odin, i said: odin who has returned to despoil the temples of the christians just as they once robbed his temples.... you should have seen them weighing and counting church treasures at herman israel's yesterday. it was ghastly!... and do you know, he is lucky in everything he undertakes. there is favourable wind whenever he goes sailing; the fish bite whenever he goes fishing; he wins whenever he gambles. they say that he was born with a caul.... jorghen. a most unusual man. eric. do you know young jacob, the son of herman israel? he promised to come here to-night. rather precocious, perhaps, but with sensible ideas on certain subjects--and i think i admire some of his qualities because i lack them myself. jorghen. is that so? eric. otherwise he is probably a perfect rascal like his father. jorghen. then i shall be pleased to make his acquaintance. eric. because he is a rascal?--ha-ha! jorghen. in spite of it! agda. [_enters from the left_] did you call me, prince? eric. no, but you are always welcome. sit down here. agda. the honour is too great for me. eric. of course, it is! agda. and so i leave--to save my honour. eric. dare you sting, you gnat? agda. that's your fancy only. i am too sensible and humble to hurt the feelings of a great lord like yourself, my prince. eric. very good! very good, indeed! come here and talk to me a little more. agda. if your lordship commands, i must talk, of course, but.... eric. give me the love that i have begged for so long! agda. what one does not have one cannot give away. eric. alas! agda. not loving your lordship, i cannot give you any love. eric. _diantre_!--give me your favour, then! agda. favours are not given away, but sold. eric. listen to that! it is as if i heard my wise jacob himself philosophising. [_to_ jorghen] did you ever hear anything like it? jorghen. all wenches learn that kind of patter from their lovers. eric. don't talk like that! this girl has won my heart. jorghen. and some one else has won hers. eric. how do you know? jorghen. you can hear it at once, even though the proofs be not visible. eric. do you believe in love? jorghen. in its existence, yes, but not in its duration. eric. do you know how a woman's love is to be won? jorghen. all that's necessary is to be "the right one." if you are not, your case is hopeless. eric. that's a riddle. jorghen. one of the greatest. eric. who do you think can be my rival? jorghen. some clerk, or pikeman, or rich horsemonger. eric. and i who am not afraid of tossing my handkerchief to the proud virgin-queen that rules britannia! jorghen. yet it's true. eric. perhaps agda is too modest--and does not dare to believe in the sincerity of my feelings? jorghen. i don't believe anything of the kind. _a noise is heard outside the door in the rear_. prince johan [_enters_] i hope my dear brother will pardon my intrusion at this late hour, but i have been sent by our father out of fond concern for my dear brother's.... eric. be quick and brief, jöns, or sit down and use a beaker as punctuation mark! the sum of it is: the old man wants me to come home and go to bed. reply: the heir apparent decides for himself when he is to sleep. johan. i shall not convey such a reply, especially as my dear brother's disobedience may have serious results in this case. eric. won't you sit down and drink a goblet, duke? johan. thank you, prince, but i don't wish to cause my father sorrow. eric. how dreadfully serious that sounds! johan. it is serious. our father has new and greater worries to face because disturbances have been reported from the southern provinces, especially from småland.... and as it is possible that the king may have to leave his capital, he looks to the heir apparent for assistance in the administration of the government. eric. half of which is nothing but lies, of course--and then there are such a lot of people governing already. go in peace, my brother. i shall come when i come. johan. my duty is done, and all i regret is being unable to gain more of my brother's ear; of his heart i possess no part at all! [_he goes out_. eric. [_to_ jorghen] can you make anything out of that boy? jorghen. i can't. eric. i wonder if he believes in his own preachings? jorghen. that is just the worst of it. ordinary rascals like you and me, who don't believe in anything, can't get words of that kind over their lips; and for that reason we can never deceive anybody. eric. you _are_ a beast, jorghen. jorghen. of course, i am. eric. is there nothing good in you at all? jorghen. not a trace! and besides--what is good? [_pause_] my mother was always saying that i should end on the gallows. do you think one's destiny is predetermined? eric. that's what master dionysius asserts--the calvinist who uses holy writ to prove that the dispensation of grace is not at all dependent on man. jorghen. come on with the gallows then! that's the grace dispensed to me. eric. that fellow jacob says always that i was born to misfortune, and that's what father says, too, when he gets angry. what do you think my end will be? jorghen. was it not saint augustine who said that he who has been coined into a groat can never become a ducat? eric. that's right. but i don't think we have drunk enough to make us start any theological disputes. here we have been disputing for a lifetime now, and every prophet has been fighting all the rest. luther has refuted augustine, calvin has refuted luther, zwingli has refuted calvin, and john of leyden has refuted all of them. so we know now just where we stand! jorghen. yes, it's nothing but humbug, and if it were not for that kind of humbug, i should never have been born. eric. what do you mean? jorghen. oh, you know perfectly well that my father was a monk who went off and got married when they closed the monasteries. it means that i'm a product of perjury and incest, as my father broke his oath and established an illicit relationship like any unclean sheep. eric. you _are_ a beast, jorghen! jorghen. have i ever denied it? eric. no, but there are limits.... jorghen. where? eric. here and there! a certain innate sense of propriety generally suggests the--approximate limits. jorghen. are you dreaming again, you dreamer? eric. take care! there are limits even to friendship.... jorghen. no, mine is limitless! jacob _is shown into the room by_ agda, _whose hand he presses_. eric. [_rising_] there you are at last, jacob! you have kept me waiting a long time, and just now i was longing for you. jacob. pardon me, prince, but my thoughts were so heavy that i did not wish to bring them into a merry gathering. eric. yes, we are devilishly merry, jorghen and i! this is jorghen persson, you see--my secretary, and a very enlightened and clever man, but a perfect rascal otherwise, as you can judge from his horrible looks and treacherous eyes. jorghen. at your service, my dear sir! eric. sit down and philosophise with us, jacob. of course, i promised you pretty maidens, but we have only one here, and she is engaged. jacob. [_startled_] what do you mean by--engaged? eric. that she has bestowed her heart on somebody, so that you may save yourself the trouble of searching her bosom for it. jacob. are you talking of agda? eric. do you know agda the chaste, who has told us that she would sell her favours, but never give them away? agda. my god, i never, never meant anything of the kind! jacob. no, she cannot possibly have meant it that way. eric. she has said it. jacob. it must be a lie. eric. [_his hand on his sword-hilt_] the devil, you say! jorghen. a tavern brawl of the finest water! the words have been given almost correctly, but they were not understood as they were meant. eric. do you dare to takes sides against me, you rascal? jorghen. listen, friends.... eric. _with_ a hussy _against_ your master.... jacob. she's no hussy! agda. thank you, jacob! please tell them everything.... eric. oh, there is something to tell, then? well, well! [_to_ jorghen] and you must needs appear as the defender of innocence! _he makes a lunge at_ jorghen, _who barely manages to get out of the way_. jorghen. why the deuce must you always come poking after me when somebody else has made a fool of himself? stop it, damn you! eric. [_to_ jacob] so this is my rival! ha-ha-ha! a fellow like you! _ventre-saint-gris!_ _he loses all control of himself and finally sinks on a chair, seized with an epileptic fit_. jacob. once you honoured me with your friendship, prince, for which i could only give you pity in return. as i did not wish to be false, i asked you to let me go.... eric. [_leaping to his feet_] go to the devil! jacob. yes, i am going, but first you must hear what i and agda have in common--something you can never understand, as you understand nothing but hatred, and for that reason never can win love.... eric. _diantre!_ and i who can have the virgin-queen, the proud maiden of britannia, at my feet any time i care ha-ha, ha-ha! jacob. king david had five hundred proud maidens, but for happiness he turned to his humble servant's only wife.... eric. must i hear more of that sort of thing? jacob. a great deal more! eric. [_rushing at_ jacob] die, then! _the guard enters by the rear door_. captain of the guard [_an old, white-bearded_ man]. your sword, if you please, prince eric! eric. what is this? captain. [_handing_ eric _a document_] the king's order. you are under arrest.... eric. go to the devil, old stenbock! captain. that's not a princely answer to a royal command! eric. yes, talk away! captain. [_goes up to_ eric _and forests the sword out of his hand; then he turns him over to the guard_] away with him! and put him in the tower! that's order number one! [eric _is led toward the door_] then comes number two--mr. secretary! [_to the guard_] put on the handcuffs! and then--to the green vault with him! to-morrow at cockcrow--ten strokes of the rod! jorghen. [_as he is seized by the guard_] must i be spanked because _he_ won't go to bed? eric. do you dare to lay hands on the heir apparent? 'sdeath! captain. god is still alive, and so is the king!--march on!--- eric _and_ jorghen _are led out by the guard_. captain. [_to_ agda] and now you'll close your drink-shop. that's the final word. and as there is no question about it, you need not make any answer. _he goes out after the guard and the prisoners_. jacob. always this titanic hand that is never seen and always felt! now it has been thrust out of a cloud to alter our humble fates. the liberator of the country has descended during the darkness of night to set my little bird free.--will you take flight with me? agda. yes, with you--and far away! jacob. but where? agda. the world is wide! jacob. come, then! _curtain_. [1] a subterranean vault in the royal palace at stockholm used by the thrifty king gustavus for the storing of gold and silver and other valuables. compare the warning of nils söderby to mons nilsson's wife in the first act: "look out for the silver--the king is coming." [2] the first wife of gustavus was the princess catherine of saxe-lauenburg, whom he married in 1531, and who died in 1535. she was of a very peculiar temperament and caused much trouble between the king and his relatives by her reckless talk. prince eric was born in 1533. [3] this is an excellent illustration of the freedom taken by strindberg in regard to the actual chronology of the historical facts he is using. eric was little more than a year old when his mother died. strindberg knew perfectly well what he was doing, his reason being that the motive ascribed to eric's hatred of his father strengthens the dramatic quality of the play in a very high degree. [4] a peasant chieftain, who headed the most dangerous rebellion gustavus had to contend with during his entire reign. the southern province of småland had for years been the scene of peasant disturbances when, in 1541, dacke took command of the scattered flocks and merged them into an army which defied the king's troops for nearly two years. dacke was as able as he was ambitious. he was in communication with the german emperor and other foreign enemies of gustavus, and on one occasion the latter had actually to enter into negotiations with the rebel. in accordance with his invariable custom, gustavus did not rely on hired soldiery, but turned to the people of the other provinces, explaining and appealing to them with such success that a sufficient army was raised and dacke beaten and killed in 1543. [5] in his effort to reorganise the country and its administration on a businesslike basis, gustavus turned first to swedes like olavus petri and laurentius andreæ, his first chancellor. but these were as independent of mind as he was himself, and there was not a sufficient number of them. then gustavus turned to germany, whence a host of adventurers as well as able, honest men swarmed into the country. the two best known and most trusted of these foreigners were georg norman, who rendered valuable services in organising the civil administration, and conrad von pyhy, said to be a plain charlatan named peutinger, who was made chancellor of the realm. act iii _the king's study. the background consists almost wholly of large windows, some of which have panes of stained glass. several of the windows are open, and through these may be seen trees in the first green of spring. mast tops with flying flags, and church spires are visible above the tops of the trees_. _beneath the windows are benches set in the walls. their seats are covered by many-coloured cushions_. _at the right, a huge open fireplace, richly decorated. the recently adopted national coat of arms appears on the mantelpiece. a door on the same side leads to the waiting-room_. _a chair of state with canopy occupies the centre of the left wall. in front of it stands a long oak table covered with green cloth. on the table are a folio bible, an inkstand, candlesticks, a war-hammer, and a number of other things. a door on the same side, nearer the background, leads to the royal apartments_. _the floor is covered with animal skins and rugs_. _the walls display paintings of old testament subjects. the most conspicuous of these represents "the lord appearing unto abraham in the plains of mamre." the picture of abraham bears a strong resemblance to the king_. _an arabian water-bottle of clay and a silver cup stand on a small cabinet_. _near the door at the right hang a long and wide blue cloak and a big black felt hat. a short boar-spear is leaned against the wall_. _the_ king, _lost in thought, stands by one of the open windows where the full sunlight pours over him. he has on a black dress of spanish cut, with yellow linings that show in the seams and through a number of slits. over his shoulders is thrown a short cloak trimmed with sable. his hair is blond, and his tremendous beard, reaching almost to his waist, is still lighter in colour._ _the_ queen _enters from the left. she wears a yellow dress with black trimmings_. king. [_kissing her brow_] good morrow, my rose! queen. a splendid morning! king. the first spring day after a long winter. queen. is my king in a gracious mood to-day? king. my graciousness is not dependent on weather or wind.--go on now! is it a question of eric? queen. it is. king. well, he has my good grace once more after having slept himself sober in the tower. and jorghen comes next, i suppose? queen. yes. king. he, on the other hand, will not have my good grace until he reforms. queen. but.... king. he is bad through and through, and he is spoiling eric. whatever may be the cause of his badness, i cannot dispose of it, but i can check the effects. have you any more protégés of the same kind? queen. i won't say anything more now. king. then we can talk of something else. how is my mother-in-law? queen. oh, you know. king. and johan? where is johan? queen. he is not far away. king. i wish he were still nearer--nearer to me--so near that he could succeed me when the time comes. queen. it is not right to think like that, and still less to talk like that, when a higher providence has already decided in favour of prince eric. king. well, i can't tell whether it was vanity that fooled me into looking for a foreign princess or wisdom that kept me away from the homes of our swedish nobility--one hardly ever knows what one is doing. queen. that's true. king. but the feet that i became the brother-in-law of the danish king helped the country to get peace, and so nobody has any right to complain. queen. the country first! king. the country first and last. that's why eric must be married. queen. do you really think he has any hopes with the english queen. king. i don't know, but we must find out--that is, without risking the honour of the country. it is not impossible. we have had a british princess on the throne before. queen. who was that? king. don't you know that queen philippa was a daughter of king henry iv?[1] queen. no, i didn't know that. king. then i suppose you don't know, either, that the folkungs were among your ancestors, and that you are also descended from king waldemar, the conqueror of denmark?[2] queen. no, no! i thought the bloody tale of the folkungs was ended long ago. king. let us hope it is! but your maternal ancestor was nevertheless a daughter of eric ploughpenny of denmark and had a son with her brother-in-law, king waldemar of sweden, the son of earl birger.... queen. why do you tell me all these dreadful stories? king. i thought it might amuse you to know that you have royal blood in your veins, while i have peasant blood. you are too modest, margaret, and i wish to see you exalted--so high that that fool eric will be forced to respect you. queen. to have sprung from a crime should make one more modest. king. well, that's enough about that. was there anything else? _the_ queen _hesitates_. king. you are thinking of anders persson and mons nilsson, but i won't let you talk of them. _the_ queen _kneels before him_. king. please, get up! [_as she remains on her knees_] then i must leave you. [_he goes out to the left_. prince eric _enters from the right; he is pale and unkempt, and his face retains evidence of the night's carouse_. _the_ queen _rises, frightened_. eric. did i scare you? queen. not exactly. eric. i can take myself out of the way. i was only looking for a glass of water. _he goes to the water-bottle, fills a cup full of water and gulps it down; then another, and still another_. queen. are you sick? eric. [_impertinently_] only a little leaky. queen. what do you mean? eric. well, dry, if you please. the more wine you drink, the dryer gets your throat. the wetter, the dryer--that's madness, like everything else. queen. why do you hate me? eric. [_cynically_] because i am not allowed to love you. [_in the meantime he continues to pour down one glass of water after the other_] you must not be in love with your step-mother and yet you must love her: that's madness, too. queen. why do you call me stepmother? eric. because that's the word, and that's what you are. is that clear? if it is, then that isn't madness at least. queen. you have the tongue of a viper. eric. and the reason, too. queen, but no heart! eric. what could i do with it? throw it at the feet of the women to be defiled by them?--my heart lies buried in my mother's coffin in the vault of the upsala cathedral. i was only four years old when it was put there, but there it lies with her, and they tell me there was a hole in her head as if she had been struck by the hammer of thor--which i did not see, however. when i asked to see my mother for the last time at the burial, they had already screwed on the coffin lid. well, there lies my heart--the only one i ever had what have you to do with my entrails, for that matter? or with my feelings?--look out for my reason; that's all! i grasp your thoughts before you have squeezed them out of yourself. i understand perfectly that you would like to see the crown placed on the red hair of that red devil whom you call son, and whom i must needs call brother. he insists that he has more ancestors than i, and that he is descended from danish kings. if that's so, he has a lot of fine relatives. eric ploughpenny had his head cut off. abel killed his brother and was killed in turn. christoffer was poisoned. eric the blinking was stuck like a pig.--i have no elegant relatives like those, but if heredity counts, i must keep an eye on my dear brother. queen. nobody can talk of anything but blood and poison to-day. the sun must have risen on the wrong side this fine morning! eric. the sun is a deceiver; don't trust it. blood will be shed in this place before nightfall. eric and abel were the names of those elegant relatives; not cain and abel! and that time it was abel who killed cain--no, eric, i mean! that's a fine omen to start with! eric was killed! poor eric! queen. alas, alas! eric. but it is of no use to take any stock in superstition, as i entered this vale of misery with my fist full of blood. queen. now you do scare me! eric. [_laughing_] that's more than jorghen would believe--that i could scare anybody. queen. what blood is to be shed here to-day? eric. i am not sure, but it is said that those dalecarlians will have their heads cut off. queen. can it not be prevented? eric. if it is to be, it cannot be prevented, but must come as thunder must come after lightning. and besides, what does it matter? heads are dropping off here like ripe apples. _the_ king _enters reading a document. the_ queen _meets him with a supplicating look_. king. [_hotly_] if you have any faith in me at all, margaret, cease your efforts to judge in matters of state. i have been investigating for two years without being able to make up my mind. how can you, then, hope to grasp this matter?--go in to the children now. i have a word to say to eric! _the_ queen _goes out_. king. if you could see yourself as you are now, eric, you would despise yourself! eric. so i do anyhow! king. nothing but talk! if you did despise yourself, you would change your ways. eric. i cannot make myself over. king. have you ever tried? eric. i have. king. then your bad company must counteract your good intentions. eric. jorghen is no worse than anybody else, but he has the merit of knowing himself no better than the rest. king. do you bear in mind that you are to be king some time? eric. once i am king, the old slips will be forgotten. king. there you are mistaken again. i am still paying for old slips. however, if you are not willing to obey me as a son, you must obey me as a subordinate. eric. the heir apparent is no subject! king. that's why i used the word "subordinate." and all are subordinate to the king. eric. must i obey blindly? king. as long as you are blind, you must obey blindly. when you get your sight, you will obey with open eyes. but obey you must!--wait only till you have begun to command, and you will soon see how much more difficult that is, and how much more burdensome. eric. [_pertly_] pooh! king. [_angrily_] idiot!--go and wash the dirt off yourself, and see that your hair is combed. and rinse that filthy mouth of yours first of all, so that you don't stink up my rooms. go now--or i'll give you a week in the tower to sober up. and if that should not be enough, i'll take off your ears, so that you can never wear a crown. are those words plain enough? eric. the law of succession.... king. i make laws of that kind to suit myself! do you understand now?--that's all!--away! prince eric _goes out_. courtier. [_enters from the right_] herman israel, councillor of luebeck! king. let him come. _the_ courtier _goes out_. herman israel _enters shortly afterward_. king. [_meets him and shakes his hand; then he puts his arm about his neck and leads him across the floor in that manner]_ good day, my dear old friend, and welcome! sit down, sit down! [_he seats himself on the chair of state, and_ israel _sits down across the table_] so you have just come from dalecarlia? israel. that's where i was lately. king. i was there, too, as you know, to straighten out the mess left after the false sture and the fight about the bells, but you stayed on when i left.--did you keep an eye on master olavus petri? what sort of a man has he turned out? can i trust him? israel. absolutely! he is not only the most faithful, but the cleverest negotiator i have seen. king. really, herman? i am glad to hear that. do you really think so, herman? well, you know the old affair between him and me, and how that was settled. but it _was_ settled!--so much for that. let us talk of our affairs now. israel. as you say. but let us keep our words as well as actions under control. king. [_playing with the war-hammer_] all right! control yours as much as you please. israel. [_pointing at the hammer_] for the sake of old friendship and good faith, can't we put that away? king. ha-ha! with pleasure, if you are afraid of it, herman!--go on now! but cut it short! israel. then i'll start at the end. the country's debt to luebeck has been paid, and we are about to part. king. that sounds like writing! however, we shall part as friends. israel. as allies rather.... king. so _that's_ what you are aiming at, israel?--no, i have had enough of dependence. israel. listen, your highness, or majesty, or whatever i am to call you.... king. call me gustav, as you used to do when i called you father. israel. well, my son, there are many things that drive us apart--many, indeed--but there is one thing that keeps us together: our common, legitimate opposition to the emperor.... king. right you are! and that's the reason why we can rely on each other without any written treaties. israel. you forget one thing, my son: that i am a merchant.... king. and i the customer. have you been paid? israel. paid? yes.... but there are things that cannot be paid in money.... king. it is for me to speak of the gratitude i owe you and the free city of luebeck ever since the day i first came to you--a young man who thought himself deserted by god, and who knew himself deserted by all humanity. be satisfied to find my gratitude expressed in the friendly feelings i harbour and show toward you. a debt like that cannot be paid in money, and still less in treaties.--why do you want any treaties? in order to tie me and the country for a future of uncertain duration?--don't force me to become ungrateful, herman! on my soul, i have enough as it is to burden me--far too much! israel. what is weighing on you, my son? king. this.... oh, will you believe me, herman, old friend, that lawyer form a decision or pass a judgment without having turned to the eternal and almighty lord for advice? when, after fasting, prayer, and meditation, i have got the answer from above that i was asking for, then i strike gladly, even if it be my own heart-roots that must be cut off. but you remember master john.... john, the old friend of my youth, who assisted me in that first bout with christian? he changed heart and incited the dalecarlians to rise against me. his head had to fall, and it did fall! [_rising_] since that day my peace is gone. my nearest and dearest don't look at me in the same way they used to do. my own wife, my beloved margaret.... she turns away from me when i want to kiss her pure brow, and can you imagine? yesterday, at the dinner-table, she kept looking at my hand as if she had seen blood on it!--i don't regret what i did. i have no right to regret it. i was right--by god, i was right! but nevertheless--my peace is gone! israel. [_pensively_] those feelings are an honour to your heart, my son, and i must admit that i didn't think you quite as sensitive.... king. never mind! it was not meant as a boast. but now i find myself in the same situation again. tell me, herman, what you think of anders persson and mons nilsson. israel. [_disturbed_] will my opinion have any influence on their fate, or have you already made up your mind? king. i am still in doubts, as you ought to know. israel. then i must ask permission to remain silent. king. are you my friend? israel. yes, up to a certain point. but you must not trust me too far, as i am not my own master and have no right to give away what is not mine. king. fie on such astuteness! israel. you should get some of it yourself! king. i'll try.--first of all you must give me a final receipt for the country's paid-up debt. israel. i don't carry such documents with me, and the receipt has to be signed by the council in regular session. king. [_smiting the table with the hammer_] herman! israel. please put that thing away! king. i can see that you wish to lead me where i don't want to go. you have some purpose in mind that i can't make out. speak out, old man, or you'll have me in a rage! you want to coax me into signing some kind of paper. what is it? israel. nothing but a treaty providing for mutual friendship and mutual trade. that's all! king. and that i will never sign! i know all about luebeck's friendship as well as its trade. talk of something else! israel. i have nothing else to talk of. why don't you believe me? king. because you lie! israel. because you are unfortunate enough to think that i lie, you will never know the truth. king. yes, unfortunate, indeed--as unfortunate as a man can be, for i have not a single friend. israel. it hurts me to hear you talk like that, gustav, and--and it makes me sad to see that your greatness and your exalted office have brought you so little true happiness. i shall say nothing more about gratitude, because the idea of it is too vague in human minds, but i have loved you like a son ever since that hour when the lord of hosts put your fate in my hands. i have followed your brilliant course as if it had been my own. i have joyed over your successes, and i have sorrowed over your sorrows.... frequently my duties toward my own people have kept me from lending you a helping hand. frequently, too, your own hardness has stood between us. but now, when i behold you so deeply crushed, and when you have treated me with a confidence that i may well call filial, i shall forget for a moment that i am your enemy--which i must be as a man of luebeck, while as herman israel i am your friend. i shall forget that i am a merchant, and--[_pause_] i hope that i may never regret it--[_pause_] and--and.... do you know john andersson? king. i don't. israel. but i do, and i know anders persson and mons nilsson, too! they called on me yesterday, and--to-morrow the southern provinces will rise in rebellion! king. so _that's_ what was coming? oh! who is john andersson? israel. hard to tell. but back of his face appears another one that looks like the devil's own. have you heard the name of dacke? king. yes, but only in a sort of dream. dacke?--dacke?--it sounds like the cawing of a jackdaw.--who is he? israel. nobody knows. it is the name of one invisible, whom all know and none have seen. but that name has been seen on a letter signed by--the emperor. king. the emperor? israel. the emperor of the holy roman and german empire! king. fairy-tales! israel. you won't believe me? investigate! king. i believe you and i thank you!--you say that anders persson and mons nilsson have been plotting with the rebels right here in my own city? israel. as surely as i have ears to hear with. king. my god! my god!--then i know what to do with them! two years of struggle with myself and my conscience, and at last i know what to do with them! at last! courtier. [_bringing in_ jacob israel] jacob israel of luebeck! king. who dares to disturb me? jacob. [_throwing himself at the_ king's _feet without noticing his father_] my noble king, an humble youth has ventured to disturb you because your life is at stake! king. speak up! what more? who are you? jacob. i am jacob israel, your highness. king, [_to_ israel] it's your jacob, is it not? jacob _is thunderstruck at the sight of his father_. israel. it's my boy. king. what do you want? speak quickly, or away with you! jacob _does not answer_. king. who is after my life? if you mean john andersson or dacke, i know it already.--for the sake of your good intention and your youth, but particularly for the sake of your father, i shall forgive you. israel. but i have no right to forgive so quickly.--you came here to accuse your father? answer me yes or no. jacob. yes! israel. go then, and take my curse with you! jacob. [_kneeling before_ israel] forgive, father! israel. no more your father! you silly, impudent youth, who think that you understand the art of statesmanship and the laws of honour better than he who brought you into the world! what you did not foresee was that i might change my mind. king. oh, forgive him, herman! israel. i have forgiven him already, but our sacred laws will never do so. take this ring, jacob, and go to--you know whom!--but bid me good-bye first. jacob. [_throwing himself into the arms of his father_] take away your curse, father! israel _wets one of his fingers, makes a sign with it on his son's forehead, and mutters a few inaudible words. then he kisses_ jacob _on both cheeks and leads him to the door at the right, through which the young man disappears_. king. what are you two doing? israel. [_deeply stirred_] that is a family secret. now we can go on. king. or quit. you have given me proof of your unswerving friendship, herman, and i thank you for the last time. give me your hand! israel. not to promise anything that cannot be kept! king. no promises, then! farewell, and peace be with you! israel. [_moved_] i thank you! king. what is that? you are crying? israel. perhaps, for now i am your equal in misfortune. i have lost my son! king. he'll come back to you. israel. [_as he is leaving_] never!--good-bye! king. [_escorting him to the door_] good-bye, herman, old friend! herman israel _goes out_. _the_ king's mother-in-law _enters from the left in the white dress of a cistercian nun_. king. [_greeting her kindly_] good morning, mother-in-law. mother-in-law. are you busy? king. very much so. mother-in-law. but not so much that you cannot hear the justified complaint of a subject. king. you are too modest. however, let me decide whether your complaint be justified or no. i must hear too many unjustified ones, god wot! mother-in-law. if i condescend to make a complaint, you may be sure that i have reasons for it. king. but they must be good. most reasons are no good at all.--is it a question of anders persson and mons nilsson? mother-in-law. no, of myself. king. then you should be well informed at least. mother-in-law. is there law and justice in this country? king. both law and justice, but also a lot of wrong-doing. mother-in-law. do you know that the queen's mother--that is, i--has been insulted by the mob? king. no, i didn't know, but i have long expected it, as i have told you before this. mother-in-law. you think it right, then?... king. no, i think it wrong of you to wear that dress in public, when it is forbidden. and it is only out of respect for yourself and your--hm!--sex, that i have not long ago ordered you to be stripped of it. mother-in-law. ha-ha! king. and it has been wrong of me to leave the convent of vreta standing for you to live in, when the law demands that it be tom down. mother-in-law. ha-ha! king. since you, by persuading me into letting the convent remain, have placed me before the public in the awkward position of a perverter of justice, you should, at least, show me the consideration of not appearing on the streets in that dress. and as i have given you permission to come here _at your own risk_, you must bear that risk yourself. to show you that justice exists, however, i shall see that those who insulted you be found--they had no right to insult you, even if you had been the humblest woman of the people. now that matter is settled! [_he goes to the door at the right and summons the_ courtier, _who appears in the doorway_] call four of the guards. put two at that door [_indicating the door at the left_] and two at the other [_indicating the right-hand door_. mother-in-law. thus i am treated like a thief and a murderer by my own kinsman.... king. no, you are not! but no one knows what may happen.... it depends on your own conduct. mother-in-law. [_with a threat in her glance_] do you call that freedom? king. it is freedom for me--to be free from unreasonable people. _two guards enter from the right_. king. [_pointing at the left-hand door_] outside that door. and no one can get in here; literally no one! [_as the guards hesitate_] if anybody should come, whoever it be--whoever it be, mind you--and try to force his way in here, cut him down--cut him down! [_to his_ mother-in-law] i cannot show you the door, but i must warn you that two executions will take place in this room within a few minutes. mother-in-law. here? king. yes, here! do you wish to look on? mother-in-law. [_approaching the door at the left_] i shall go in a moment, but first you must hear something for your own benefit.... king. if it is for _my_ benefit, i can guess the nature of it. well, spit it out now! mother-in-law. this man herman israel, whom you regard as a friend, is speaking ill of you on your back. king. when i do what's ill, he has the right to speak ill of me--has he not? mother-en-law. [_going out in a huff_] oh, it's impossible to reason with you! king. have you really discovered that at last?--at last! [_he goes to the door at the right_] let master olavus petri come in. master olavus _enters_. king. good day, olof. i have read your report on the conditions at copperberg, and i am pleased with you.--have anders persson and mons nilsson been arrested? olavus. they have been locked up since last night. king. [_goes to the door at the right_] order anders persson and mons nilsson to be brought up here at once. [_to_ olavus] have you any proof that the prisoners have been plotting with john andersson? olavus. proof and witnesses. king. good!--tell me something what do you think of herman israel--as a man, and more particularly in his relationship to me? olavus. he seems to me a good and faithful friend of your highness. as a private person he is honest in every respect, big-minded, and straight in all his actions. king. i am glad to hear it just now, when i have all but lost my faith in friendship. so you think i can rely on him? olavus. absolutely. king. have you heard of the restlessness in the southern provinces? olavus. yes, i am sorry to say. king. they say that it is pretty serious. olavus. so serious that nothing but quick and determined action can save the country. king. have you heard the emperor's name mentioned in this connection? olavus. i have. king. i want a piece of advice, although i may not take it. what would you, in my place, do with anders persson and mons nilsson? olavus. have them executed before the sun has set. king. you are a stem man, olof! olavus. yes, why not? king. do you think you could sleep nights--having shown that kind of--sternness? olavus. only then should i be able to sleep in peace.... king. very well!--have you anything to ask me about? olavus. i have--but it's a delicate question. king. let's see! olavus. it concerns the mother of the queen.... king. the people are muttering? olavus. the people think that when the king has ordered the introduction of a new faith, he should not for family reasons overlook the violation of the established law.... king. it's not the people, but you, who are saying that.... olavus. suppose i took the liberty of telling my king the truth.... king. you're no court fool who needs to run about dropping truths wherever you go! [_pause_] now, i am willing to admit that the indiscretion of my gracious mother-in-law puts me in a false position toward the adherents of the new faith.... but this is not the bedchamber, and we'll let that question stay where it belongs; back of the bed curtains. is there anything else? olavus. nothing else. but this question.... king. [_hotly_] i'll solve myself! olavus. can your highness solve it? king. i think you ask too many questions! olavus. if it were a private matter, yes--but as it concerns the whole country.... king. which i am looking after! i am looking after the whole country. and if you must know, i have just settled that very question, so that your advice is a little belated. the convent of vreta will be closed before you have time to write another sermon. do you realise now that i have a right to be angry with your needless and unsolicited questions? olavus. i stand corrected! king. i have got you on account of my sins, and i suppose i must take your faults with your merits, which are great. now we are done with _that i_ go back and roar in your pulpit now. here i do the roaring! master olavus _goes out by the door at the right_. king. [_standing in front of that door with folded hands and speaking in a barely audible voice_] eternal lord, who rules the destinies of princes and of peoples, illumine my mind and strengthen my will, so that i may not judge unrighteously! [_he makes the sign of the cross and mutters a brief prayer; then he opens the door_] bring in the prisoners! _the door remains open while the_ king _seats himself in the chair of state_. anders persson _and_ mons nilsson _are brought in_. _they look around the room uneasily at first; then they start toward the_ king. king. stay where you are! [_pause_] once i called you my friends, anders persson and mons nilsson. you know why. but that was long ago. i let you keep life and goods when you had forfeited both, and thus providence rid me mercifully of the debt of gratitude i had come to owe you. two years ago you withdrew your oath of loyalty and opened war on me for the sake of those bells. being victorious, i had a right to your heads, but i let you go. that's how my debt was paid. your ingratitude wiped out my gratitude, and so _that_ bill was settled. now the time has come for a new settlement, and this time the balance is against you. to find out just where you stood, i invited you to my capital, and you might have guessed that i would keep my eyes on you. my ears have been open, too, and i have learned that you have begun plotting all over again. do you know john andersson? anders _and_ mons. no! king. [_rising and approaching them angrily_] do you know dacke? anders _and_ mons. [_falling on their knees_] mercy! king. yes, mercy! but there will be no more mercy. you have had it once, and twice is too much. anders _and_ mons _make movements to speak_. king. silence! i am doing the speaking now! you were going to talk about friendship, of course. i cannot be the friend of my enemies, and having cancelled your acquaintance, i don't even know you. were i to let old devotion influence my judgment, i should not be acting as an unbiassed judge. and he who has incurred the disfavour of the law cannot be helped by any favour of mine! that's enough words spent on this matter! [_goes to the door at the right_] take away these culprits, guard! anders. what is the sentence? king. that you lose life, honour, and property. mons _makes a gesture as if wishing to shake hands with the_ king. king. _my_ hand? oh, no! shake hands with the heads-man, and kiss the block--that's good enough for you! anders. one word! king. not one! anders persson _and_ mons nilsson _are led out_. _the_ king _turns his back on them and goes to the chair of state, where he sinks down, burying his face in his hands_. _curtain_. [1] philippa of england, who died in 1430, was the queen of eric of pomerania, who succeeded the great queen margaret on the united thrones of the three scandinavian kingdoms. she was as sweet and fine as he was stupid and worthless, and to this day her memory survives among the people. [2] the folkungs were the descendants of the puissant earl birger of håtuna, who, as an uncrowned king, ruled sweden in very much the same spirit as king gustavus himself. the folkung dynasty reigned from 1250 to 1389--and spent much of that time in fighting among themselves. king waldemar ii gained the name of "conqueror" by adding esthonia and other baltic districts to denmark. act iv first scene _a square at the foot of brunkeberg, a fountain stands in the centre. the hansa house appears at the right. it is built of red bricks, with windows in gothic style. the windows are barred outside and have shutters within. the gates are fastened with heavy wooden beams. above the gateway appear the flag and coat of arms of luebeck._ _at the left is a tavern with a sign-board bearing the inscription: "the golden apple." there are trees in front of it, and under these tables and benches. next the foreground is a bower with a table and benches within it_. _the hillside of brunkeberg forms the background. it contains a number of gallows, wheels, and similar paraphernalia._ _there is a bench in front of the hanseatic office_. agda _and_ karin _are standing at the fountain when the curtain rises_. agda _carries a water-jar, while_ karin _has a basket full of flowers and wreaths_. agda. you ask what that big red house is? it used to be the convent of st. clara. now it is the hanseatic office. karen. do they ever buy any flowers there? agda. not now, i think. i used to bring flowers there when an image of the virgin mary stood at the corner.--i wish she were there still! karin. what do they do in that house? they tell so many queer stories about it, and no one is ever admitted.... agda. have you heard that, too? i suppose they buy and sell, like all that come from luebeck. karin. of course, but they say that people have disappeared in that house and that those who live there are heathens who sacrifice.... agda. you have heard that, too? but it can't be true! do you think so? karin. how could i tell? and why are you so disturbed by those stories? [agda _does not reply_] gossip says that you used to have a friend in there. is it true? agda. well, as you have heard about it but whether he still be there oh, if i only knew! karin. i'll ring and ask. agda. no, no! you don't know what kind of people they are! karin. do you think they'll eat me? [_she goes up to the gateway and putts a string; a bell is heard ringing inside_] listen! that's the old vesper bell! i know it! bing-bong! bing-bong! agda. stop it! somebody might come. karin. isn't that what we want? but no one does come, my dear.--it's a gruesome place. and i shall leave it alone now.--do you know prince eric, agda? agda. yes, it was on his account they closed up the blue dove. now i am working over there, at the golden apple. karin. they say that he used to be very polite to you. agda. no, he was most impolite, not to say nasty. karin. he had been drinking then. otherwise he is merely miserable, they say. agda. do you know him? karin. no, i have only seen him, but i cannot forget his sad eyes and his long face. he looks so much like a doll i had once--i called it blinkie bloodless.... i suppose they are not kind to him at home, either. agda. probably not, but a man has no right to act like a brute because he is unhappy. karin. why do you talk like that? he drinks a lot of wine, like most young men and hush! somebody is coming.... agda. good-bye, karin. i have to run.... [_she hurries into the tavern at the left_. karin. [_as she goes to the right_] i'll be back. prince eric _and_ jorghen persson _enter from the rear_. eric. here's my new well-spring of wine. come quick to the bower here. jorghen. and agda is here, too! eric. well, what of it? [_rapping on the table_. agda _appears_. eric. [_to_ agda] bring us some rhine wine and then make yourself invisible. [_to_ jorghen] you know, jorghen, i am facing a crucial moment and must be ready to act at once. the king has lost his reason and is committing acts that cannot be defended! yesterday he cut off the heads of those dalecarlians. to-day comes the news that his troops have been beaten by the peasants of småland, who are now crossing holaved forest.[1] now the dalecarlians will rise, of course, and everything is lost. jorghen. what does that concern us? let the world perish, and i shall laugh at it. eric. but this is what beats everything else for madness. finding his treasury empty, the king, in his incredible simplicity, tries to borrow money from these luebeckians, who are his enemies. jorghen. well, if you need money, your enemies are the best ones to take it from. eric. if i am not crazy already, you'll make me so! please be serious a moment! jorghen. [_recites_] "the ring of gold, and rattling dice, and wine brings light to tipsy eyes. but in the night, that light must lack, to wenches leads each crooked track." _at that moment_ agda _appears with the wine_. eric. [_laughing idiotically at_ jorghen's _recitation_] ha-ha! that's a good one. but then, i made it myself.--well, agda, or magda, or what it is, where's your pawnbroker to-day? agda _does not reply_. eric. do you know that those hanseatic people are in the habit of butchering little boys and selling them to the turk? agda. is that true? eric. there is some truth in it, i think. jorghen. let the maiden go before she begins to cry. i can't bear tears. eric. i suppose you have never cried, jorghen? jorghen. twice: when i was born, and once after that--out of rage. eric. you are a beast, jorghen. agda _goes back into the tavern_. jorghen. however--you wish to figure out what is to happen, and to form a decision on the basis of your false calculations. have you not noticed how all our plans are foiled? that's the game of the gods. sometimes we act wisely, and everything goes to the devil, and then we act like fools, and everything turns out right. it's nothing but humbug--all of it! eric. i think so, too, and yet there must be some sort of sense in it. jorghen. not as far as i can see. it's just like dicing. eric. let the dice rattle, then! jorghen. let them rattle! that's the right word for it. now it's a question of head or tail, however--whether the king is to be the tail, and the man from småland the head.... look, who comes here! karin _enters from the right_. eric. [_staring at her_] who--is--that? jorghen. a flower girl. eric. no--this is--something else! do you see? jorghen. what? eric. what i see--but, of course, you can't. karin _comes forward, kneels before_ eric _and offers him a wreath_. eric. [_rises, takes the wreath and places it on the head of_ karen; _then to_ jorghen] look! now the wreath has been added to the crown.[2] jorghen. what crown? eric. didn't you see? [_to_ karin] get up, child! you should not be kneeling to me, but i to you. i don't want to ask your name, for i know who you are, although i have never seen you or heard of you before.--what do you ask of me? speak! karen. [_unaffectedly_] that your grace buy my flowers. eric. put your flowers there. [_he takes a ring from one cf his fingers and gives it to her_] there! karin. no, i cannot wear that ring, your grace--it's much too grand for me. and if i try to sell it, i shall be seized as a thief. eric. you are as wise as you are beautiful. [_he gives her money_. karin. i thank your grace, but it is too much. eric. as you named no price, i can do so myself. karin _goes out. a long pause follows_. eric. did you see? jorghen. not a thing. eric. didn't you hear, either? didn't you notice her voice? jorghen. a voice like that of any jade--rather pert. eric. stop your tongue, jorghen! i love her! jorghen. she is not the first. eric. yes, the first, and the only one! jorghen. well, seduce her if you must. eric. [_drawing his sword_] take care, or by god!... jorghen. have we now got to the poking point again? eric. i don't know what has happened, but this moment has made me despise you. the same city can't hold you and me. your eyes defile me, and your whole being stinks. i shall leave you, and i don't want to see you face to face again.--it is as if an angel had come to take me away from the habitations of the damned. i despise my whole past, as i despise you and myself. [_he goes out in the same direction as_ karin _went before_. jorghen. seems to be serious this time. but i guess you'll come back. [_he raps on the table_. agda _appears_. jorghen. do you know karin, the flower girl? agda. yes, i do. jorghen. what kind of a piece is she? agda. a nice and decent girl, of whom i have never heard anything bad. jorghen. can you see anything beautiful about her? agda. no, but she is rather pretty, and there is like a halo of sweetness about her. jorghen. oh, it was that he saw, then! agda. tell me, secretary, are you really as hard as people say? jorghen. i am not hard to anybody, child, but the world has been hard to me ever since i was born. agda. why don't you always speak like that? jorghen however, the prince is enamoured, bewitched. agda. poor fellow!--tell me, secretary, is the prince quite right? jorghen. you and your questions are very amusing. let me ask you one now. hm! do you think a woman could possibly--hm!--love me? agda. no, i don't. [jorghen _looks offended_] not unless you try to be good. jorghen. how the devil is that to be done? agda. shame! shame! jorghen. if you never see anything good, how can you believe in it? agda. tell me, secretary, did the prince mean what he said about the hanseatic people and what they are doing in that house? jorghen. no, child! that was only a cruel jest. but no swedish authority can interfere with what they are doing in there. that much you should know, if you are worrying about your jacob. agda. will you do me a favour? it won't cost you anything. jorghen. with the greatest pleasure, my dear girl. agda. find jacob for me! he had promised to meet me, and he never came. we have been ringing the bell at the door, but no one answers. jorghen. i don't want to hurt you, agda, but unfortunately i have reason to believe that all the luebeck people have gone away on account of the new rebellion. agda. and he won't come back, you think? jorghen. i don't like to prophesy, because it generally turns out the other way, but i don't think he will be back soon. agda. [_sinking to the ground_] lord jesus! jorghen. [_rises and helps her to her feet_] what is it, girl?--tell me! [_in a lower voice_] a child? agda. he had given me his promise. jorghen. [_genuinely moved_] poor woman! agda _watches him closely_. jorghen. misery, always misery, wherever love gets in its work! agda. and you don't despise me? jorghen. i pity you, as i pity all of us. agda. can you see now that good exists? jorghen. where? agda. within yourself. jorghen. pooh!--is there anything else i can do for you? agda. yes, secretary, if you would write to luebeck and ask jacob.... jorghen. i have not much use for love-affairs, but i'll write, nevertheless, provided we find that he really has gone away. agda. [_tries to kiss his hand, which he pulls away_] thank you! jorghen. what are you doing, woman? i am no bishop!--but hush! here comes illustrious company. so i think i'll sneak off! _the stage has grown darker in the meantime_. agda. please, secretary, don't forget me now! jorghen. so you don't trust me? well, there is not much to trust in! [_he goes out to the left_. _the_ king _enters, wearing his big blue cloak and his soft black hat. he is using his boarspear as a staff._ prince johan _is with him, dressed very simply, as if to avoid recognition_. king. [_looking about_] do you think we have been recognised? johan. no, i don't think so, father. king. bing, then. johan. [_putts the bell-rope outside the hanseatic office]_ the bell does not ring. king. knock. johan. [_rapping on the door_] nobody seems to answer. king. [_seating himself on the bench outside_] i must get hold of herman israel this very evening--i must! johan. you are worried, father? king. i am certainly not at ease. [_pause_. johan. money cares again? king. oh, don't talk of it!--knock again. johan. [_rapping at the door_] there is no one there. _a crowd of beggars enter and kneel in front of the_ king _with hands held out in supplication_. king. are you mocking me? first beggar. we are perishing, my noble lord! king. i am perishing, too!--why are you begging, anyhow? second beggar. i'll tell you. because the king has seized the tithes that went to the poor before. and when he did so, he said: "you can beg!" king. and what is he doing with the tithes of the poor? first beggar. paying prince eric's le-lecheries! king. no, paying the country's debt, you knaves! [_to_ johan] give them money, so we get rid of them. johan. [_distributing coins_] you'll have to share it between you, and then away--at once! _the beggars leave_. king. i wonder who sent them? somebody must have sent them!--knock again. [johan _does so_] what unspeakable humiliation! you see, my son, that no matter how high up you get, new and then you have to climb down again. but of anything like this i never dreamt. [_he takes off his hat and wipes his forehead_. johan. may i speak? king. no, you may not, for i know what you mean to say. mons nilsson's _widow enters, led by_ barbro. _both are in mourning, and_ barbro _carries a document in her hand_. barbro. [_to her mother_] that must be the councillor himself. widow. can that be herman israel who is sitting there? my eyes have grown blind with sorrow. barbro. it must be him. _the two women approach the_ king. barbro. [to _the_ king] are you the councillor? king. what do you want of him? barbro. mr. syndic, we are the bereaved dependents of mons nilsson, and we have come to pray that you put in a good word for us with the king. king. why do you think the councillor's word will be of any help? barbro. we have been told that he is the king's only friend, and we thought he might help us to get back the property of which we have been unjustly deprived. king. unjustly, you say? as a traitor, mons nilsson was judged forfeit of life _and_ goods--which was only just! barbro. but the dower of the innocent widow should not have been taken with the rest. king. what is your name? barbro. i was baptised with the name of barbro, and the king himself acted as my godfather when he was in dalecarlia at that time. king. [_rises, but sits down again immediately_] barbro?--have you ever seen the king? barbro. not since i was too small to know him. but the last time he visited copperberg, my father was expecting him, and we children were to greet him with a song. king. what song was that? barbro. i cannot sing since my father came to his death so miserably, but it was a song about king gustavus and the dalecarlians, and this is the way it ended: "you have by my side been fighting like sturdy swedish men. if god will spare my life-blood, i'll do you good in stead." king. say something really bad about the king! barbro. no, father told us we must never do that, no matter what we might hear other people say. king. did your father tell you that? barbro. yes, he did. king. go in peace now. i shall speak to the king, and you shall have your rights, for he wants to do right, and he tries to do it. barbro. [_kneels and takes hold of the_ king's _hand, which she kisses_] if the king were as gracious as you are, councillor, there would be no cause for worry. king. [_placing his hand on_ barbro's _head_] he is, my child, and i know that he won't refuse his goddaughter anything. go in peace now! _the two women leave_. king. [_to_ johan] who can have sent them? who?--here i have to sit like a defendant--i, the highest judge of the land! johan. may i say a word? king. no, because i can tell myself what you want to say. i can tell that the hand of the lord has been laid heavily upon me, although i cannot tell why. if the lord speaks through conscience and prayer, then it is he who has made me act as i have acted. why my obedience should be punished, i cannot grasp. but i submit to a higher wisdom that lies beyond my reason.--that girl was my goddaughter, and her father was my friend, and i had to take his head.... oh, cruel life, that has to be lived nevertheless! [_pause_] knock again. marcus. [_in travelling clothes, enters from the right_] your highness! [_he kneels_. king. still more? marcus. a message from herman israel. king. at last!--speak! marcus. herman israel has this afternoon set sail for luebeck. king. [_rising_] then i am lost!--god help me! johan. and all of us! _the_ king _and_ johan _go out_. marcus _goes over to the tavern and raps on one of the tables_. agda. [_appearing_] is that you, marcus? marcus. yes, agda, it's me. agda. where is jacob? marcus. he has started on a journey--a very long one. agda. where? marcus. i cannot tell. but he asked me to bring you his greeting and to give you this ring. agda. as a keepsake only, or as a plight of his troth? marcus. read what it says. agda. [_studying the ring_] yes, i can spell a little "for ever," it says. what does it mean? marcus. i fear it means--farewell for ever. agda. [_with a cry_] no, no, it means that he is dead! marcus _does not answer_. agda. who killed him? marcus. the law and his own crime. he rebelled against his father and his country. agda. to save mine!--oh, what is to become of me? marcus. [_shrugging his shoulders_] that's the way of the world. nothing but deceit and uncertainty. agda. alas, he was like all the rest! marcus. yes, all human beings are pretty much alike. he who is no worse than the rest is no better, either. good-bye! _curtain_. second scene _the study of_ master olavus petri. _there is a door on either side of the room_. olavus _is writing at a table_. christine _is standing beside the table with a letter in her hand._ christine. do i disturb you? olavus. [_quietly and coldly_] naturally, as i am writing. christine. are you sure that you are writing? olavus. absolutely sure. christine. but i have not seen your pen move for a long while. olavus. that was because i was thinking. christine. once.... olavus. yes, once upon a time! christine. can reginald come in and say good-bye? olavus. are we that far already? christine. the carriage is waiting and all his things have been packed. olavus. let him come, then. christine. are you certain that he is going to wittenberg to study? olavus. i have seen too much uncertainty, as you know, to be certain of anything. if you have reason to doubt the feasibility of his plans, you had better say so. christine. if i had any doubts, i would not disturb you with them. olavus. always equally amiable! will you please ask reginald to come here? christine. i'll do whatever you command. olavus. and as i never command, but merely ask.... christine. if you would command your precious son now and then, he might be a little more polite and obedient to his mother. olavus. reginald is hard, i admit, but you do wrong in trying to educate him to suit your own high pleasure. christine. do you side with the children against their parents? olavus. if i am not mistaken, i have always done so when the natural rights of the children were concerned. christine. have the children any natural rights to anything? olavus. of course, they have! you haven't forgotten how we.... christine. yes, i have forgotten every bit of that old tommy-rot! i have forgotten how you swore to love me. i have forgotten the noise made about the pope's beard, and the stealing of the church silver, and the humbug with the bells, and the _pure_ faith, and roast ducks and cackling swans, and martyrs with a taste for fighting, and the following of christ with wine and women, and the scratching of eyes and tearing of hair, until we now have twenty-five brand new faiths in place of a holy catholic church.... i have forgotten every bit of it! olavus. perhaps that was the best thing you could do. and will you please ask reginald to come here now? christine. certainly, i'll ask him to come here, and it will be a great pleasure to do so. [_she goes out to the left_. olavus. [_alone, speaking to himself_] happy she, who has been able to forget! i remember everything! christine _returns with_ reginald. reginald. i want mother to go out, because i can't talk when she is here. olavus. there won't be so very much to talk about. christine. i won't say a word; only listen--and look at you. [_she seats herself_. reginald. no, you mustn't look at us. olavus. be quiet, boy, and be civil to your mother! when you go travelling, there is no telling whether you ever come back. reginald. so much the better! olavus. [_painfully impressed_] what's that? reginald. i am tired of everything, and i just wish i were dead! olavus. yes, that's the way youth talks nowadays! reginald. and why? because we don't know what to believe! olavus. oh, you don't? and how about the articles of confession? don't you believe in them? reginald. believe, you say? don't you know that belief comes as a grace of god? olavus. are you a calvinist? reginald. i don't know what i am. when i talk with prince johan, he says i am a papist, and when i meet prince eric, he tells me i am a follower of zwingli. olavus. and now you wish to go to wittenberg to learn the true faith from doctor martin luther? reginald. i know his teachings and don't believe in them, olavus. is that so? reginald. to him belief is everything, and deeds nothing. i have believed, but it didn't make my deeds any better at all, and so i felt like a perfect hypocrite in the end. olavus. is prince johan a catholic? reginald. so he must be, as he sticks to deeds, which ought to be the main thing. olavus. and prince eric belongs to the reformed church, you say? reginald. yes, in so far as he believes in the dispensation of grace. and jorghen persson must be a satanist, i think. and young sture is absolutely an anabaptist.... olavus. well, this is news to me! i thought the days of schism were past.... reginald. schism, yes--that's the word prince johan is using always. we had a catholic church, and then.... olavus. oh, shut your mouth and go to wittenberg! reginald. as it is your wish, father--but i won't study any more theology. olavus. why not? reginald. i think it is device of the devil to make people hate each other. christine. good for you, reginald! olavus. and it had to come to this in my own house! _pulchre, bene, rede!_--who, reginald, do you think has caused this dissension under which you young people are suffering now? reginald. that's easily answered. olavus. of course! we old ones, you mean? but we, too, were children of our time, and were stripped of our faith by our prophets. who is, then, to blame? reginald. no one. olavus. and what do you mean to do with your future? reginald. my future? it appears to me like a grey mist without a ray of sunlight. and should a ray ever break through, it will at once be proved a will-o'-the-wisp leading us astray. olavus. that's just how i felt once! at your age i could see my whole future as in vision. i foresaw the bitter cup and the pillory. and yet i had to go on. i had to enter the mist, and i myself had to carry the will-o'-the-wisp that _must_ lead the wanderers astray. i foretold this very moment, even, when my son would stand before me saying: "thus i am, because thus you have made me!" you noticed, perhaps, that i was not surprised--and this is the reason. reginald. what am i to do? advise me! olavus. you, no more than i, will follow the advices given you. reginald. inform me, then! tell me: what is life? olavus. that's more than i know. but i think it must be a punishment or an ordeal. at your years i thought i knew everything and understood everything. now i know nothing and understand nothing. for that reason i rest satisfied with doing my duty and bearing what comes my way. reginald. but i want to know! olavus. you want to know what is not allowed to be known. try to know and you will perish!--however, do you want to go or stay? reginald. i am going to wittenberg to pull luther to pieces! olavus. [_wholly without irony_] that's the way to speak! o thou splendid youth with thy alexandrian regret that there are no more things to pull to pieces! reginald. are you not a lutheran? olavus. i am a protestant. christine. if you have finished now, i shall ask permission to tell in a single word what luther is--just one word! olavus. oh, do, before you burst! christine. luther is dead! olavus. dead? christine. that's what my brother-in-law writes me in this letter from magdeburg. olavus. [_rising_] dead! [_to_ reginald] my poor alexander, what will you pull to pieces now? reginald. first the universe, and then myself. olavus. [_pushing him toward the door at the left_] go ahead, then, but begin with yourself. the universe will always remain. christine. [_as she rises and is about to go out with_ reginald] will there be peace on earth now? olavus. that will never be!--let me have that letter. christine _and_ reginald _go out to the left_. _while_ olavus _is reading the letter, a hard knock is heard at the right-hand door_. olavus. come! _the knock is repeated_. olavus _goes to the door and opens it. the_ king _enters, wearing his big hat and his cloak, which he throws of_. olavus. the king! king. [_very excited_] yes, but for how long? do you know who dacke is?--a farm labourer who has killed a bailiff; a common thief and incendiary, who is now writing to me with a demand of answer. i am to take pen in hand and open correspondence with a scamp like him! do you know that he has crossed the kolmord forests and stands with one foot in west gothia and the other in east gothia?--who is back of him? the emperor, the elector frederick of the palatinate, magnus haraldsson, the runaway bishop of skara, the duke of mecklenburg. the emperor wishes to put the children of christian the tyrant back on the throne.[3] but what troubles me more than anything else is to find the luebeckians and herman israel on the same side--my old friend herman! i ask you how it can be possible. and who has done this to me? who?--have you not a word to say? olavus. what can i say, and what--_may_ i say? king. don't be hard on me, olof, and don't be vengeful, i am nothing but an unfortunate human creature who has had to drink humiliation like water, and i come to you as my spiritual guide. i am in despair because i fear that the lord has deserted me for ever.--what an infernal notion of mine that was to take the head of the dalecarlians just now, when i am in such need of them! do you think that deed was displeasing to the lord? but if i have sinned like david, you must be my nathan. olavus. i have lost the power of prophecy, and i am not the right man to inflict punishment. king. console me, then, olof. olavus. i cannot, because only those who repent can accept consolation. king. you mean that i have transgressed--that i have gone too far? speak up! but do it like a servant of the lord, and not like a conceited schoolmaster.... have i gone too far? olavus. that is not the way to put the question. the proper way is to ask whether the others have any right on their side. king. go ahead and ask! olavus. dacke is the mouthpiece of warranted dissatisfaction. being the brother-in-law of christian ii, the emperor is the guardian of his children, and they have inherited a claim to the swedish throne, as the constitution cannot be cancelled by a rebellion.[4] bishop magnus haraldsson is the spokesman of all the illegally exiled bishops. king. illegally, you say? olavus. [_raising his voice_] yes, because the law of sweden does not drive any man away on account of his faith. king. take care! olavus. too late now!--the dissatisfaction of the peasants is warranted, because the riksdag at vesterås authorised the king to seize only the property of bishops and convents. when he took what belonged to parish churches and private persons, he became guilty of a crime. king. you are a daring man! olavus. nothing compared with what i used to be!--as far as herman israel is concerned, he called recently on the king to offer a treaty of friendship, and it was stupid of the king to reject it. king. stop! olavus. not yet!--the gold and silver of the churches was meant to pay the debt to luebeck, and much of it was used for that purpose, but a considerable part found its way to eskil's chamber under the royal palace, and has since been wasted on prince eric's silly courtships among other things.... king. the devil you say! olavus. well, queen elizabeth is merely making fun of him. king. do you know that? olavus. i do.--the bells were also to be used in payment of the debt to luebeck, but a part of them went to the foundry and were turned into cannon, which was not right. king. is that so? olavus. add also that the convent of vreta was left unmolested in violation of the ordinance concerning the closing of all such places--and for no other reason than that the king's mother-in-law happened to be a catholic. this is a cowardly and mischievous omission that has caused much bad blood. king. the convent is to be closed. olavus. it should be closed _now_, and it is not!--if i were to sum up what is reprehensible in my great king, i should call it a lack of piety. king. that's the worst yet! what do you mean? olavus. piety is the respect shown by the stronger even if he be a man of destiny--for the feelings of the weaker, when these spring from a childlike, and for that reason religious, mind. king. oh, is that what it is? olavus. now i have said my say. king. yes, so you have--time and again. olavus. and if my king had been willing to listen now and then, he would have learned a great deal more. but it is a common fault of princes that they won't listen to anybody but themselves. king. well, i never heard the like of it! i am astounded--most of all because i haven't killed you on the spot! olavus. why don't you? king. [_rises and goes toward_ olavus, _who remains standing unabashed, looking firmly at the approaching_ king; _the latter withdraws backward and sits down again; for a few moments the two men stare at each other in silence; then the_ king _says]_ who are you? olavus. a humble instrument of the lord, shaped to serve what is really great--that marvellous man of god, to whom it was granted to unite all swedish men and lands. king. that was granted engelbrecht, too, and his reward was the axe that split his head.[5] is that to be my reward, too? olavus. i don't think so, your highness, but it depends on yourself. king. what am i to do? olavus. what you advised me to do when i was carried away by the zeal of my youth. king. and you think it necessary to return that advice to me now? olavus. why not? i have learned from life, and you have forgotten. king. what am i to do? olavus. answer dacke's letter. king. never! am i to bow down to a vagabond? olavus. the lord sometimes uses mere vagabonds for our humiliation. picture it to yourself as an ordeal by fire. king. [_rising and walking the floor_] there is truth in what you say. i can feel it, but it does not fetch bottom in my mind. say one word more. olavus. dacke will be right as long as you are in the wrong, and god will be with him until you take your place on the side of right. king. i can't bend! olavus. then you'll be broken by someone else. king. [_walking back and forth_] are you thinking of the dalecarlians? have you heard of a rising among them on account of the executions? olavus. such a thing has been rumoured. king. i am lost. olavus. write to dacke! king. [_without conviction_] i won't. olavus. the emperor does. king. that's true! if the emperor can write to him, why shouldn't i?--but it is perfectly senseless. who is this mysterious man who never appears? olavus. perhaps another marvellous man of god--in his own way. king. i must see him face to face. i'll write and offer him safe-conduct, so that i can talk with him. that's what i'll do.--bring me pen and paper! or you write, and i'll dictate. olavus _seats himself at the table_. king. how do we begin? what am i to call him? olavus. let us merely put down "to nils dacke." king. oh, his name is nils? after st. nicolaus, who comes with rods for children on the sixth of december?[6] [_pause_] write now.... no, i'll go home and do the writing myself.... have you heard that luther is dead? olavus. i have, your highness. king. he was a splendid man! may he rest in peace!--yes, such as he was, he was a fine man, but we got rather too much of him. olavus. too many dogmas and not enough of religion. king. he was an obstinate fellow and went too far. what he needed was a taskmaster like you to call him to terms now and then. olavus. i hope the time of schism and dissension will come to an end now. king. a time of dissension you may well call it!--good-bye, olof. [_as_ olavus _makes a mien of saying something_] yes, yes, i _will_ write! _curtain_. [1] a rough and inaccessible forest region on the eastern shore of lake vettern, marking the border-line between the province of småland in the south and ostergötland (east gothia) in the north. [2] as far back as we know the two principal ornaments of a swedish bride have been the crown--sometimes woven out of myrtle and sometimes made of metal and semi-precious stones--and the wreath, always made of myrtle. [3] the elector frederick was a son-in-law of the deposed christian ii of denmark, and also one of the trusted liegemen of emperor charles v, who hoped to see him the head of a reunited scandinavia dominated by german influences. [4] christian ii was married to isabelle, sister of charles v. [5] engelbrecht engelbrechtsson, a free miner of dalecarlia, was the first one of a series of notable chieftains who led the swedish people in their determination to rid the country of the danish kings after these had shown a growing inclination to treat sweden as a danish province, and not as an independent kingdom, united on equal terms with denmark and norway. at the head of the dalecarlians, engelbrecht began the work of liberation in 1434, and was remarkably successful in a short time. unfortunately, he was treacherously and shamefully killed while crossing the lake maelaren only two years later. to the swedes he has ever since been the symbol of their national independence and unity, and he, the simple country squire, remains to this day one of the most beloved and revered figures in swedish history. it is to him barbro refers in the opening scenes of the play, and his name is heard again in the closing scenes, with the appearance of his simpler namesake. [6] an old swedish custom and superstition, prescribing that every child must be spanked on the date mentioned in order to insure its obedience during the whole ensuing year. that custom still survived when the translator was a child, although for many decades the spanking had been a mere formality serving as an excuse for some little gift or treat. act v _the terrace in front of the royal palace, with trimmed hedges, statuary, and a fountain. chairs, benches, and tables are placed about. the near background shows a balustrade with tuscan columns, on which are placed flowers in faïence pots. beyond the balustrade appear tree tops, and over these tower the tops of masts, from which blue and yellow flags are flying. in the far background, a number of church spires_. _the_ mother-in-law _of the_ king _is on the terrace in her cistercian dress_. queen. [_enters_] for the last time i beg you, mother, don't wear that dress! mother-in-law. it is my festive garb, and i am as proud of it as you of your ermine robe. queen. what is the use of being proud? the day of disaster is upon us all, and we must hold together. mother-in-law. let us do so then, and have peace. queen. yes, so you say, but you won't even change dress for the sake of the country's peace. mother-in-law. i don't change faith as you change clothes, and there is a solemn vow to god connected with this dress. the people are making threats against my life. let them take it! i have my grave-clothes on. queen. don't you know that we may have to flee this very day, if the news should prove as bad as yesterday? mother-in-law. i will not flee. queen. everything has already been packed by order of the king, and our sloop lies at the foot of the southern hills, ready to hoist sail. mother-in-law. i have nothing to pack, because i own nothing. "be thou faithful unto death, and i will give thee a crown of life." that's what i used to learn. but you have sold your birthright for a crown which soon will no longer be yours. queen. go on and punish me; it feels like a relief. prince eric _appears on the terrace; his dress and appearance are orderly, and his mien subdued_. mother-in-law. can you tell me what has come over eric these last days? he looks quite submissive, and something new has come into his face that used to be so hard. queen. i don't know, but they say that he has changed his ways and cannot bear the company of jorghen. i have heard whispers about a serious affection.... mother-in-law. no! queen. [_to_ eric] what news do you bring? eric. [_gently and respectfully_] no news at all, mother. queen. [_to her mother_] he called me mother! [_to_ eric] how fare you, eric? is life heavy? eric. heavier than it was the day before yesterday. queen. what happened yesterday? eric. what happens to a human being only once in a lifetime.--are you much wiser now? queen. [_to her mother_] how childlike he has grown! [_to_ eric] have you heard anything of your friend jacob? eric. yes, he was my real friend, and so they took his head. queen. now you are unjust. there has been no attempt to take the head of jorghen.... eric. he is no longer my friend. [_peevishly_] but now i don't want to be questioned any longer, least of all about my secrets--that is, about the secrets of my heart. queen. [_to her mother_] he is quite charming in his childishness. apparently he would love to talk of his secret. prince johan _enters_. eric. [_going to meet him_] soon we may have nothing left to fight over, brother johan, and so--it seems to me we may as well be friends. johan. with a right good heart, brother! nothing could give me greater pleasure. eric. give me your hand! [_they shake hands_] i don't want to be the enemy of any human being after this. [_he goes out, deeply moved_. mother-in-law. [_to_ johan] what's the matter with eric? johan. he has found a sweetheart, they say. queen. what did i say? mother-in-law. are you coming with me to the mass in the chapel, johan? [_when_ johan _hesitates and does not answer, she says sharply_] johan! queen. mother! mother-in-law. is he free to follow his conscience, or is he not? queen. if you will leave his conscience alone, he will be free. mother-in-law. well, i am going, and you know where, johan. [_she goes out_. queen. johan! johan. what do you wish? queen. that you do not desert your childhood faith. johan. my childhood faith, which i got from my nurse, and not from you, was also the childhood faith of my father. why did you not give me yours? queen. yes, punish me. you have a right to do so. everything comes home to us now. i was young then. life was nothing but a game. the king demanded my company at banquets and festivities, and so your cradle was left unattended and unguarded. those were the days when we were drunk with victory and happiness. and now!--go where you find it possible to worship, johan, and pray for your mother! johan. if it hurts my gracious mother, i won't go. queen. pray for us all! [_in a lowered voice_] i do not know the new prayers and must not use the old ones!--hush now! the king is coming. prince johan _goes in the direction previously taken by the_ king's mother-in-law. _the_ king _enters, holding a letter in his hand. he is accompanied by_ master olavus petri. king. [_to the_ queen] have everything ready for the start. we are lost! queen. the will of god be done! king. that's what seems to be happening. go and look after your house, child. _the_ queen _goes out_. king. [_to_ olavus] this is the situation. dacke answers that he does not care to see "that rebel, and perjurer, and breaker of safe-conducts, ericsson." he rails me ericsson, mind you. his people have reached as far north as södermanland--which means that they are right at our gates! furthermore, two thousand dalecarlians are encamped at the north gate. their intentions are not known, but can easily be guessed. a fine prophet you are, olof! olavus. we have not seen the end yet. king. where do you get your confidence from? olavus. that's more than i can tell, but i know that everything will end well. king. you say that you know? how do you know? i have ceased to believe anything--except in the wrath of god, which has been turned against me. i am now waiting for the axe. good and well! i have done my service and am now to be discharged. that's why i wish to leave before i am kicked out.--do you know what day it is to-day? nobody has thought of it, and i didn't remember until just now.... it is midsummer day: _my_ day, which no one celebrates. a generation ago i made my entry into the capital on this day. that was the greatest moment of my life. i thought the work of liberation was done, and i thanked god for it!--but it had not been done, and i am not done with it yet.--the dalecarlians rose. i subdued them, and thought that i was done, which i was not. twice more they rose, and each time i gave thanks to god, thinking i had done--which was not the case. the lords of west gothia rose. i squelched them, and was happy, thinking that i surely must have done by that time--which i had not. and now, olof?--we are never done until done for--and that's where i am now! olavus. oh, no, there is a whole lot left. king. where do you get your fixed ideas from? have you heard some bird sing, or have you been dreaming? olavus. neither. king. [_listening_] listen! that's the sound of birch-horns. do they mean to give me a crown of birch, like the one i gave to peder the chancellor and master knut? or is it the scaffold that.... that?... olavus. oh, don't! king. what was it you called that thing--piety? much it would have availed me to have piety at larv heath or tuna plain![1]--no, i have been right, right, right, so god help me, amen! olavus _makes no answer_. king. [_listening_] they have drums, too.--oh, everything comes home!--do you think i can get out of this, olof? olavus. i do! and let me give you a final piece of advice: don't leave! king. i don't see how it can be avoided. do you think i'll let them take my head?--do you know, i can actually hear the tramp-tramp of their feet as they come marching through the north gate. and that's the dalecarlians--my own dalecarlians! oh, life is cruel! can you hear it? tramp--tramp--tramp! do you think i can get out of this? olavus. i do. king. when the sun rises to-morrow i shall know my fate. i wish i were that far already!--now i hear something else! [_the reading of a litany in latin is faintly heard from the outside_] what is that? olavus. [_goes to the balustrade and looks over it_] the queen's mother is reading the romish litany. king. but i hear a male voice, too. olavus. that's prince johan. king. johan?--so i must drink that cup, too! i wonder if the cup is full yet? is everything that i have built to be torn down? olavus. everything you have torn down must be built up again. king. johan a papist, and eric a calvinist!--do you remember the days when we were crying in the words of von hutten: "the souls are waking up, and it is a joy to live"? a joy to live, indeed--ha-ha! and the souls woke up to find their feet on the pillows! was it you who said that the gods are playing with us?--hush! i was mistaken a while ago! it's the north bridge they are crossing! can't you hear their heavy tread on the planking of the bridge? let us fly! [_he puts a document on a table_] here i place my resignation. olavus. [_seizing the document_] i'll take care of that. i'll keep it--as a memento! and now we'll hoist a flag of truce. _he pulls a white cloth from one of the tables and ties it to the branch of a tree_. prince eric. [_enters_] father! king. croak away, raven! eric. our last hope is gone! the sloop has dragged its anchor and gone ashore. king. [_in desperation_] and lightning has struck the nursery, and the grasshoppers have eaten the crops, and the waters are rising, and.... eric. the dalecarlians are negotiating with the palace guards, and they are awfully drunk. king. [_sitting down_] come on, death! eric. [_listening_] i can hear their wooden shoes on the garden stairs! [_he goes to the balustrade_. king. [_counting on his fingers_] anders persson, mons nilsson, master john. eric. [_drawing his sword_] now he is here! _he can be seen following somebody on the other side of the balustrade with his eyes_. king. [_as before_] inghel hansson, master stig, nils of söderby. god is just! engelbrecht. [_enters; he is in the happy stage of intoxication, but in full control of his movements for all that; he looks about with a broad grin on his face, a little embarrassed, and yet pleased; then he says to_ eric] are you the king? _he puts his hat on the ground and takes off his wooden shoes_. king. [_rising and pushing_ eric _aside_] no, i am the king! engelbrecht. yes, so i see now! king. who are you? engelbrecht. [_faltering_] don't you know me?... king. i don't. engelbrecht. [_pulls a dagger with silver handle out of his long stocking and shows it to the_ king, _grinning more broadly than ever_] well, don't you know this one? king. i don't understand at all. what is your name? engelbrecht. well--it happens to be engelbrecht! king. eng-el-brecht? engelbrecht. it sounds mighty big, but i am not of _that_ family.--you see, it was like this--once upon a time the king--who was no king at all then--oh, mercy, but i am drunk!... well, it was me who followed you on skis to the border of norway, and that time you gave me this here dagger and said: "if you ever need me, come on!" now i've come, and here i am! and i wish only that i was not so frightfully drunk! king. and what do you want? engelbrecht. what i want?--i want to fight that man dacke, of course, and that's what the rest of them want, too. king. you want to _fight_ dacke? engelbrecht. why do you think we have come, anyhow? king. [_raising his arms toward heaven_] eternal god, now you have punished me! engelbrecht. is it all right? you see, the rest are down there and they'd like to do something to celebrate the day. king. _is it all right?_--ask me for a favour! engelbrecht. [_after thinking hard_] i'd like to shake hands! _the_ king _holds out his hand_. engelbrecht. [_looking at the_ king's _hand_] my, what a fist! hard as nails, but clean! yes, and a devil of a fellow you are, all in all!--i must say i was rather scared when i came here! king. are all the rest of them as drunk as you are? engelbrecht. about the same! but they can toot the horns for all that. [_he goes to the balustrade, waves his hand and utters the yell used by the dalecarlians in calling their cows_] poo-ala! poo-ala! poo oy-ala! oy-ala! oy! _the blowing of horns and beating of drums is heard from the outside_. _the_ king _goes to the balustrade and waxes his hand_. _the_ mother-in-law _appears in court dress_. _the_ queen _enters and goes to the_ king, _who folds her in his arms_. prince johan _enters and goes to the balustrade_. king. [_with raised arms_] you have punished me, o lord, and i thank thee! _curtain_ [1] larv heath was the place where the dissatisfied lords of west gothia summoned the peasants to meet them in 1529, when they tried to raise the province against the king. tuna plain, to which mons nilsson and his friends refer a number of times in the first act, was the place where gustav settled his first score with the obstreperous dalecarlians. musical appendix to "the bridal crown" melody no. 1.--kersti plays on the alpenhorn melody no. 2.--kersti sings through the horn melody no. 3.--mats sings in the distance melody no. 4.--the mother sings melody no. 5.--kersti plays on the alpenhorn melody no. 6.--mats sings in the distance melody no. 7.--kersti sings melody no. 8.--mats sings melody no. 9.--kersti sings melody no. 10.--mats sings melody no. 11.--canon played by ten hunting-horns melody no. 12.--the neck sings and plays melody no. 13.--mats sings outside melody no. 14.--bridesmaids sing outside melody no. 15.--bugle-call in the distance melody no. 16.--six girls sing melody no. 17.--swedish dance played by fiddlers melody no. 18.--neck plays (two violins) melody no. 19.--song of the long-tailed duck melody no. 20.--the neck sings to the harp note to the music the song of the long-tailed duck is given by strindberg in the first part of his "the swedish people in war and peace." melody no. 20 does not appear in the swedish edition of the play. it is given by emil schering in an appendix to his german version of it--apparently from a manuscript placed at his disposal by strindberg himself. melodies nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 13, 14, 16, and 17 have been taken by strindberg--without any changes--from richard dybeck's "svenska vallvisor och hornlåtar" ("swedish herd-songs and horn-melodies"), stockholm, 1846. 