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!