ACT IV.

[SCENE.--Same. But the glass doors leading to orchard are open. The sun

is still shining outside and the studio is brightly lighted. The side

doors are open. A serving table is seen out in the orchard; on it are

glasses and bottles, et cetera. Axel wears cutaway, but without the

decoration, and is wearing a standing collar with four-in-hand scarf.

His hair is brushed straight back. Bertha wears a dark gown, cut square,

with frilled fichu. She has a flower on the left shoulder. The Misses

Hall are extravagantly and expensively dressed. Bertha enters from

orchard. She is pale and has dark shadows under her eyes. Abel enters

from door at back. They embrace and kiss each other.]

BERTHA. Good afternoon, and welcome.

ABEL. Good afternoon.

BERTHA. And Gaga promised to come?

ABEL. Absolutely certain. He was in a regretful spirit and begged

forgiveness. [Bertha straightens out her fichu.] But what is the matter

with you today? Has anything happened?

BERTHA. How so? What?

ABEL. You are not like yourself. Have you--? Bertha! Have you--

BERTHA. Don't talk.

ABEL. Your eyes are so full of color and brilliancy! What? Is is

possible--? And so pale? Bertha!

BERTHA. I must go out to my guests.

ABEL. Tell me, are Carl and Oestermark here?

BERTHA. Both are out in the orchard.

ABEL. And Mrs. Hall and the girls?

BERTHA. Mrs. Hall will come litter, but the girls are in my room.

ABEL. I'm afraid that our scheme of revenge will fall as flat as a

pancake.

BERTHA. No, not this--not this one!

[Willmer enters with a bouquet of flowers. He goes to Bertha, kisses her

hand, and gives her the bouquet.]

WILLMER. Forgive me! For my love's sake!

BERTHA. No, not on that account, but--it doesn't matter. I don't know

why, but today I don't want any enemies.

[Axel comes in. Bertha and Willmer look distressed.]

AXEL [To Bertha, not noticing Willmer]. Pardon--if I disturb--

BERTHA. Not at all.

AXEL. I only wanted to ask if you had ordered the supper?

BERTHA. Yes, of course--as you wished.

AXEL. Very well. I only wanted to know. [Pause.]

ABEL. How festive you two look! [Bertha and Axel are silent. Willmer

breaks the embarrassment by starting for the orchard.] Listen, Gaga--

[She hastens out after Willmer.]

AXEL. What have you ordered for the supper?

BERTHA [Looks at him and smiles]. Lobsters and poulet.

AXEL [Uncertain]. What are you smiling at?

BERTHA. My thoughts.

AXEL. What are you thinking then?

BERTHA. I am thinking--no, I really don't know--unless it was about the

betrothal supper we had together in the Gardens that spring evening when

you had wooed--

AXEL. You had wooed--

BERTHA. Axel!--And now it is the last, last time. It was a short summer.

AXEL. Quite short, but the sun will come again.

BERTHA. Yes, for you who can find sunshine in every street.

AXEL. What is there to hinder you from seeking warmth at the same fire?

BERTHA. And so we shall meet again, perhaps--some evening by street

light, you mean?

AXEL. I didn't mean that--but _a la bonne heure_! That at least will be

a free relation.

BERTHA. Yes, very free, especially for you.

AXEL. For you, too, but pleasanter for me.

BERTHA. That's a noble thought.

AXEL. Now, now--don't tear open the old wounds! We were talking about

the supper. And we must not forget our guests. So! [Goes toward his room

right.]

BERTHA. About the supper--yes, of course! That's what we were talking

about.

[She flies toward her room left, stirred and agitated. They both go out.

The scene is empty for a moment. Then the Misses Hall come in from the

orchard.]

MISS AMELIE. How very dull it is here!

MISS THERESE. Insufferably stupid, and our hosts are not altogether

polite.

MISS AMELIE. The hostess is especially unpleasant. And the short-hair

kind, too.

MISS THERESE. Yes, but I understand that a lieutenant is coming--

MISS AMELIE. Well, that's good, for these artists are a lot of free

traders. Hush, here is a diplomat surely.--He looks so distinguished.

[They sit on couch. Doctor Oestermark comes in from the orchard; he

discovers the Misses Hall and looks at them through his pince-nez.]

DR. OeSTERMARK. I am honored, ladies. H'm, one meets so many of one's

countrywomen here. Are you artists, too? You paint, I suppose?

MISS AMELIE. No, we don't paint.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Oh, but just a little, perhaps. Here in Paris all ladies

paint--themselves.

MISS THERESE. We don't have to.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Oh, well, you play then?

MISS AMELIE. Play?

DR. OeSTERMARK. Oh, I don't mean playing at cards. But all ladies play a

little.

MISS AMELIE. Evidently you are just from the country.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Yes, just from the country. Can I be of any slight

service to you?

MISS THERESE. Pardon, but we don't know with whom we have the honor--?

DR. OeSTERMARK. You ladies have evidently just come from Stockholm. In

this country we can talk to each other without asking for references.

MISS AMELIE. We haven't asked for references.

DR. OeSTERMARK. What do you ask, then? To have your curiosity satisfied?

Well, I'm an old family physician and my name is Anderson. Perhaps I may

know your names now?--Character not needed.

MISS THERESE. We are the Misses Hall, if that can be of any interest to

the doctor.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Hall? H'm! I've surely heard that name before. Pardon,

pardon me a question, a somewhat countrified question--

MISS AMELIE.--Don't be bashful!

DR. OeSTERMARK. Is your father still living?

MISS AMELIE. No, he is dead.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Oh, yes. Well, now that I have gone so far, there is

nothing to do but continue. Mr. Hall was--

MISS THERESE. Our father was a director of the Fire Insurance Company of

Goeteborg.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Oh, well, then I beg your pardon. Do you find Paris to

your liking?

MISS AMELIE. Very! Therese, do you remember what I did with my shawl?

Such a cold draught here! [Rises.]

MISS THERESE. You left it in the orchard, no doubt.

DR. OeSTERMARK [Rising]. No, don't go out. Allow me to find it for

you--no--sit still--just sit still.

[Goes out into orchard. After a moment Mrs. Hall comes in from left,

quite comfortable with drink; her cheeks are flaming red and her voice

is uncertain.]

MISS AMELIE. Look, there's mother! And in that condition again! Heavens,

why does she come here? Why did you come here, mother?

MRS. HALL. Keep quiet! I have as much right here as you.

MISS THERESE. Why have you been drinking again? Think if some one should

come!

MRS. HALL. I haven't been drinking. What nonsense!

MISS AMELIE. We will be ruined if the doctor should come back and see

you. Come, let's go in here and you can get a glass of water.

MRS. HALL. It's nice of you to treat your mother like this and say that

she has been drinking, to say such a thing to your own mother!

MISS THERESE. Don't talk, but go in, immediately.

[They lead her in right. Axel and Carl come in from the orchard.]

CARL. Well, you're looking fine, my dear Axel, and you have a manlier

bearing than you used to have.

AXEL. Yes, I have emancipated myself.

CARL. You should have done that at the start, as I did.

AXEL. As you did?

CARL. As I did. Immediately I took my position as head of the family, to

which place I found myself called both because of my superior mind and

my natural abilities.

AXEL. And how did your wife like that?

CARL. Do you know, I forgot to ask her! But to judge by appearances, I

should say that she found things as they should be. They only need real

men--and human beings can be made even out of women.

AXEL. But at least the power should be divided?

CARL. Power cannot be divided! Either obey or command. Either you or I.

I preferred myself to her, and she had to adjust herself to it.

AXEL. Yes, but didn't she have money?

CARL. Not at all. She didn't bring more than a silver soup-spoon to our

nest. But she demanded an accounting of it; and she got it. She was a

woman of principle, you see!--She is so good, so good, but so am I

good to her. I think it's really great sport to be married, what? And

besides, she's such a splendid cook!

[The Misses Hall come in from right.]

AXEL. Let me introduce you to the Misses Hall, Lieutenant Starck.

CARL. I am very happy to make your [Carl gives them a look of

recognition] acquaintance.

[The young ladies seem surprised and embarrassed; they nod and go out to

the orchard somewhat excited.]

CARL. How did they get in here?

AXEL. What do you mean? They are friends of my wife's and this is the

first time that they have been here. Do you know them?

CARL. Yes, somewhat!

AXEL. What do you mean to imply?

CARL. H'm, I met them in St. Petersburg late one night!

AXEL. Late one night?

CARL. Yes.

AXEL. Isn't there some mistake?

CARL. No-o! There is no mistake. They were very well known ladies in St.

Petersburg.

AXEL. And Bertha allows that kind in my house!

[Bertha comes rushing in from orchard.]

BERTHA. What does this mean? Have you insulted the young ladies?

AXEL. No--but--

BERTHA. They came out of here crying and declared that they couldn't

stay in the company of you gentlemen any longer! What has happened?

AXEL. Do you know these young ladies?

BERTHA. They are my friends! Isn't that enough?

AXEL. Not quite enough.

BERTHA. Not quite? Well, but if--

[Dr. Oestermark comes in from the orchard.]

DR. OeSTERMARK. What does this mean? What have you done to the little

girls who ran away? I offered to help them with their wraps, but they

refused to be helped and had tears in their eyes.

CARL [To Bertha]. I must ask you, are they your friends?

BERTHA. Yes, they are! But if my protection is not sufficient, then

perhaps Doctor Oestermark will take them under his wing, considering that

he has a certain claim to them.

CARL. But a mistake has been made here. You mean that I, who have had

certain relations with these girls, should appear as their cavalier?

BERTHA. What sort of relations?

CARL. Chance, such as one has with such women!

BERTHA. Such women? That's a lie!

CARL. I'm not in the habit of lying.

DR. OeSTERMARK. But I don't understand what _I_ have got to do with these

young ladies.

BERTHA. _You_ would prefer to have nothing to do with your deserted

children.

DR. OeSTERMARK. My children! But I don't understand.

BERTHA. They are your two daughters--daughters of your divorced wife.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Since you consider that you have the right to be personal

and make my affairs the subject of public discussion, I will answer you

publicly. You seem to have taken the trouble to find out that I am not

a widower. Good! My marriage, which was childless, was dissolved twenty

years ago. Since then I have entered into another relation, and we

have a child that is just five years old. These grown girls, therefore,

cannot be my children. Now you know the whole matter.

BERTHA. But your wife--whom you threw out upon the world--

DR. OeSTERMARK.--No, that wasn't the case either. She walked out, or

staggered, if you prefer it, and then she received half my income until

at last I found out that--enough said. If you could conceive what it

cost me of work and self-denial to support two establishments, you would

have spared me this unpleasant moment, but your kind wouldn't consider

anything like that. You needn't know any more, as it really doesn't

concern you.

BERTHA. But it would amuse me to know why your first wife left you.

DR. OeSTERMARK. I don't think it would amuse you to know that she was

ugly, narrow, paltry, and that I was too good for her! Think now, you

tender-hearted, sensitive Bertha, think if they really had been my

daughters, these friends of yours and Carl's; imagine how my old heart

would have been gladdened to see, after eighteen years, these children

that I had borne in my arms during the long night of illness. And

imagine if she, my first love, my wife, with whom life the first time

became life, had accepted your invitation and come here? What a fifth

act in the melodrama you wished to offer us, what a noble revenge on one

who is guiltless! Thanks, old friend. Thank you for your reward for the

friendship I have shown you.

BERTHA. Reward! Yes, I know that I owe you--a fee. [Axel, Carl and the

doctor make protestations of "Oh," "Now," "Really," et cetera.] I know

that, I know it very well.

[Axel, Carl and doctor say "No," "Fie," "This is going too far."]

DR. OeSTERMARK. No, but I'm going to get out of here. Horrors! Yes, you

are the right sort! Pardon me, Axel, but I can't help it!

BERTHA [To Axel]. You're a fine man, to allow your wife to be insulted!

AXEL. I can understand neither your allowing yourself to insult, or to

be insulted! [Music is heard from the orchard; guitar and an Italian

song.] The singers have arrived; perhaps you would all like to step out

and have a bit of harmony on top of all this.

[They all go out except the doctor, who goes over to look at some

drawings on wall right near door to Axel's room. The music outside is

played softly. Mrs. Hall comes in and walks unsteadily across the

scene and sits in a chair. The doctor, who does not recognize her, bows

deeply.]

MRS. HALL. What music is that out there?

DR. OeSTERMARK. They are some Italians, dear lady.

MRS. HALL. Yes? No doubt the ones I heard at Monte Carlo.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Oh, perhaps there are other Italians.

MRS. HALL. Well, I believe it's none other than Oestermark! No one could

be as quick as he in his retorts.

DR. OeSTERMARK [Stares at her]. Ah--think--there are things--that--are

less dreadful than dread! It is you, Carolina! And this is the moment

that for eighteen years I have been running away from, dreamed about,

sought, feared, wished for; wished for that I might receive the shock

and afterward have nothing to dread! [He takes out a vial and wets his

upper lip with a few drops.] Don't be afraid; it's not poison, in such

little doses. It's for the heart, you see.

MRS. HALL. Ugh, your heart! Yes, you have so much!

DR. OeSTERMARK. It's strange that two people cannot meet once every

eighteen years without quarreling.

MRS. HALL. It was always you who quarreled!

DR. OeSTERMARK. Alone? What!--Shall we stop now?--I must try to look

at you. [He takes a chair and sits down opposite Mrs. Hall.] Without

trembling!

MRS. HALL. I've become old!

DR. OeSTERMARK. That's what happens; one has read about it, seen it, felt

it one's self, but nevertheless it is horrifying. I am old, too.

MRS. HALL. Are you happy in your new life?

DR. OeSTERMARK. To tell the truth, it's one and the same thing;

different, but quite the same.

MRS. HALL. Perhaps the old life was better, then?

DR. OeSTERMARK. No, it wasn't better, as it was about the same, but it's

a question if it wouldn't have seemed better now, just because it was

the old life. One doesn't blossom but once, and then one goes to seed;

what comes afterward is only a little aftermath. And you, how are you

getting along?

MRS. HALL [Offended]. What do you mean?

DR. OeSTERMARK. Don't misunderstand me. Are you contented

with--your--lot? I mean--oh, that it should be so difficult to make

one's self understood by women!

MRS. HALL. Contented? H'm!

DR. OeSTERMARK. Well, you were never contented. But when one is young,

one always demands the first class, and then one gets the third class

when one is old. Now, I understand that you told Mrs. Alberg here that

your girls are my children!

MRS. HALL. I did? That is a lie.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Still untruthful, eh? In the old days, when I was

foolish, I looked upon lying as a vice; but now I know it to be

a natural defect. You actually believe in your lies, and that is

dangerous. But never mind about that now. Are you leaving, or do you

wish me to leave?

MRS. HALL [Rising]. I will go.

[She falls back into the chair and gropes about.]

DR. OeSTERMARK. What, drunk too?--I really pity you. Oh, this is most

unpleasant! Dear me, I believe I'm ready to cry!--Carolina! No, I can't

bear this!

MRS. HALL. I am ill.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Yes, that's what happens when one drinks too much. But

this is more bitter than I ever thought it could be. I have killed

little unborn children to be able to save the mother, and I have felt

them tremble in their fight against death. I have cut living muscles,

and have seen the marrow flow like butter from healthy bones, but never

has anything hurt me so much as this since the day you left me. Then it

was as if you had gone away with one of my lungs, so I could only gasp

with the other!--Oh, I feel as if I were suffocating now!

MRS. HALL. Help me out of here. It's too noisy. I don't know why we came

here, anyway. Give me your hand.

DR. OeSTERMARK [Leading her to door]. Before it was I who asked for your

hand; and it rested so heavily on me, the little delicate hand! Once

it struck my face, the little delicate hand, but I kissed it

nevertheless.--Oh, now it is withered, and will never strike again.--Ah,

dolce Napoli! Joy of life, what became of it? You who were the bride of

my youth!

MRS. HALL [In the hall door]. Where is my wrap?

DR. OeSTERMARK [Closing door]. In the hall, probably. This is horrible!

[Lights a cigar]. Oh, dolce Napoli! I wonder if it is as delightful as

it's said to be in that cholera breeding fishing harbor. _Blague_, no

doubt! _Blague! Blague_! Naples--bridal couples, love, joy of life,

antiquities, modernity, liberalism, conservatism, idealism, realism,

naturalism,--_blague, blague_, the whole thing!

[Axel, Abel, Willmer, Mrs. Starck and Bertha come in from orchard.]

MRS. STARCK. What is happening to the doctor?

DR. OeSTERMARK. Pardon, it was only a little _qui pro quo_. Two strangers

sneaked in here and we had to identify them.

MRS. STARCK. The girls?

CARL. Well, that has nothing to do with you. I don't know why, but I

seem to feel "the enemy in the air."

MRS. STARCK. Ah, you're always seeing the enemy, you dear Carl.

CARL. No, I don't see them, but I feel them.

MRS. STARCK. Well, come to your friend, then, and she will defend you.

CARL. Oh, you're always so good to me.

MRS. STARCK. Why shouldn't I be, when you are so good to me?

[The door at back is opened and the maid and two men come in carrying a

picture.]

AXEL. What's this?

MAID. The porter said that it must be carried into the studio, as he

didn't have any room for it.

AXEL. What foolishness is this? Take it out.

MAID. The mistress sent for the picture herself.

BERTHA. That's not true. For that matter, it's not my picture, anyway.

It's your master's. Put it down there. [The maid and the man go out.]

Perhaps it isn't yours, Axel? let's see. [Axel places himself in front

of picture.] Move a little so we can see.

AXEL [Gives way]. It's a mistake.

BERTHA [Shrieks]. What! What is this! It's a mistake! What does it mean?

It's my picture, but it's Axel's number! Oh!

[She falls in a faint. The doctor and Carl carry her into her room left,

the women follow.]

ABEL. She is dying!

MRS. STARCK. Heaven help us, what is this! The poor little dear!

Doctor Oestermark, do something, say something--and Axel stands there

crestfallen.

[Axel and Willmer are alone.]

AXEL. This is your doing.

WILLMER. My doing?

[Axel takes him by the ear.]

AXEL. Yes, yours, but not altogether. But I am going to give you your

share. [He leads hunt to the door, which he opens with one foot, and

kicks out Willmer with the other.] Out with you!

WILLMER. I'll get even for this!

AXEL. I shall be waiting for it!

[Doctor and Carl come in.]

DR. OeSTERMARK. What's the trouble with the picture, anyway?

AXEL. Nothing--only that it seemed to represent sulphuric acid.

CARL. Now tell us, are you refused, or is she?

AXEL. I am refused on her picture. I wanted to help her a bit, as a good

comrade, and that's why I changed the numbers.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Yes, but there is something else too. She says that you

don't love her any more.

AXEL. She is right in that. That's how it is, and tomorrow we part.

DR. OeSTERMARK and CARL. Part?

AXEL. Yes, when there are no ties to bind things, they loosen of

themselves. This wasn't a marriage; it was only living together, or

something even worse.

DR. OeSTERMARK. There is bad air here. Come, let's go.

AXEL. Yes, I want to get out--out of here. [They start for the door.

Abel comes in.]

ABEL. What, are you leaving?

AXEL. Does that astonish you?

ABEL. Let me have a word with you.

AXEL. Go on.

ABEL. Don't you want to go in and see Bertha?

AXEL. No!

ABEL. What have you done to her?

AXEL. I have bent her.

ABEL. I noticed that--she is black and blue around the wrists! Look at

me! I didn't think that of you. Well, conqueror, triumph now!

AXEL. It's an uncertain conquest, and I don't even wish for it.

ABEL. Are you sure of that? [She leans over to Axel, in low voice.]

Bertha loves you now--now that you have bent her.

AXEL. I know it. But I don't love her any longer.

ABEL. Won't you go in and see her?

AXEL. No, it's all over. [Takes doctor's arm.] Come!

ABEL. May I take a message to Bertha?

AXEL. No! Yes! Tell her, that I despise and abhor her.

ABEL. Good-bye, my friend.

AXEL. Good-bye, my enemy.

ABEL. Enemy?

AXEL. Are you my friend?

ABEL. I don't know. Both and neither. I am a bastard--

AXEL. We are all that, as we are crocheted out of man and woman! Perhaps

you have loved me in your way, as you wanted to separate Bertha and me.

ABEL [Rolling a cigarette]. Loved! I wonder how it seems to love? No,

I cannot love; I must be deformed--for it made me happy to see you two

until the envy of deformity set me on fire. Perhaps you love me?

AXEL. No, on my honor! You have been an agreeable comrade who happened

to be dressed like a woman; you have never impressed me as belonging

to another sex; and love, you see, can and should exist only between

individuals of opposite sexes--

ABEL. Sex love, yes!

AXEL. Is there any other, then?

ABEL. I don't know! But I am to be pitied. And this hate, this terrible

hate! Perhaps that would disappear if you men were not so afraid to

love us, if you were not so--how shall I express it--so moral, as it's

called.

AXEL. But in heaven's name, be a little more lovable, then, and don't

get yourselves up so that one is forced to think of the penal law

whenever one looks at you.

ABEL. Do you think I'm such a fright, then?

AXEL. Well, you know, you must pardon me, but you are awful. [Bertha

comes in.]

BERTHA [To Axel]. Are you going?

AXEL. Yes, I was just about to go, but now I'll stay.

BERTHA [Softly]. What? You--

AXEL. I shall stay in _my_ home.

BERTHA. In _our_--home.

AXEL. No, in _mine_. In my studio with my furniture.

BERTHA. And I?

AXEL. You may do what you please, but you must know what you risk.

You see in my suit I have applied for one year's separation in bed and

board. Should you stay, that is to say, if you should seek me during

this time, you would have to choose between imprisonment, or being

considered my mistress. Do you feel like staying?

BERTHA. Oh, is that the law?

AXEL. That's the law.

BERTHA. You drive me out, then?

AXEL. No, but the law does.

BERTHA. And you think I'll be satisfied with that?

AXEL. No, I don't, for you won't be satisfied until you have taken all

the life out of me.

BERTHA. Axel! How you talk! If you knew how I--love you!

AXEL. That doesn't sound irrational, but I don't love you.

BERTHA [Flaring up and pointing to Abel]. Because you love her!

AXEL. No, indeed, I don't. Have never loved her, and never will.

What incredible imagining! As if there were not other women and more

fascinating than you two!

BERTHA. But Abel loves you!

AXEL. That is possible. I even believe that she suggested something of

the kind. Yes, she said so distinctly; let's see, how was it--

BERTHA [Changing]. You are really the most shameless creature I have

ever met!

AXEL. Yes, I can well believe that.

BERTHA [Puts on her hat and wrap]. Now you expect to put me out on the

street? That is final?

AXEL. On the street, or where you please.

BERTHA [Angry]. Do you think a woman will allow herself to be treated

like this?

AXEL. Once you asked me to forget that you were a woman. Very well, I

have forgotten it.

BERTHA. But do you know that you have liabilities to the one who has

been your wife?

AXEL. You mean the pay for good comradeship? What? A life annuity!

BERTHA. Yes.

AXEL [Putting a few bills on the table]. Here is a month in advance.

BERTHA [Takes money and counts it]. You still have a little honor left!

ABEL. Good-bye, Bertha. Now I am off.

BERTHA. Wait and you can go along with me.

ABEL. No, I won't go any further with you.

BERTHA. What? Why not?

ABEL. I am ashamed to.

BERTHA [Astonished]. Ashamed?

ABEL. Yes, ashamed. Good-bye. [Abel goes out.]

BERTHA. I don't understand. Good-bye, Axel! Thanks for the money. Are we

friends? [Taking his hand.]

AXEL. I am not, at least.--Let go of my hand, or I will believe that you

wish to seduce me again. [Bertha goes toward door.]

AXEL [With a sigh of relief]. Pleasant comrades! Oh!

[The maid enters from the orchard.]

MAID [To Axel]. There is it lady waiting for you.

AXEL. I'll soon be free.

BERTHA. Is that the new comrade?

AXEL. No, not comrade, but sweetheart.

BERTHA. And your wife to be?

AXEL, Perhaps. Because I want to meet, my comrades at the cafe, but at

home I want a wife. [Starts as if to go.] Pardon me!

BERTHA. Farewell, then! Are we never to meet again?

AXEL. Yes, of course! But at the cafe. Good-bye!

CURTAIN.

*****

FACING DEATH

CHARACTERS

MONSIEUR DURAND, a pension proprietor, formerly connected with the

state railroad

ADELE, his daughter, twenty-seven

ANNETTE, his daughter, twenty-four

THERESE, his daughter, twenty-four

ANTONIO, a lieutenant in an Italian cavalry regiment in French

Switzerland in the eighties

PIERRE, an errand boy

[SCENE--A dining-room with a long table. Through the open door is seen,

over the tops of churchyard cypress trees, Lake Leman, with the Savoy

Alps and the French bathing-resort Evian. To left is a door to the

kitchen. To right a door to inner rooms. Monsieur Durand stands in

doorway looking over the lake with a pair of field glasses.]

ADELE [Comes in from kitchen wearing apron and turned-up sleeves.

She carries a tray with coffee things]. Haven't you been for the

coffee-bread, father?

DURAND. No, I sent Pierre. My chest has been bad for the last few drays,

and it affects me to walk the steep hill.

ADELE. Pierre again, eh? That costs three sous. Where are they to come

from, with only one tourist in the house for over two months?

DURAND. That's true enough, but it seems to me Annette might get the

bread.

ADELE. That would ruin the credit of the house entirely, but you have

never done anything else.

DURAND. Even you, Adele?

ADELE. Even I am tired, though I have held out longest!

DURAND. Yes, you have, and you were still human when Therese and Annette

cautioned me. You and I have pulled this house through since mother

died. You have had to sit in the kitchen like Cinderella; I have had

to take care of the service, the fires, sweep and clean, and do the

errands. You are tired; how should it be with me, then?

ADELE. But you mustn't be tired. You have three daughters who are

unprovided for and whose dowry you have wasted.

DURAND [Listening without]. Doesn't it seem as if you heard the sound of

clanging and rumbling down toward Cully? If fire has broken out they are

lost, because the wind is going to blow soon, the lake tells me that.

ADELE. Have you paid the fire insurance on our house?

DURAND. Yes, I have. Otherwise I would never have got that last

mortgage.

ADELE. How much is there left unmortgaged?

DURAND. A fifth of the fire insurance policy. But you know how property

dropped in value when the railroad passed our gates and went to the east

instead.

ADELE. So much the better.

DURAND [Sternly]. Adele! [Pause.] Will you put out the fire in the

stove?

ADELE. Impossible. I can't till the coffee-bread comes.

DURAND. Well, here it is.

[Pierre comes in with basket. Adele looks in the basket.]

ADELE. No bread! But a bill--two, three--

PIERRE.--Well, the baker said he wouldn't send any more bread until he

was paid. And then, when I was going by the butcher's and the grocer's,

they shoved these bills at me. [Goes out.]

ADELE. Oh, God in heaven, this is the end for us! But what's this?

[Opens a package.]

DURAND. Some candles that I bought for the mass for my dear little Rene.

Today is the anniversary of his death.

ADELE. You can afford to buy such things!

DURAND. With my tips, yes. Don't you think it is humiliating to stretch

out my hand whenever a traveller leaves us? Can't you grant me the only

contentment I possess--let me enjoy my sorrow one time each year? To be

able to live in memory of the most beautiful thing life ever gave me?

ADELE. If he had only lived until mow, you'd see how beautiful he'd be!

DURAND. It's very possible that there's truth in your irony--as I

remember him, however, he was not as you all are now.

ADELE. Will you be good enough to receive Monsieur Antonio yourself?

He is coming now to have his coffee _without_ bread! Oh, if mother were

only living! She always found a way when you stood helpless.

DURAND. Your mother had her good qualities.

ADELE. Although you saw only her faults.

DURAND. Monsieur Antonio is coming. If you leave me now, I'll have a

talk with him.

ADELE. You would do better to go out and borrow some money, so that the

scandal would be averted.

DURAND. I can't borrow a sou. After borrowing for ten years! Let

everything crash at once, everything, everything, if it would only be

the end!

ADELE. The end for you, yes. But you never think of us!

DURAND. No, I have never thought of you, never!

ADELE. Do you begrudge us our bringing-up?

DURAND. I am only answering an unjust reproach. Go now, and I'll meet

the storm--as usual.

ADELE. As usual--h'm!

[Goes. Antonio comes in from back.]

ANTONIO. Good morning, Monsieur Durand.

DURAND. Monsieur Lieutenant has already been out for a walk?

ANTONIO. Yes, I've been down toward Cully and saw them put out a chimney

fire. Now, some coffee will taste particularly good.

DURAND. It's needless to say how it pains me to have to tell you that on

account of insufficient supplies our house can no longer continue to do

business.

ANTONIO. How is that?

DURAND. To speak plainly, we are bankrupt.

ANTONIO. But, my good Monsieur Durand, is there no way of helping you

out of what I hope is just a temporary embarrassment?

DURAND. No, there is no possible way out. The condition of the house has

been so completely undermined for many years that I had rather the crash

would come than live in a state of anxiety day and night, expecting what

must come.

ANTONIO. Nevertheless I believe you are looking at the dark side of

things.

DURAND. I can't see what makes you doubt my statement.

ANTONIO. Because I want to help you.

DURAND. I don't wish any help. Privation must come and teach my children

to lead a different life from this which is all play. With the exception

of Adele, who really does take care of the kitchen, what do the others

do? Play, and sing, and promenade, and flirt; and as long as there is a

crust of bread in the house, they'll never do anything useful.

ANTONIO. Granting that, but until the finances are straightened out we

must have bread in the house. Allow me to stay a month longer and I will

pay my bill in advance.

DURAND. No, thank you, we must stick to this course even if it leads

us into the lake! And I don't want to continue in this business, which

doesn't bring bread--nothing but humiliations. Just think how it was

last spring, when the house had been empty for three months. Then at

last an American family came and saved us. The morning after their

arrival I ran across the son catching hold of my daughter on the stairs.

It was Therese,--he was trying to kiss her. What would you have done in

my case?

ANTONIO [Confused]. I don't know--

DURAND. I know what I, as a father, should have done,

but--father-like--I didn't do it. But I know what to do the next time.

ANTONIO. On account of that very thing it seems to me that you should

think very carefully about what you do, and not leave your daughters to

chance.

DURAND. Monsieur Antonio, you are a young man who, for some inexplicable

reason, has won my regard. Whether you grant it, or not, I am going to

ask one thing of you. Don't form any opinions about me as an individual,

or about my conduct.

ANTONIO. Monsieur Durand, I promise it if you will answer me one

question; are you Swiss born, or not?

DURAND. I am a Swiss citizen.

ANTONIO. Yes, I know that, but I ask if you were born in Switzerland.

DURAND [Uncertainly]. Yes.

ANTONIO. I asked only--because it interested me. Nevertheless--as I must

believe you that your pension must be closed, I want to pay what I owe.

To be sure it's only ten francs, but I can't go away and leave an unpaid

bill.

DURAND. I can't be sure that this is really a debt, as I don't keep the

accounts, but if you have deceived me you shall hear from me. Now I'll

go and get the bread. Afterward we'll find out.

[Goes out. Antonio alone. Afterward Therese comes in, carrying a

rat-trap. She wears a morning negligee and her hair is down.]

THERESE. Oh, there you are, Antonio! I thought I heard the old man.

ANTONIO. Yes, he went to get the coffee-bread, he said.

THERESE. Hadn't he done that already? No, do you know, we can't stand

him any longer.

ANTONIO. How beautiful you are today, Therese! But that rat-trap isn't

becoming.

THERESE. And such a trap into the bargain! I have set it for a whole

month, but never, never get a live one, although the bait is eaten every

morning. Have you seen Mimi around?

ANTONIO. That damned cat? It's usually around early and late, but today

I've been spared it.

THERESE. You must speak beautifully about the absent, and remember, he

who loves me, loves my cat. [She puts rat-trap on table and picks up an

empty saucer from under table.] Adele, Adele!

ADELE [In the kitchen door]. What does Her Highness demand so loudly?

THERESE. Her Highness demands milk for her cat and a piece of cheese for

your rats.

ADELE. Go get them yourself.

THERESE. Is that the way to answer Her Highness?

ADELE. The answer fits such talk. And besides, you deserve it for

showing yourself before a stranger with your hair not combed.

THERESE. Aren't we all old friends here, and--Antonio, go and speak

nicely to Aunt Adele, and then you'll get some milk for Mimi. [Antonio

hesitates.] Well, aren't you going to mind?

ANTONIO [Sharply]. No.

THERESE. What kind of a way to speak is that? Do you want a taste of my

riding whip?

ANTONIO. Impudence!

THERESE. [Amazed]. What's that? What's that? Are you trying to remind me

of my position, my debt, my weakness?

ANTONIO. No, I only want to remind you of my position, my debt, my

weakness.

ADELE [Getting the saucer]. Now listen, good friends. What's all this

foolishness for? Be friends--and then I'll give you some very nice

coffee. [Goes into the kitchen.]

THERESE [Crying]. You are tired of me, Antonio, and you are thinking of

giving me up.

ANTONIO. You mustn't cry, it will make your eyes so ugly.

THERESE. Oh, if they are not as beautiful as Annette's--

ANTONIO.--So, it's Annette now? But now look here; all fooling aside,

isn't it about time we had our coffee?

THERESE. You'd make a charming married man--not able to wait a moment

for your coffee.

ANTONIO. And what a lovable married lady you would be, who growls at her

husband because she has made a blunder.

[Annette comes in fully dressed and hair done up.]

ANNETTE. You seem to be quarreling this morning.

ANTONIO. See, there's Annette, and dressed already.

THERESE. Yes, Annette is so extraordinary in every respect, and she also

has the prerogative of being older than I am.

ANNETTE. If you don't hold your tongue--

ANTONIO.--Oh, now, now, be good, now, Therese!

[He puts his arm around her and kisses her. Monsieur Durand appears in

the doorway as he does so.]

DURAND [Astonished]. What's this?

THERESE [Freeing herself]. What?

DURAND. Did my eyes see right?

THERESE. What did you see?

DURAND. I saw that you allowed a strange gentleman to kiss you.

THERESE. That's a lie!

DURAND. Have I lost my sight, or do you dare lie to my face?

THERESE. Is it for you to talk about lying, you who lie to us and the

whole world by saying that you were born a Swiss although you are a

Frenchman?

DURAND. Who said that?

THERESE. Mother said so.

DURAND [To Antonio]. Monsieur Lieutenant, as our account is settled,

I'll ask you to leave this house immediately, or else--

ANTONIO. Or else?

DURAND. Choose your weapon.

ANTONIO. I wonder what sort of defense you would put up other than the

hare's!

DURAND. If I didn't prefer my stick, I should take the gun that I used

in the last war.

THERESE. You have surely been at war--you who deserted!

DURAND. Mother said that, too. I can't fight the dead, but I can fight

the living.

[Lifts his walking-stick and goes toward Antonio. Therese and Annette

throw themselves between the men.]

ANNETTE. Think what you are doing!

THERESE. This will end on the scaffold!

ANTONIO [Backing away]. Good-bye, Monsieur Durand. Keep my contempt--and

my ten francs.

DURAND [Takes a gold piece from his vest pocket and throws it toward

Antonio]. My curses follow your gold, scamp!

[Therese and Annette following Antonio.]

THERESE and ANNETTE. Don't go, don't leave us! Father will kill us!

DURAND [Breaks his stick in two]. He who cannot kill must die.

ANTONIO. Good-bye, and I hope you'll miss the last rat from your sinking

ship. [He goes.]

THERESE [To Durand]. That's the way you treat your guests! Is it any

wonder the house has gone to pieces!

DURAND. Yes--that's the way--such guests! But tell me, Therese, my

child--[Takes her head between his hands] tell me, my beloved child,

tell me if I saw wrong just now, or if you told a falsehood.

THERESE [Peevishly]. What?

DURAND. You know what I mean. It isn't the thing itself, which can be

quite innocent--but it is a matter of whether I can trust my senses that

interests me.

THERESE. Oh, talk about something else.--Tell us rather what we are

going to eat and drink today. For that matter, it's a lie; he didn't

kiss me.

DURAND. It isn't a lie. In Heaven's name, didn't I see it happen?

THERESE. Prove it.

DURAND. Prove it? With two witnesses or--a policeman! [To Annette.]

Annette, my child, will you tell me the truth?

ANNETTE. I didn't see anything.

DURAND. That's a proper answer. For one should never accuse one's

sister. How like your mother you are today, Annette!

ANNETTE. Don't you say anything about mother! She should be living such

a day as this!

[Adele comes in with a glass of milk, which she puts on table.]

ADELE [To Durand]. There's your milk. What happened to the bread?

DURAND. Nothing, my children. It will continue to come as it always has

up to the present.

THERESE [Grabs the glass of milk from her father]. You shall not have

anything, you who throw away money, so that your children are compelled

to starve.

ADELE. Did he throw away money, the wretch? He should have been put in

the lunatic asylum the time mother said he was ripe for it. See, here's

another bill that came by way of the kitchen.

[Durand takes the bill and starts as he looks at it. Pours a glass of

water and drinks. Sits down and lights his briar pipe.]

ANNETTE. But he can afford to smoke tobacco.

DURAND [Tired and submissively]. Dear children, this tobacco didn't

cost me any more than that water, for it was given to me six months ago.

Don't vex yourselves needlessly.

THERESE [Takes matches away]. Well, at least you sha'n't waste the

matches.

DURAND. If you knew, Therese, how many matches I have wasted on you when

I used to get up nights to see if you had thrown off the bedclothes! If

you knew, Annette, how many times I have secretly given you water when

you cried from thirst, because your mother believed that it was harmful

for children to drink!

THERESE. Well, all that was so long ago that I can't bother about it.

For that matter, it was only your duty, as you have said yourself.

DURAND. It was, and I fulfilled my duty and a little more too.

ADELE. Well, continue to do so, or no one knows what will become of us.

Three young girls left homeless and friendless, without anything to live

on! Do you know what want can drive one to?

DURAND. That's what I said ten years ago, but no one would heed me; and

twenty years ago I predicted that this moment would come, and I haven't

been able to prevent its coming. I have been sitting like a lone

brakeman on an express train, seeing it go toward an abyss, but I

haven't, been able to get to the engine valves to stop it.

THERESE. And now you want thanks for landing in the abyss with us.

DURAND. No, my child, I only ask that you be a little less unkind to me.

You have cream fur the cat, but you begrudge milk to your father, who

has not eaten for--so long.

THERESE. Oh, it's you, then, who has begrudged milk for my cat!

DURAND. Yes, it's I.

ANNETTE. And perhaps it is he who has eaten the rats' bait, too.

DURAND. It is he.

ADELE. Such a pig!

THERESE [Laughing]. Think if it had been poisoned!

DURAND. Alas, if only it had been, you mean!

THERESE. Yes, you surely wouldn't have minded that, you who have so

often talked about shooting yourself--but have never done it!

DURAND. Why didn't you shoot me? That's a direct reproach. Do you know

why I haven't done it? To keep you from going into the lake, my dear

children.--Say something else unkind now. It's like hearing music--tunes

that I recognize--from the good old times--

ADELE. Stop such useless talk now and do something. Do something.

THERESE. Do you know what the consequences may be if you leave us in

this shape?

DURAND. You will go and prostitute yourselves. That's what your mother

always said she'd do when she had spent the housekeeping money on

lottery tickets.

ADELE. Silence! Not a word about our dear, beloved mother!

DURAND [Half humming to himself].

In this house a candle burns,

When it burns out the goal he earns,

The goal once won, the storm will come

With a great crash. Yes! No!

[It has begun to blow outside and grown cloudy. Durand rises quickly and

says to Adele] Put out the fire in the stove. The wind storm is coming.

ADELE [Looking Durand in the eyes]. No, the wind is not coming.

DURAND. Put out the fire. If it catches fire here, we'll get nothing

from the insurance. Put out the fire, I say, put it out.

ADELE. I don't understand you.

DURAND [Looks in her eyes, taking her hand]. Just obey me, do as I

say. [Adele goes into kitchen, leaving the door open. To Therese and

Annette.] Go up and shut the windows, children, and look after the

draughts. But come and give me a kiss first, for I am going away to get

money for you.

THERESE. Can you get money?

DURAND. I have a life insurance that I think I am going to realize on.

THERESE. How much can you get for it?

DURAND. Six hundred francs if I sell it, and five thousand if I die.

[Therese concerned.] Now, tell me, my child,--we mustn't be needlessly

cruel,--tell me, Therese, are you so attached to Antonio that you would

be quite unhappy if you didn't get him?

THERESE. Oh, yes!

DURAND. Then you must marry him if he really loves you. But you mustn't

be unkind to him, for then you'll be unhappy. Good-bye, my dear beloved

child. [Takes her in his arms and kisses her cheeks.]

THERESE. But you mustn't die, father, you mustn't.

DURAND. Would you grudge me going to my peace?

THERESE. No, not if you wish it yourself. Forgive me, father, the many,

many times I've been unkind to you.

DURAND. Nonsense, my child.

THERESE. But no one was so unkind to you as I.

DURAND. I felt it less because I loved you most. Why, I don't know. But

run and shut the windows.

THERESE. Here are your matches, papa--and there's your milk.

DURAND [Smiling]. Ah, you child!

THERESE. Well, what can I do? I haven't anything else to give you.

DURAND. You gave me so much joy as a child that you owe me nothing. Go

now, and just give me a loving look as you used to do. [Therese turns

and throws herself into his arms.] So, so, my child, now all is well.

[Therese runs out.] Farewell, Annette.

ANNETTE. Are you going away? I don't understand all this.

DURAND. Yes, I'm going.

ANNETTE. But of course you're coming back, papa.

DURAND. Who knows whether he will live through the morrow? Anyway, we'll

say farewell.

ANNETTE. Adieu, then, father--and a good journey to you. And you won't

forget to bring something home to us just as you used to do, will you?

DURAND. And you remember that, though it's so long since I've bought

anything for you children? Adieu, Annette. [Annette goes. Durand hums to

himself.]

Through good and evil, great and small,

Where you have sown, others gather all.

[Adele comes in.] Adele, come, now you shall hear and understand. If I

speak in veiled terms, it is only to spare your conscience in having you

know too much. Be quiet. I've got the children up in their rooms. First

you are to ask me this question, "Have you a life insurance policy?"

Well?

ADELE [Questioningly and uncertain]. "Have you a life insurance policy?"

DURAND. No, I had one, but I sold it long ago, because I thought I

noticed that some one became irritable when it was due. But I have a

fire insurance. Here are the papers. Hide them well. Now, I'm going to

ask you something; do you know how many candles there are in a pound,

mass candles at seventy-five centimes?

ADELE. There are six.

DURAND [Indicating the package of candles]. How many candles are there

there?

ADELE. Only five.

DURAND. Because the sixth is placed very high up and very near--

ADELE.--Good Lord!

DURAND [Looking at his watch]. In five minutes or so, it will be burned

out.

ADELE. No!

DURAND. Yes! Can you see dawn any other way in this darkness?

ADELE. No.

DURAND. Well, then. That takes care of the business. Now about another

matter. If Monsieur Durand passes out of the world as an [Whispers]

incendiary, it doesn't matter much, but his children shall know that

he lived as a man of honor up to that time. Well, then, I was born in

France, but I didn't have to admit that to the first scamp that came

along. Just before I reached the age of conscription I fell in love with

the one who later became my wife. To be able to marry, we came here and

were naturalized. When the last war broke out, and it looked as if I

was going to carry a weapon against my own country, I went out as a

sharpshooter against the Germans. I never deserted, as you have heard

that I did--your mother invented that story.

ADELE. Mother never lied--

DURAND.--So, so. Now the ghost has risen and stands between us again. I

cannot enter an action against the dead, but I swear I am speaking the

truth. Do you hear? And as far as your dowry is concerned, that is to

say your maternal inheritance, these are the facts: first, your mother

through carelessness and foolish speculations ruined your paternal

inheritance so completely that I had to give up my business and start

this pension. After that, part of her inheritance had to be used in the

bringing-up of you children, which of course cannot be looked upon as

thrown away. So it was also untrue that--

ADELE. No, that's not what mother said on her death-bed--

DURAND.--Then your mother lied on her death-bed, just as she had done

all through her life. And that's the curse that has been following me

like a spook. Think how you have innocently tortured me with these two

lies for so many years! I didn't want to put disquiet into your young

lives which would result in your doubting your mother's goodness. That's

why I kept silent. I was the bearer of her cross throughout our married

life; carried all her faults on my back, took all the consequences of

her mistakes on myself until at last I believed that I was the guilty

one. And she was not slow, first to believe herself to be blameless,

and then later the victim. "Blame it on me," I used to say, when she had

become terribly involved in some tangle. And she blamed and I bore!

But the more she became indebted to me, the more she hated me, with the

limitless hatred of her indebtedness. And in the end she despised me,

trying to strengthen herself by imagining she had deceived me. And last

of all she taught you children to despise me, because she wanted support

in her weakness. I hoped and believed that this evil but weak spirit

would die when she died; but evil lives and grows like disease, while

soundness stops at a certain point and then retrogrades. And when I

wanted to change what was wrong in the habits of this household, I was

always met with "But mother said," and therefore it was true; "Mother

used to do this way," and therefore it was right. And to you I became

a good-for-nothing when I was kind, a miserable creature when I was

sensitive, and a scamp when I let you all have your way and ruin the

house.

ADELE. It's honorable to accuse the dead who can't defend themselves!

DURAND [Fast and exalted]. I am not dead yet, but I will be soon. Will

you defend me then? No, you need not. But defend your sisters. Think

only of my children, Adele. Take a motherly care of Therese; she is the

youngest and liveliest, quick for good and bad, thoughtless but weak.

See to it that she marries soon, if it can be arranged. Now, I can smell

burning straw.

ADELE. Lord protect us!

DURAND [Drinks from glass]. He will. And for Annette you must try to

find a place as teacher, so that she can get up in the world and into

good company. You must manage the money when it falls due. Don't be

close, but fix up your sisters so that they will be presentable to the

right kind of people. Don't save anything but the family papers, which

are in the top drawer of my chiffonier in the middle room. Here is the

key. The fire insurance papers you have. [Smoke is seen forcing its way

through the ceiling.] It will soon be accomplished now. In a moment you

will hear the clanging from St. Francois. Promise me one thing. Never

divulge this to your sisters. It would only disturb their peace for the

rest of their lives. [He sits by table.] And one thing more, never a

hard word against their mother. Her portrait is also in the chiffonier;

none of you knew that, because I found it was enough that her spirit

walked unseen in the home. Greet Therese, and ask her to forgive me.

Don't forget that she must have the best when you buy her clothes; you

know her weakness for such things and to what her weakness can bring

her. Tell Annette--

[A distant clanging of bells is heard; the smoke increases. Monsieur

Durand drops his head in his hands on the table.]

ADELE. It's burning, it's burning! Father, what's the matter with you?

You'll be burned up! [Durand lifts his head, takes the water glass up

and puts it down with a meaningful gesture.] You have--taken--poison!

DURAND [Nods affirmatively]. Have you the insurance papers? Tell

Therese--and Annette--

[His head falls. The bell in distance strikes again. Rumbling and murmur

of voices outside.]

CURTAIN.

*****

PARIAH, OR THE OUTCAST

One-Act Play

CHARACTERS

MR. X., an archeologist

MR. Y., a traveller from America

Both middle-aged

[SCENE--Simple room in a country house; door and window at back, through

which one sees a country landscape. In the middle of the room a large

dining table; on one side of it books and writing materials and on the

other side some antiques, a microscope, insect boxes, alcohol jars. To

the left of scene a book-shelf, and all the other furnishings are those

of a country gentleman. Mr. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying an

insect net and a botanical tin box. He goes directly to the book-shelf,

takes down a book and reads stealthily from it. The after-service bell

of a country church rings. The landscape and room are flooded with

sunshine. Now and then one hears the clucking of hens outside. Mr. X.

comes in also in shirt-sleeves. Mr. Y. starts nervously, returns the

book to its place, and pretends to look for another book on the shelf.]

MR. X. What oppressive heat! We'll surely have a thunder-shower.

MR. Y. Yes? What makes you think so?

MR. X. The bells sound like it, the flies bite so, and the hens are

cackling. I wanted to go fishing, but I couldn't find a single worm.

Don't you feel rather nervous?

MR. Y. [Reflectively]. I? Well, yes.

MR. X. But you always look as if you expected a thunder-shower.

MR. Y. Do I?

MR. X. Well, as you are to start off on your travels again tomorrow,

it's not to be wondered at if you have the knapsack fever. What's the

news? Here's the post. [Takes up letters from the table.] Oh, I have

palpitation of the heart every time I open a letter. Nothing but debts,

debts! Did you ever have any debts?

MR. Y. [Reflecting]. No-o-o.

MR. X. Well, then, of course you can't understand how it feels to have

unpaid bills come in. [He reads a letter.] The rent owing--the landlord

clamoring--and my wife in despair. And I, I sitting up to my elbows in

gold. [Opens an iron-mounted case, which stands on the table. They both

sit down, one on each side of the case.] Here is six thousand crowns'

worth of gold that I've dug up in two weeks. This bracelet alone would

bring the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I

should be able to make a brilliant career for myself. The first thing I

should do would be to have drawings made and cuts of the figures for

my treatises. After that I would print--and then clear out. Why do you

suppose I don't do this?

MR. Y. It must be because you are afraid of being found out.

MR. X. Perhaps that, too. But don't you think that a man of my

intelligence should be able to manage it so that it wouldn't be found

out? I always go alone to dig out there on the hills--without witnesses.

Would it be remarkable to put a little something in one's pockets?

MR. Y. Yes, but disposing of it, they say, is the dangerous part.

MR. X. Humph, I should of course have the whole thing smelted, and then

I should have it cast into ducats--full weight, of course--

MR. Y. Of course!

MR. X. That goes without saying. If I wanted to make counterfeit

money--well, it wouldn't be necessary to dig the gold first. [Pause.]

It's remarkable, nevertheless, that if some one were to do what I can't

bring myself to do, I should acquit him. But I should not be able to

acquit myself. I should be able to put up a brilliant defense for the

thief; prove that this gold was _res nullius_, or no one's, and that it

got into the earth before there were any land rights; that even now it

belongs to no one but the first comer, as the owner had never accounted

it part of his property, and so on.

MR. Y. And you would not be able to do this if--h'm!--the thief had

stolen through need, but rather as an instance of a collector's mania,

of scientific interest, of the ambition to make a discovery,--isn't that

so?

MR. X. You mean that I wouldn't be able to acquit him if he had stolen

through need? No, that is the only instance the law does not pardon.

That is simple theft, that is!

MR. Y. And that you would not pardon?

MR. X. H'm! Pardon! No, I could hardly pardon what the law does not, and

I must confess that it would be hard for me to accuse a collector for

taking an antique that he did not have in his collection, which he had

dug up on some one else's property.

MR. Y. That is to say, vanity, ambition, could gain pardon where need

could not?

MR. X. Yes, that's the way it is. And nevertheless need should be the

strongest motive, the only one to be pardoned. But I can change that as

little as I can change my will not to steal under any condition.

MR. Y. And you count it a great virtue that you cannot--h'm--steal?

MR. X. With me not to steal is just as irresistible as stealing is to

some, and, therefore, no virtue. I cannot do it and they cannot help

doing it. You understand, of course, that the idea of wanting to possess

this gold is not lacking in me. Why don't I take it then? I cannot; it's

an inability, and a lack is not a virtue. And there you are!

[Closes the case with a bang. At times stray clouds have dimmed the

light in the room and now it darkens with the approaching storm.]

MR. X. How close it is! I think we'll have some thunder.

[Mr. Y. rises and shuts the door and window.]

MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder?

MR. Y. One should be careful.

[They sit again at table.]

MR. X. You are a queer fellow. You struck here like a bomb two weeks

ago, and you introduced yourself as a Swedish-American who travels,

collecting insects for a little museum.

MR. Y. Oh, don't bother about me.

MR. X. That's what you always say when I get tired of talking about

myself and want to devote a little attention to you. Perhaps it was

because you let me talk so much about myself that you won my sympathy.

We were soon old acquaintances; there were no corners about you for me

to knock against, no needles or pins to prick. There was something

so mellow about your whole personality; you were so considerate, a

characteristic which only the most cultivated can display; you were

never noisy when you came home late, never made any disturbance when

you got up in the morning; you overlooked trifles, drew aside when ideas

became conflicting; in a word, you were the perfect companion; but you

were altogether too submissive, too negative, too quiet, not to have me

reflect about it in the course of time. And you are fearful and timid;

you look as if you led a double life. Do you know, as you sit there

before the mirror and I see your back, it's as if I were looking at

another person. [Mr. Y. turns and looks in the mirror.] Oh, you can't

see your back in the mirror. Front view, you look like a frank, fearless

man who goes to meet his fate with open heart, but back view,--well, I

don't wish to be discourteous, but you look as if you carried a burden,

as if you were shrinking from a lash; and when I see your red suspenders

across your white shirt--it looks like--like a big brand, a trade mark

on a packing box.

MR. Y. [Rising]. I believe I will suffocate--if the shower doesn't break

and come soon.

MR. X. It will come soon. Just be quiet. And the back of your neck, too,

it looks as if there were another head on it, with the face of another

type than you. You are so terribly narrow between the ears that I

sometimes wonder if you don't belong to another race. [There is flash of

lightning.] That one looked as if it struck at the sheriff's.

MR. Y. [Worried]. At the--sh-sheriff's!

MR. X. Yes, but it only looked so. But this thunder won't amount to

anything. Sit down now and let's have a talk, as you are off again

tomorrow.--It's queer that, although I became intimate with you so soon,

you are one of those people whose likeness I cannot recall when they are

out of my sight. When you are out in the fields and I try to recall your

face, another acquaintance always comes to mind--some one who doesn't

really look like you, but whom you resemble nevertheless.

MR. Y. Who is that?

MR. X. I won't mention the name. However, I used to have dinner at the

same place for many years, and there at the lunch counter I met a little

blond man with pale, worried eyes. He had an extraordinary faculty

of getting about in a crowded room without shoving or being shoved.

Standing at the door, he could reach a slice of bread two yards away; he

always looked as if he was happy to be among people, and whenever he ran

into an acquaintance he would fall into rapturous laughter, embrace him,

and do the figure eight around him, and carry on as if he hadn't met a

human being for years; if any one stepped on his toes he would smile as

if he were asking pardon for being in the way. For two years I used to

see him, and I used to amuse myself trying to figure out his business

and character, but I never asked any one who he was,--I didn't want to

know, as that would have put an end to my amusement. That man had the

same indefinable characteristics as you; sometimes I would make him out

an undergraduate teacher, an under officer, a druggist, a government

clerk, or a detective, and like you, he seemed to be made up of two

different pieces and the front didn't fit the back. One day I happened

to read in the paper about a big forgery by a well-known civil official.

After that I found out that my indefinable acquaintance had been the

companion of the forger's brother, and that his name was Straman; and

then I was informed that the afore-mentioned Straman had been connected

with a free library, but that he was then a police reporter on a big

newspaper. How could I then get any connection between the forgery, the

police, and the indefinable man's appearance? I don't know, but when I

asked a man if Straman had ever been convicted, he answered neither yes

nor no--he didn't know. [Pause.]

MR. Y. Well, was he ever--convicted?

MR. X. No, he had not been convicted.

[Pause.]

MR. Y. You mean that was why keeping close to the police had such

attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of bumping into people?

MR. X. Yes.

MR. Y. Did you get to know him afterward?

MR. X. No, I didn't want to.

MR. Y. Would you have allowed yourself to know him if he had been

convicted?

MR. X. Yes, indeed.

[Mr. Y. rises and walks up and down.]

MR. X. Sit still. Why can't you sit quietly.

MR. Y. How did you get such a liberal attitude towards people's conduct?

Are you a Christian?

MR. X. No,--of course I couldn't be,--as you've just heard. The

Christians demand forgiveness, but I demand punishment for the

restoration of balance, or whatever you like to call it, and you, who

have served time, ought to understand that.

MR. Y. [Stops as if transfixed. Regards Mr. X. at first with wild

hatred, them with surprise and wonderment.] How--do--you--know--that?

MR. X. It's plain to be seen.

MR. Y. How? How can you see it?

MR. X. I have taught myself. That's an art, too. But we won't talk about

that matter. [Looks at his watch. Takes out a paper for signing. Dips a

pen and offers it to Mr. Y.] I must think about my muddled affairs. Now

be so kind as to witness my signature on this note, which I must leave

at the bank at Malmoe when I go there with you tomorrow morning.

MR. Y. I don't intend to go by way of Malmoe.

MR. X. No?

MR. Y. No.

MR. X. But you can witness my signature nevertheless.

MR. Y. No-o. I never sign my name to papers--

MR. X.--Any more! That's the fifth time that you have refused to write

your name. The first time was on a postal receipt,--and it was then

that I began to observe you; and now, I see that you have a horror of

touching pen and ink. You haven't sent a letter since you've been here.

Just one postal-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. Do you

see now how I have figured out your mis-step? Furthermore, this is the

seventh time that you have refused to go to Malmoe, where you have not

gone since you have been here. Nevertheless you came here from America

just to see Malmoe; and every morning you have walked southward three

miles and a half to the windmill hill just to see the roofs of Malmoe;

also, when you stand at the right-hand window, through the third

window-pane to the left, counting from the bottom up, you can see the

turrets of the castle, and the chimneys on the _state prison_. Do you

see now that it is not that I am so clever but that you are so stupid?

MR. Y. Now you hate me.

MR. X. No.

MR. Y. Yes, you do, you must.

MR. X. No--see, here's my hand.

MR. Y. [Kisses the proffered hand].

MR. X. [Drawing back his hand]. What dog's trick is that?

MR. Y. Pardon! But thou art the first to offer me his hand after

knowing--

MR. X.--And now you are "thou-ing" me! It alarms me that, after serving

your time, you do not feel your honor retrieved, that you do not feel on

equal footing,--in fact, just as good as any one. Will you tell me how

it happened? Will you?

MR. Y. [Dubiously]. Yes, but you won't believe what I say. I'm going to

tell you, though, and you shall see that I was not a common criminal.

You shall be convinced that mis-steps are made, as one might say,

involuntarily--[Shakily] as if they came of their own accord,

spontaneously, without intention, blamelessly!--Let me open the window a

little. I think the thunder shower-has passed over.

MR. X. Go ahead.

MR. Y. [Goes and opens the window, then comes and sits by the table

again and tells the following with great enthusiasm, theatrical gestures

and false accents]. Well, you see I was a student at Lund, and once

I needed a loan. I had no dangerously big debts, my father had some

means--not very much, to be sure; however, I had sent away a note of

hand to a man whom I wanted to have sign it as second security, and

contrary to all expectations, it was returned to me with a refusal.

I sat for a while benumbed by the blow, because it was a disagreeable

surprise, very disagreeable. The note lay before me on the table, and

beside it the letter of refusal. My eyes glanced hopelessly over

the fatal lines which contained my sentence. To be sure it wasn't a

death-sentence, as I could easily have got some other man to stand as

security; as many as I wanted, for that matter--but, as I've said,

it was very unpleasant; and as I sat there in my innocence, my glance

rested gradually on the signature, which, had it been in the right

place, would have made my future. That signature was most unusual

calligraphy--you know how, as one sits thinking, one can scribble a

whole blotter full of meaningless words. I had the pen in my hand--[He

takes up the pen] like this, and before I knew what I was doing it

started to write,--of course I don't want to imply that there was

anything mystical spiritualistic, behind it--because I don't believe in

such things!--it was purely a thoughtless, mechanical action--when I sat

and copied the beautiful autograph time after time--without, of course,

any prospect of gain. When the letter was scribbled all over, I had

acquired skill enough to reproduce the signature remarkably well [Throws

the pen down with violence] and then I forgot the whole thing. That

night my sleep was deep and heavy, and when I awakened I felt that I had

been dreaming, but I could not recall the dream; however, it seemed as

though the door to my dream opened a little when I saw the writing table

and the note in memory--and when I got up I was driven to the table

absolutely, as if, after ripe consideration, I had made the irrevocable

resolution to write that name on the fateful paper. All thought of risk,

of consequence, had disappeared--there was no wavering--it was almost

as if I were fulfilling a precious duty--and I wrote. [Springs to his

feet.] What can such a thing be? Is it inspiration, hypnotic suggestion,

as it is called? But from whom? I slept alone in my room. Could it

have been my uncivilized ego, the barbarian that does not recognize

conventions, but who emerged with his criminal will and his inability to

calculate the consequences of his deed? Tell me, what do you think about

such a case?

MR. X. [Bored]. To be honest, your story does not quite convince me.

There are holes in it,--but that may be clue to your not being able to

remember all the details,--and I have read a few things about criminal

inspirations--and I recall--h'm--but never mind. You have had your

punishment, you have had character enough to admit your error, and we

won't discuss it further.

MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we will discuss it; we must talk, so that I can

have complete consciousness of my unswerving honesty.

MR. X. But haven't you that?

MR. Y. No, I haven't.

MR. X. Well, you see, that's what bothers me, that's what bothers me.

Don't you suppose that each one of us has a skeleton in his closet? Yes,

indeed! Well, there are people who continue to be children all their

lives, so that they cannot control their lawless desires. Whenever the

opportunity comes, the criminal is ready. But I cannot understand why

you do not feel innocent. As the child is considered irresponsible, the

criminal should be considered so too. It's strange--well, it doesn't

matter; I'll regret it later. [Pause.] I killed a man once, and I never

had any scruples.

MR. Y. [Very interested]. You--did?

MR. X. Yes--I did. Perhaps you wouldn't like to take a murderer's hand?

MR. Y. [Cheerily]. Oh, what nonsense!

MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished for it.

MR. Y. [Intimate, superior]. So much the better for you. How did you get

out of it?

MR. X. There were no accusers, no suspicions, no witnesses. It happened

this way: one Christmas a friend of mine had invited me for a few days'

hunting just outside of Upsala; he sent an old drunken servant to meet

me, who fell asleep on the coach-box and drove into a gate-post, which

landed us in the ditch. It was not because my life had been in danger,

but in a fit of anger I struck him a blow to wake him, with the result

that he never awakened again--he died on the spot.

MR. Y. [Cunningly]. And you didn't give yourself up?

MR. X. No, and for the following reasons. The man had no relatives or

other connections who were dependent on him. He had lived out his period

of vegetation and his place could soon be filled by some one who was

needed more, while I, on the other hand, was indispensable to the

happiness of my parents, my own happiness, and perhaps to science.

Through the outcome of the affair I was cured of the desire to strike

any more blows, and to satisfy an abstract justice I did not care to

ruin the lives of my parents as well as my own life.

MR. Y. So? That's the way you value human life?

MR. X. In that instance, yes.

MR. Y. But the feeling of guilt, the "restoration of balance?"

MR. X. I had no guilty feeling, its I had committed no crime. I had

received and given blows as a boy, and it was only ignorance of the

effect of blows on old people that caused the fatality.

MR. Y. Yes, but it is two years' hard labor for homicide--just as much

as for--forgery.

MR. X. You may believe I have thought of that too, and many a night have

I dreamed that I was in prison. Ugh! is it as terrible as it's said to

be behind bolts and bars?

MR. Y. Yes, it is terrible. First they disfigure your exterior by

cutting off your hair, so if you did not look like a criminal before,

you do afterward, and when you look at yourself in the mirror, you

become convinced that you are a desperado.

MR. X. It's the mask that they pull off; that's not a bad idea.

MR. Y. You jest! Then they cut down your rations, so that every day,

every hour you feel a distinct difference between life and death; all

life's functions are repressed; you feel yourself grovelling, and

your soul, which should be bettered and uplifted there, is put on a

starvation cure, driven back a thousand years in time; you are only

allowed to read what was written for the barbarians of the migratory

period; you are allowed to hear about nothing but that which can never

come to pass in heaven, but what happens on earth remains a secret; you

are torn from your own environment, moved down out of your class; you

come under those who come under you; you have visions of living in the

bronze age, feel as if you went about in an animal's skin, lived in a

cave, and ate out of a trough! Ugh!

MR. X. That's quite rational. Any one who behaves as if he belonged to

the bronze age ought to live in the historic costume.

MR. Y. [Spitefully]. You scoff, you, you who have behaved like a man of

the stone age! And you are allowed to live in the gold age!

MR. X. [Searchingly and sharp]. What do you mean by that last

expression--the gold age?

MR. Y. [Insidiously]. Nothing at all.

MR. X. That's a lie; you are too cowardly to state your whole meaning.

MR. Y. Am I cowardly? Do you think that? I wasn't cowardly when I

dared to show myself in this neighborhood, where I have suffered what I

have.--Do you know what one suffers from most when one sits in there? It

is from the fact that the others are not sitting in there too.

MR. X. What others?

MR. Y. The unpunished.

MR. X. Do you allude to me?

MR. Y. Yes.

MR. X. I haven't committed any crime.

MR. Y. No? Haven't you?

MR. X. No. An accident is not a crime.

MR. Y. So, it's an accident to commit murder?

MR. X. I haven't committal any murder.

MR. Y. So? Isn't it murder to slay a man?

MR. X. No, not always. There is manslaughter, homicide, assault

resulting in death, with the subdivisions, with or without intent.

However, now I am really afraid of you, for you belong in the most

dangerous category of human beings, the stupid.

MR. Y. So you think that I am stupid? Now listen! Do you want me to

prove that I am very shrewd?

MR. X. Let me hear.

MR. Y. Will you admit that I reason shrewdly and logically when I say

this? You met with an accident which might have brought you two years

of hard labor. You have escaped the ignominious penalty altogether. Here

sits a man who also has been the victim of an accident, an unconscious

suggestion, and forced to suffer two years of hard labor. This man can

wipe out the stain he has unwittingly brought upon himself only through

scientific achievement; but for the attainment of this he must have

money--much money, and that immediately. Doesn't it seem to you that

the other man, the unpunished one, would restore the balance of human

relations if he were sentenced to a tolerable fine? Don't you think so?

MR. X. [Quietly]. Yes.

MR. Y. Well, we understand each other.--H'm! How much do you consider

legitimate?

MR. X. Legitimate? The law decrees that a man's life is worth at the

minimum fifty crowns. But as the deceased had no relatives, there's

nothing to be said on that score.

MR. Y. Humph, you will not understand? Then I must speak more plainly.

It is to me that you are to pay the fine.

MR. X. I've never heard that a homicide should pay a fine to a forger,

and there is also no accuser.

MR. Y. No? Yes, you have me.

MR. X. Ah, now things are beginning to clear up. How much do you ask to

become accomplice to the homicide?

MR. Y. Six thousand crowns.

Mr. X. That's too much. Where am I to get it? [Mr. Y. points to the

case.] I don't want to do that, I don't want to become a thief.

MR. Y. Don't pretend. Do you want me to believe that you haven't dipped

into that case before now?

MR. X. [As to himself]. To think that I could make such a big mistake!

But that's the way it always is with bland people. One is fond of gentle

people, and then one believes so easily that he is liked; and just on

account of that I have been a little watchful of those of whom I've been

fond. So you are fully convinced that I have helped myself from that

case?

MR. Y. Yes, I'm sure of it.

MR. X. And you will accuse me if you do not receive the six thousand

crowns?

MR. Y. Absolutely. You can't get out of it, so it's not worth while

trying to do so.

MR. X. Do you think I would give my father a thief for son, my wife a

thief for husband, my children a thief for father, and my confreres a

thief for comrade? That shall never happen. Now I'll go to the sheriff

and give myself up.

MR. Y. [Springs up and gets his things together]. Wait a moment.

MR. X. What for?

M$. Y. [Stammering]. I only thought--that as I'm not needed--I wouldn't

need to be present--and could go.

MR. X. You cannot. Sit down at your place at the table, where you've

been sitting, and we will talk a little.

MR. Y. [Sits, after putting on a dark coat]. What's going to happen now?

MR. X. [Looking into mirror]. Now everything is clear to me! Ah!

MR. Y. [Worried]. What do you see now that's so remarkable?

MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief, a simple, common thief.

Just now, when you sat there in your shirt-sleeves, I noticed that

something was wrong about my book-shelf, but I couldn't make out what it

was, as I wanted to listen to you and observe you. Now, since you have

become my antagonist, my sight is keener, and since you have put on that

black coat, that acts as a color contrast against the red backs of the

books, which were not noticeable before against your red suspenders, I

see that you have been there and read your forgery story in Bernheim's

essay on hypnotic suggestion, and returned the book upside down. So you

stole that story too! In consequence of all this I consider that I have

the right to conclude that you committed your crime through need, or

because you were addicted to pleasures.

MR. Y. Through need. If you knew--

MR. X. If _you_ knew in what need I have lived, and lived, and still

live! But this is no time for that. To continue, that you have served

time is almost certain, but that was in America, for it was American

prison life that you described; another thing is almost as certain--that

you have not served out your sentence here.

MR. Y. How can you say that?

MR. X. Wait until the sheriff comes and you will know. [Mr. Y. rises.]

Do you see? The first time I mentioned the sheriff in connection with

the thunderbolt, you wanted to run then, too; and when a man has been in

that prison he never wants to go to the windmill hill every day to look

at it, or put himself behind a window-pane to--to conclude, you have

served one sentence, but not another. That's why you were so difficult

to get at. [Pause.]

MR. Y. [Completely defeated]. May I go now?

MR. X. Yes, you may go now.

MR. Y. [Getting his things together]. Are you angry with me?

MR. X. Yes. Would you like it better if I pitied you?

MR. Y. [Wrathfully]. Pity! Do you consider yourself better than I am?

MR. X. Of course I do, as I _am_ better. I am more intelligent than you

are, and of more worth to the common weal.

MR. Y. You are pretty crafty, but not so crafty as I am. I stand in

check myself, but, nevertheless, the next move you can be checkmated.

MR. X. [Fixing Mr. Y. with his eye]. Shall we have another bout? What

evil do you intend to do now?

MR. Y. That is my secret.

MR. X. May I look at you?--You think of writing an anonymous letter to

my wife, disclosing my secret.

MR. Y. Yes, and you cannot prevent it. You dare not have me imprisoned,

so you must let me go; and when I have gone I can do what I please.

MR. X. Ah, you devil! You've struck my Achilles heel--will you force me

to become a murderer?

MR. Y. You couldn't become one! You timid creature!

MR. X. You see, then, there is a difference in people after all, and you

feel within you that I cannot commit such deeds as you, and that is your

advantage. But think if you forced me to deal with you as I did with the

coachman!

[Lifts his hand as if to strike. Mr. Y. looks hard at Mr. X.]

MR. Y. You can't do it. He who dared not take his salvation out of the

case couldn't do that.

MR. X. Then you don't believe that I ever took from the case?

MR. Y. You were too cowardly, just as you were too cowardly to tell your

wife that she is married to a murderer.

MR. X. You are a different kind of being from me--whether stronger or

weaker I do not know--more criminal or not--that doesn't concern me. But

you are the stupider, that's proven. Because you were stupid when you

forged a man's name instead of begging as I have had to do; you were

stupid when you stole out of my book--didn't you realize that I read my

books? You were stupid when you thought that you were more intelligent

than I am and that you could fool me into becoming a thief; you were

stupid when you thought, that the restoration of balance would be

accomplished by the world's having two thieves instead of one, and you

were most stupid when you believed that I have built my life's happiness

without having laid the cornerstone securely. Go and write your

anonymous letter to my wife about her husband being a homicide--that she

knew as my fiancee. Do you give up now?

MR. Y. Can I go?

MR. X. Now you _shall_ go--immediately. Your things will follow you.

CURTAIN.

*****

EASTER

CHARACTERS

MRS. HEYST

ELIS, her son. Instructor in a preparatory school

ELEONORA, her daughter

CHRISTINE, Elis' fiancee

BENJAMIN, a freshman

LINDKVIST

[Scene for the entire play.--The interior of a glass-enclosed piazza,

furnished like a living-room. A large door at the middle back leading

out into the garden with fence and garden gate visible. Beyond one sees

the tops of trees (indicating that the house is situated on a height),

and in the distance the cathedral and another high building loom against

the sky. The glass windows which extend across the entire back of scene

are hung with flowered yellow cretonne, which can be drawn open. A

mirror hangs on the panel between door and window on the left. Below the

mirror is a calendar. To the right of door a writing table covered with

books and writing materials. A telephone is also on it. To L. of door

is a dining table, stove and bureau. At R. in foreground it small sewing

table with lamp on it. Near it are two arm-chairs. A hanging lamp at

center. Outside in the street an electric light. At L. there is a door

leading from piazza to the house, at R. a door leading to the kitchen.

Time, the present.]

ACT I.

[Thursday before Easter. The music before curtain is: Haydn: Sieben

Worte des Erloesers. Introduction: Maestoso Adagio.]

[A ray of sunlight falls across the room and strikes one of the chairs

near the sewing table. In the other chair, untouched by the sunshine,

sits Christine, running strings thro' muslin sash-curtains. Elis enters

wearing a winter overcoat, unbuttoned. He carries a bundle of legal

documents which he puts on the writing table. After that he takes off

his overcoat and hangs it at L.]

ELIS. Hello, sweetheart.

CHRISTINE. Hello, Elis.

ELIS [Looks around]. The double windows are off, the floor scoured,

fresh curtains at the windows--yes, it is spring again! The ice has

gone out of the river, and the willows are beginning to bud on the

banks--yes, spring has come and I can put away my winter overcoat.

[Weighs his overcoat in his hand and hangs it up.] You know, it's so

heavy--just as tho' it had absorbed the weight of the whole winter's

worries, the sweat and dust of the school-room.

CHRISTINE. But you have a vacation now.

ELIS. Yes, Easter. Five days to enjoy, to breathe, to forget. [Takes

Christine's hand a minute, and then seats himself in arm-chair.] Yes,

the sun has come again. It left us in November. How well I remember

the day it disappeared behind the brewery across the street. Oh, this

winter, this long winter.

CHRISTINE [With a gesture toward kitchen]. Sh! Sh!

ELIS. I'll be quiet--But I'm so happy that it's over with. Oh, the warm

sun! [Rubs his hands as tho' bathing them in the sunshine.] I want to

bathe in the sunshine and light after all the winter gloom--

CHRISTINE. Sh! Sh!

ELIS. Do you know, I believe that good luck is coming our way--that hard

luck is tired of us.

CHRISTINE. What makes you think so?

ELIS. Why, as I was going by the cathedral just now a white dove flew

down and alighted in front of me, and dropped a little branch it was

carrying right at my feet.

CHRISTINE. Did you notice what kind of branch it was?

ELIS. Of course it couldn't have been an olive branch, but I believe it

was a sign of peace--and I felt the life-giving joy of spring. Where's

mother?

CHRISTINE [Points toward kitchen]. In the kitchen.

ELIS [Quietly and closing his eyes]. I hear the spring! I can tell that

the double windows are off, I hear the wheel hubs so plainly. And what's

that?--a robin chirping out in the orchard, and they are hammering down

at the docks and I can smell the fresh paint on the steamers.

CHRISTINE. Can you feel all that--here in town?

ELIS. Here? It's true we are _here_, but I was up there, in the North,

where our home lies. Oh, how did we ever get into this dreadful city

where the people all hate each other and where one is always alone? Yes,

it was our daily bread that led the way, but with the bread came the

misfortunes: father's criminal act and little sister's illness. Tell me,

do you know whether mother has ever been to see father since he's been

in prison?

CHRISTINE. Why, I think she's been there this very day.

ELIS. What did she have to say about it?

CHRISTINE. Nothing--she wouldn't talk about it.

ELIS. Well, one thing at least has been gained, and that is the quiet

that followed the verdict after the newspapers had gorged themselves

with the details. One year is over: and then we can make a fresh start.

CHRISTINE. I admire your patience in this suffering.

ELIS. Don't. Don't admire anything about me. I am full of faults--you

know it.

CHRISTINE. If you were only suffering for your own faults--but to be

suffering for another!

ELIS. What are you sewing on?

CHRISTINE. Curtains for the kitchen, you dear.