Gertrude.
[_Softly and with emotion_.] But you usually call me "little one," and
to-day nothing but "darling."
Brauer.
Now, then, Pastor, we are ready for the toast! Take up your glass, and
fire away!
Pastor.
I am afraid it will be hardly as wicked and heathenish as you seem to
expect.
Brauer.
Come, come, Pastor, don't keep us waiting!
Pastor.
Well, what shall I say? I am not going to preach you a sermon!
Brauer.
No, no, Pastor; we are content to wait for that till Sunday.
Pastor.
Well, then, you see, on a beautiful and dreamy night like this--may I
say dreamy?
Brauer.
You may, Pastor, you may!
Pastor.
For we all dream at times, more or less, both young and old!
Brauer.
Ah, yes! that is a failing we all have!!!
Pastor.
On such a dreamy night, different emotions are aroused within us. We
seem to be able to look into the future, and imagine ourselves able to
fathom all mystery and heal all wounds. The common becomes elevated,
our wishes become fate; and now we ask ourselves: What is it that
causes all this within us--all these desires and wishes? It is _love_,
brotherly love, that has been planted in our souls, that fills our
lives; and, it is life itself. Am I not right? And now, with one bound,
I will come to the point. In the revelation you will find: "God is
love." Yes, God is love; and that is the most beautiful trait of our
religion--that the best, the most beautiful within us, has been granted
us by _Him_ above. Then how could I, this very evening, so overcome
with feeling for my fellow-man--how could I pass _Him_ by? Therefore,
Mr. Brauer, no matter, whether pastor or layman, I must confess my
inability to grant your wish, and decline to give you a genuine pagan
toast----
Brauer.
[_Grasps his hand_.] That was well spoken, Pastor! Pardon me, I was
only jesting!
George.
No, no, dear uncle, not altogether. There I must defend you against
yourself. A devout and pious man like yourself, t'was not entire
wantonness, your desire to hear something other than religious, and
since the Pastor has so eloquently withdrawn, I will give you a toast.
For, you see, my dear Pastor, something of the old pagan, a spark of
heathenism, is still glowing somewhere within us all. It has outlived
century after century, from the time of the old Teutons. Once every
year that spark is fanned into flame--it flames up high, and then it is
called "The Fires of St. John." Once every year we have "free night."
Then the witches ride upon their brooms--the same brooms with which
their witchcraft was once driven out of them--with scornful laughter
the wild hordes sweep across the tree-tops, up, up, high upon the
Blocksberg! Then it is, when in our hearts awake those wild desires
which our fates could not fulfill--and, understand me well, dared not
fulfill--then, no matter what may be the name of the law that governs
the world on that day, in order that that one single wish may become a
reality, by whose grace we prolong our miserable existence, thousand
others must miserably perish. Part because they were never attainable;
but the others, yes, the others, because we allowed them to escape us
like wild birds, which, though already in our hands, but too listless
to profit by opportunity, we failed to grasp at the right moment. But
no matter. Once every year we have "free night." And yonder tongues of
fire shooting up towards the heavens--do you know what they are? They
are the spirits of our dead and perished wishes! That is the red
plumage of our birds of paradise we might have petted and nursed
through our entire lives, but have escaped us! That is the old chaos,
the heathenism within us; and though we be happy in sunshine and
according to law, to-night is St. John's night. To its ancient pagan
fires I empty this glass. To-night they shall burn and flame up
high--high--and again high! Will no one drink to my toast?
[_Pause_.]
Marie.
[_Trembling_.] I will!
[_They look into each other's eyes and clink glasses_.]
Gertrude.
[_Hesitatingly_.] I, too, George!
George.
[_Stroking her hair sadly, patronizing_.] Yes, yes; you, too.
Brauer.
[_Suddenly bursting out_.] You--you idiots! What do you know about it,
anyway? I--I didn't understand it myself, but I have a presentiment
there is something sinful about it all!
Pastor.
My dear Mr. von Harten, above all your heathenism watches our good old
God, our Father, and therefore I fearlessly drink to your toast.
Brauer.
Well, well, I'll not be the only exception. [_Drinks also. A glow much
nearer, behind the trees. Louder yelling and laughter_.] Well, what is
it now?
Paul.
They are dangerously near the sheds now.
Brauer.
Didn't I tell you to take the proper precautions?
Paul.
I did. They had only three tar-barrels early this evening. Where they
got the fourth from, I don't know.
Brauer.
I'll wager they found the barrel of axle-grease! Why didn't you lock it
up?
Paul.
You know yourself, on this day no lock or key is of any avail.
Brauer.
Don't talk nonsense, but see what's to be done. I will be there myself,
presently. Be quick! [Paul _exits_.] I can't depend on anybody these
days! Where is my hat? [Marie _gets it_.]
Gertrude.
Can't we go, too, papa?
Brauer.
Will you come, wife?
Mrs. Brauer.
Yes, gladly, but stop scolding. There isn't a breath of air stirring,
and therefore no danger.
Brauer.
Come along, Pastor!
[_Exit_ Brauer, George, Gertrude _and_ Mrs. Brauer.]
Pastor.
Won't you accompany us, Miss Marie?
Marie.
No, thank you, Pastor!
Pastor.
Then may I remain with you for a while?
Several Voices.
[_Outside, calling_.] Pastor, Pastor!
Pastor.
[_Speaks through door_.] I will be with you in a moment! [_To_ Marie.]
Well, may I!
Marie.
Why, certainly, if it gives you pleasure!
Pastor.
Pleasure is hardly the proper word. I wanted to thank you for insisting
upon my writing the bridal-poem. It has been a work of pleasure, I
assure you. Do you like it?
Marie.
It is very nice. Pastor!
Pastor.
Have you memorized it already?
Marie.