MODERN
PLAYS
EDITED BY
R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON
AND
N. ERICHSEN
_Authorised Translation_
_All Rights Reserved_
THE COMING OF PEACE
(_A FAMILY CATASTROPHE_)
BY GERHART HAUPTMANN
TRANSLATED BY
JANET ACHURCH
AND
C. E. WHEELER
[Illustration]
LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.
MDCCCC
PREFACE
A few words about the author of “Friedensfest,” which is here translated
as “The Coming of Peace,” will possibly be of interest to readers.
Gerhart Hauptmann, who is still a comparatively young man, is as
yet little known to English readers, and wholly unknown to English
play-goers, except for the performance of this play under the auspices
of the Stage Society on the 10th of June 1900, which has given occasion
for this translation. In German-speaking countries he is recognised by
many as the greatest modern dramatist with the single exception of Henrik
Ibsen.
He is certainly the only dramatist who, writing under the inspiration of
the great Norwegian poet, can by any remotest possibility be considered
to have advanced a step beyond his master in dramatic treatment of the
inner social forces of modern life.
It is not my intention here to do more than draw attention to the place
Friedensfest occupies chronologically among its author’s works, and to
point out its probable source of inspiration. Those who wish to trace the
author’s career up to three years ago—he is now only thirty-eight—may
be recommended to read “Gerhart Hauptmann, sein Lebensgang und seine
Dichtung,” written just after the publication of “Die Versunkene Glocke,”
by Dr Paul Schlenther, the gifted critic, now manager of the Vienna
Court Theatre. I may, perhaps, be allowed to quote the final sentences of
that book to show the high hopes entertained in Germany of Hauptmann’s
future. “At thirty-five years old,” writes Dr Schlenther, “he is a famous
man. He stands at life’s zenith. Half the Scriptural age lies behind him.
The best years of the strength and ripeness of manhood lie close ahead of
him. We wait for what shall come.”
“Friedensfest” was played in 1890, when Hauptmann was twenty-seven,
eight years before these lines were penned. It was preceded by “Vor
Sonnenaufgang” in 1889—the first utterance which gave more than local
fame to its author—and was succeeded by “Einsame Menschen” in 1891. Of
his later works “Die Weber” and “Hannele” have already been translated
into English.
In “Friedensfest” and “Einsame Menschen” the influence of Ibsen can
be traced more distinctly than in any of Hauptmann’s other works.
“Friedensfest” recalls in many respects Ibsen’s “Ghosts,” without any
servile copying on the part of the younger author—who has presented his
characters with a power and originality, a truth and subtlety peculiarly
his own. Moreover he has not been so relentless as Ibsen. Although the
“Family Catastrophe,” as he calls it, is gloomy enough, in a sense
the play ends more hopefully; the doom has not fallen on the younger
members of the Scholz family, with whose hereditary qualities the play
chiefly deals, and we are permitted to hope, if we choose, that it may
never fall. Hauptmann’s genius shows itself here of a softer and less
uncompromising mould than Ibsen’s. We feel that in as far as the play has
any tendency, it leans rather towards meliorism than pessimism. Like
Ibsen’s later works, however, it is more objective in treatment than
“Ghosts”—more a “family document” pure and simple, than a “tendency”
drama.
But it is not my business here to tell the story of the play or to
attempt any interpretation. I have merely helped to render it into
English.
In translating, we have tried to give the broken, elliptical language
in which Hauptmann’s characters express themselves, as faithfully
as possible—to keep the half-finished sentences and interjaculatory
outbursts without losing anything of the meaning of the play. Here and
there, the rude colloquialism of the speakers, especially of Mrs Scholz
and Friebe, have rendered our task almost impossible. We can only plead
that we have done our best.
JANET ACHURCH.
THE COMING OF PEACE
PERSONS
DR FRITZ SCHOLZ, aged 68.
MINNA SCHOLZ, _his wife_, aged 46.
AUGUSTA, } aged 29.
ROBERT, } _their children_, aged 28.
WILLIAM, } aged 26.
_So far as possible the above should show a family likeness._
MRS BUCHNER, aged 42.
IDA, _her daughter_, aged 20.
FRIEBE, _servant to the Scholzs_, aged 50.
The Play takes place on Christmas Eve 188—, in a lonely country house,
near Erkner, in Brandenburg.
SCENE.
A high, roomy, white-washed Hall—hung with old-fashioned
pictures—horns and heads of different animals. A chandelier of
stag’s horns hanging from the middle of the roof-tree is filled
with fresh candles. At the back, in the middle of the wall,
is a porch, which projects into the hall, with a glass door,
through which is seen the heavy carved oaken door of the house.
On the top of the porch is a stuffed moorcock: right and left
above the level of the porch are windows—frozen and partly dim
with snow.
To the left is an open arch, built like a gateway—which leads
by the staircase to the upper stories. Two low doors in the
same wall lead—one to the cellar, the other to the kitchen.
Two other doors in the opposite wall both open into one room;
between these stands an old grandfather’s clock, on the top of
which squats a stuffed screech-owl. The furniture of the room
consists of heavy old oak chairs and tables: parallel to the
left wall is a table covered with a white cloth. Down the stage
to the left is a small iron stove, the flue of which runs along
the wall. All the doors are gaily coloured, the panels filled
with old-fashioned paintings of parrots, etc.
ACT I
The hall is decorated with green branches. A Christmas tree
is lying on the stone flags. Friebe, sitting on the top of
the cellar steps, is making a socket for it; Mrs Buchner and
Mrs Scholz, standing on either side of the table, are busy
fastening gay coloured wax candles into their holders. Mrs
Buchner is a healthy looking, well nourished, friendly faced
woman, simple, genuine and very neatly dressed: wears her hair
smooth: her movements are decided and she is entirely at her
ease. Her whole appearance expresses an unusual cordiality
which is thoroughly sincere, even if at times her manner
suggests affectation. Her way of speaking is fluent and clear,
and in moments of excitement declamatory; an atmosphere of
peace and well-being seems to emanate from her. Mrs Scholz, on
the contrary, is a woman who looks older than she is, showing
signs of premature old age. She is unhealthily fat, with a
sallow skin. Her dress is untidy, her hair grey and unkempt;
she wears spectacles. Mrs Scholz is fidgety in her movements,
restless, has generally a tearful or whining way of speaking
and is evidently in a continual state of excitement. Whilst Mrs
Buchner seems only to live for others, Mrs Scholz is completely
occupied with herself.
On the table stand two five-branched candlesticks, fitted with
candles; but neither these nor the candles in the chandelier
are lighted. There is a lamp burning.
FRIEBE (_striking a blow with his hatchet_).
Not a stroke fails me!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ffff!!! But I can’t stand it, Friebe! How often have I told you.... You
might easily break the hatchet. The idea! chopping wood on stone!
FRIEBE.
You leave that to me! What! wasn’t I ten years in the regiment?
MRS BUCHNER.
In the regiment?
MRS SCHOLZ.
He was head man in the royal forests.
FRIEBE.
Not—(_he strikes again_) a blessed—(_strikes_) stroke!
[_He stands up, looks at his work by the lamp, and then fastens
the Christmas tree so that it stands upright. Friebe is small,
already a little bent, bandy-legged, and has a bald head. His
small, mobile, little monkey face is unshaven. His hair and
stubble beard are yellowish grey. He is a jack-of-all-trades.
His coat, stiff with a mixture of plate powder, oil,
boot-blacking and dust, was cut for a man twice his size,
so that the sleeves are tucked up and the skirts overlap
considerably. His brown servant’s apron is no cleaner than his
coat: from under it from time to time he brings out a snuff-box
and takes snuff with intense satisfaction. The tree made firm,
he puts it on the table, stands in front and gazes at it._
FRIEBE.
A real—bonny—well-set-up—little fir tree! (_with condescending
superiority to the women_) you don’t think so—eh?
MRS BUCHNER.
As an old forester, you should be the best judge of that.
FRIEBE.
Well, certainly, that would be rather too much; as to what a fir tree is—
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting him impatiently_).
We really mustn’t keep you here, Friebe; my daughter expressly said,
“send Friebe for me.”
FRIEBE.
H’m—tch—for all I care!
[_Goes out through the kitchen door, making a contemptuous
gesture._
MRS BUCHNER.
Are you vexed with him?
MRS SCHOLZ.
I should think so. Tiresome idiot! If it hadn’t been for my
husband—there, you see, that’s my husband all over.—This old
snuffler—Nothing else would do, he must have _him_ about the whole day,
or else he wasn’t content. Did you ever know such a man?
[_Enter Augusta from outside in haste and alarm: once inside,
she shuts the glass door violently and throws herself against
it as though to prevent some one from coming in._]
MRS SCHOLZ (_most violently startled_).
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!!
MRS BUCHNER.
Why?—what—?
[_Augusta is tall, lanky, and noticeably thin: she is dressed
in the height of fashion but without any taste. Fur jacket,
fur cap and muff. The face and the feet are long: the face
is sharply cut and bitter featured, with thin lips tightly
pressed together. She wears a lorgnette. Her nature unites
with her mother’s excitability, something of a pathologically
disagreeable character. Her personality diffuses round it an
atmosphere of discontent, dissatisfaction and comfortlessness._]
AUGUSTA.
Out there!—as true as I’m here—someone—was following me.
MRS BUCHNER (_pointing to the clock_).
William, perhaps.—No! not yet. The train can’t be in yet. (_To Augusta_)
Wait a moment!
[_She puts out her hand to open the door._
AUGUSTA.
No! No!—No! No!
MRS BUCHNER (_in a cooing manner_).
You’re nervous, dear child. (_She goes into the porch and opens the outer
door, a little timidly._) Is anyone there?—(_Resolutely_) Is anybody
there? (_Pause—no answer._)
MRS SCHOLZ (_irritated_).
Fine doings! As if I hadn’t had enough excitement—it’s enough to kill
one. You’re always complaining of _something_.
AUGUSTA (_snappishly_).
Complaining! Complaining!—Haven’t I got enough to complain about?
MRS SCHOLZ.
You behave charmingly to your mother, I must say.
AUGUSTA.
Oh! what do you expect? Who could help being frightened—in pitch
darkness—absolutely alone—
MRS BUCHNER (_putting her arms round Augusta’s waist from
behind—soothingly_).
Madcap! Madcap! to flare up like that for nothing! Come now. (_Helping
her to take off her jacket, etc._) There!—you see?—
AUGUSTA.
Ah! but it is _true_, Mrs Buchner!
MRS BUCHNER.
Now my dear people, listen! Four long days already since we came
to stay with you. I’ve been thinking—sha’n’t we drop all these
formalities?—Mayn’t I call you Augusta? Eh?—Good—then—(_embraces her and
kisses Mrs Scholz_).
MRS SCHOLZ (_before she responds to the embrace_).
Wait! wait! My hands are all greasy.
MRS BUCHNER (_to Augusta, who is warming herself at the stove_).
There now! Aren’t you better already?—Was the Christmas party nice?
AUGUSTA.
Nothing will take me there again!—Stuffy—no air—hot enough to make you
faint!
MRS BUCHNER.
Did the minister speak well?
AUGUSTA.
I know one thing; if _I_ were poor, I’d have been off after the great
man’s speech.—I’d have flung all their beggarly trash back in their faces.
MRS BUCHNER.
O—o—h! but it’s a great blessing for the poor people.
[_A fresh, clear woman’s voice is heard singing._
“When beneath the linden leaves
The blossom clings,
Memory in my spirit weaves
Dreams of bygone springs.”
[_Ida comes through the stairway. She is twenty years old,
and wears a close-clinging black woollen dress. She has a
fine, fully matured figure, a very small head, and, on this
first entrance, her long yellow hair is loose. She has an air
of quiet contentment about her, a subdued cheerfulness and
confident expectation of happiness. Although the expression of
her clever face is generally bright, it deepens at times into
a sudden seriousness, showing that she is unaffectedly lost in
her own thoughts._]
IDA (_a towel laid over her shoulders and some cardboard boxes under her
arm_).
Has anybody come?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Augusta has given us a fine fright.
IDA (_pointing back up the stairs_).
It’s not so very comfortable upstairs, either. I hurried (_laughing_) so
that I could come down.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But, child! Robert has the room over you now.
IDA (_putting the boxes on the table, opens them and takes out various
things_).
Well, if he has, the place is always empty.
MRS BUCHNER.
Your hair should be nearly dry by now, eh?
IDA (_turning her head lovingly, and throwing back her hair_).
Just feel!
MRS BUCHNER (_doing so_).
Oh dear—you should have washed it earlier, child!
IDA.
What a bother the old mane is; I’ve been scorching myself at the stove
for the last half hour (_taking from one of the boxes a yellow silk purse
and holding it out to Augusta_). Pretty colour, eh?—It’s only just a
little joke; has he had many purses?
AUGUSTA (_busy with her jacket, which she is brushing; shrugs her
shoulders_).
Don’t know (_she looks critically with her short-sighted eyes at the
purse_). H’m, h’m, rather loosely knitted (_immediately returning to her
jacket_). The plush is done for.
IDA (_displaying a little box of cigars_).
I—_am_ pleased—to think you have never dressed a Christmas tree!
AUGUSTA.
If you come to think of it—it’s really not the sort of thing for grown-up
people!
MRS SCHOLZ.
No indeed! If ever I’d suggested one, my husband would have never let
me hear the end of it. With my dear parents—Ah! when I remember—what
a beautiful family life that was. Never a Christmas without a tree!
(_Imitating her father’s gait and manner._) And then in the evening when
father came from the office and brought the beau—u—tiful gingerbread
with him (_joining thumb and fore-finger as if she held a piece of the
famous cake between them—she puts them to her mouth_). Ah yes—those days
are gone. My husband—he wouldn’t even eat his dinner with us—he lived
upstairs—we down—a perfect hermit. If one wanted anything from him—good
Lord—the only way was to get hold of Friebe.
AUGUSTA (_feeding the stove_).
Oh don’t go on like that everlastingly!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Don’t pile up the stove in that senseless fashion!
AUGUSTA.
Can’t we even have the room warm then?
MRS SCHOLZ.
All the heat flies up the chimney to-day.
AUGUSTA (_demurring crossly_).
Is that a reason for letting it go quite out?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Leave me in peace!
AUGUSTA (_throwing the shovel noisily back into the box_).
Have it your own way!
[_Exit Augusta in a rage._]
IDA.
Ah, Gussie! stay with us!—Just wait—I’ll soon bring her round.
[_Goes out after her._
MRS SCHOLZ (_with resignation_).
All my children are like that!—ah—what a girl! There’s no holding her!
First she wants one thing, then another:—all of a sudden—she takes it
into her head—she must study. She’ll stick upstairs and not say a word
for weeks; and the next thing is—she’s no use—nobody wants her.—Oh,
good Heavens, yes—you’re to be envied—a sweet little thing like _your_
daughter——
MRS BUCHNER.
Oh, but Gussie too!—
MRS SCHOLZ.
How charmingly she plays the piano, and that delicious voice—How I love
to listen to a voice like that!
MRS BUCHNER.
Why don’t you ever play now?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh that would be a fine thing. The little peace I have would be done for.
Augusta is so nervous—just like her father—he’d run away from the piano
as if he were hunted.
MRS BUCHNER.
You should hear your William play now; he has improved!—What would Ida be
without him! She’s learnt all she knows from him.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah yes! so you told me. Oh, he’s full of talent, there’s no doubt of
that! It was a pleasure to teach him.
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes! and he looks back with such affection on the time when his little
mother gave him his first lessons.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Does he?—Good Lord, yes! those were pleasant times. Then I used to
think—every thing turns out differently—Oh! I’m so agitated!
MRS BUCHNER.
So agitated?—What about?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Why—about his coming—how does he look now—really?
MRS BUCHNER.
Well—strong—healthy. You’ll be proud of your son.
MRS SCHOLZ.
I’m really surprised that the boy’s coming. It’s gone to my heart
many a time. And the notepaper he’s cost me—and never once answered
his old mother: how have you brought him to it? That’s what I can’t
understand—that I _can’t_ understand.
MRS BUCHNER.
I?—Oh! no! it was Ida who persuaded him.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Robert doesn’t trouble himself much about us either, but at least he
comes once a year at Christmas time for a few days: that’s not much to be
grateful for—but William—six whole years he’s not been here—neither he
nor my husband—for six whole years. Does she get on with him?
MRS BUCHNER.
Ida?—Very well in every way.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, that’s extraordinary. You simply can’t imagine _how_ reserved
the boy always was—just like his father. No playfellows, no school
friends,—nothing.
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, yes, that’s how he was with us at first. He never would come near
the house, except for the music-lesson.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Later, though, he came?
MRS BUCHNER.
Well,—yes. He said we mustn’t worry him, and when he felt able he’d come
of his own accord. We had the sense to let him have his own way, and
sure enough, after waiting for him half a year, in fact,—when we’d given
up waiting, he came—and afterwards, day after day, little by little, he
became quite different.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You must have bewitched him—his engagement alone—that’s what I can’t get
over.
MRS BUCHNER.
You must know how to manage with artists. I’ve learnt that—my dear
husband was one.
MRS SCHOLZ.
And that—business—with his father? Has he confided that to you, too?
MRS BUCHNER.
N-n-o, dear friend. You see that’s the one, only, point—the one thing he
can’t yet bring himself to—but you may believe me, the remembrance is
terribly painful to him—is still—to this very day. And certainly not less
so because he _has_ kept it to himself. At all costs he must get over
that, even in this matter too.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh, God forbid!—no, no—right is right! “Honour thy father and thy
mother.” A hand that you raise against your own father—that’s an
inhuman hand! We’ve had our quarrels—oh yes! we’ve both our faults, my
husband and I, but that’s _our_ business, no human being has a right to
interfere, least of all one’s own son. And who had to suffer for it? I,
of course. An old woman like me has broad shoulders; my husband left the
house the very same day, and half an hour later, William too. There was
no good talking; first I thought they would come back, but whoever else
did they didn’t! And William alone is to blame for it, no one else—no one.
MRS BUCHNER.
William may have been _much_ to blame—I’m convinced of that. But think,
to have repented for years, and—
MRS SCHOLZ.
No—no! Good heavens, what can you be thinking of! It’s not so easily got
over; that would be worse still. It’s very good of you to have taken so
to the boy, and it’s nice too that he’s coming—as indeed why shouldn’t
he? But, after all, what’s the good of it? It’s not so easy to fill up
a gulf—yes, yes, there _are_ gulfs—that’s what they are, gulfs—deep
gulfs—in our family.
MRS BUCHNER.
Still I can’t help thinking that we—that those of us with firm, honest
intentions—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Intentions, intentions! don’t talk to me! I know better! One can intend,
and intend, and intend, hundreds of things, and nothing gets any further.
No, no!—it’s quite another thing with your daughter. She is so—and
William is so—and both are what they are.—Much too good a sort for one of
us—much, much too good.—Oh, Lord, yes!—intentions!—Ah yes! all these good
intentions—Your intentions are all very well, but whether they lead to
anything—I doubt it!
MRS BUCHNER.
But I hope it—all the more.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, it may be. I’ll say nothing to spoil it. In spite of everything, my
heart goes out to the boy; only it excites me so, I’m frightened; and,
mind you, it won’t be all as easy as you think.
IDA (_enters right; to Mrs Scholz, sweetly_).
Little mother-in-law, she’s gilding the nuts.
MRS BUCHNER.
Time’s getting on, Ida! You must make yourself beautiful, he may be here
at any moment.
IDA (_startled_).
What? Already!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh, don’t trouble! She’s much too beautiful for him as it is.
MRS BUCHNER.
I’ve put the blue out for you (_calling after Ida_), and put on the
brooch; don’t forget.
[_Exit Ida._
MRS BUCHNER (_continuing, to Mrs Scholz_).
She doesn’t care a bit for jewellery.
[_The outer door of the house opens and shuts._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Wait—who—(_to Mrs Buchner_) please will you—I can’t see him yet—I—
MRS BUCHNER (_calling up the stairs_).
Ida! your William is here.
[_Dr Scholz enters through the glass door. He is unusually
tall, broad-shouldered, very bloated. The face is fat,
complexion muddy, the eyes sometimes glittering, with wandering
glances, but usually dull and lack-lustre. He has a grey,
stubbly beard, partially covering his cheeks; his movements
are clumsy and tremulous; he speaks brokenly, as if with his
mouth full; stumbles over syllables, and is interrupted by
gasping inspirations. He is slovenly dressed: a velvet vest,
coat and trousers of nondescript colour, once brown—cap with a
large peak, stone-grey in colour, peculiar in shape; red silk
neckerchief, linen creased. He uses a large Turkish pocket
handkerchief. On entering he carries a malacca cane with a
staghorn crook in his right hand, and has flung about him a
large military cloak, over his left arm a fur foot-bag._
DR SCHOLZ.
Servus! servus!
MRS SCHOLZ (_staring at him as if at an apparition_).
Fritz!—
DR SCHOLZ.
As you see.
MRS SCHOLZ (_throwing her arms about him with a scream_).
Fritz!!
AUGUSTA (_opens the door L., starts back_).
Father!
[_Mrs Buchner goes off backwards through the left door, her
eyes fixed on Dr Scholz._
DR SCHOLZ.
Yes, yes, yes, it’s I. But first of all—is Friebe there?
FRIEBE (_peeping through kitchen door, starts—coming forward_).
The doctor! (_He rushes to him and seizes and kisses both his hands._)
Now, would anyone have believed it!
DR SCHOLZ.
St!—Just go and see—see that the house door is shut.
[_Friebe nods and obeys with joyful alacrity._
MRS SCHOLZ.
But Fritz, tell me—only tell me, my mind’s all confused (_weeping,
embraces him_). Ah Fritz! what grief you’ve caused me all this long, long
time.
DR SCHOLZ (_putting his wife gently from him_).
Ah well, my life too—we’d better not begin with reproaches. You’re just
the same doleful old thing (_with gentle bitterness_). Anyhow I should
certainly not have troubled you—if it hadn’t been for—(_Friebe takes his
cloak, etc._) There are times in life, dear Minna—if one has powerful
enemies as I have—
[_Friebe goes out through the stairway with the Dr’s
belongings._
MRS SCHOLZ (_pretending to be cross_).
Nobody _made_ you come, Fritz. Here there has always been a safe, cosy
home;—you could have lived so comfortably here.
DR SCHOLZ.
Don’t be cross—you don’t understand.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah yes! I’m only a simpleton, I suppose,—but really, you weren’t
answerable to anyone; it wasn’t at all necessary for you—
DR SCHOLZ.
—St! It was very necessary (_half mysteriously_). After guilt, atonement;
after sin, chastisement.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, yes, Fritz,—it is true—you too had much to answer for. (_From here
to the end of the conversation, she continually looks with anxiety
towards the front door, as though she feared every moment to see William
come in._) We might have been so peaceful, so contented, if you had only
let us.
DR SCHOLZ.
It was all my fault, all of it.
MRS SCHOLZ.
There, now you are unjust again.
DR SCHOLZ.
Well, I won’t argue with you; many have banded together against me,
that’s certain—for instance, in the hotels, the waiters—not one night
could I sleep in peace—up and down, up and down, in the corridors—and
always just in front of _my_ door.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But come now, they wouldn’t have disturbed you on purpose!
DR SCHOLZ.
No—? oh you!—you don’t understand!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, well, it may be, waiters are sometimes very mean.
DR SCHOLZ.
Mean!—I should think they are.—However, we can speak of that later. I
have rather a headache—(_puts his hand on the back of his head_). There!
that’s another disgraceful thing! I know well enough whom I have to
thank for that! I’ll just see whether I can’t drive it away with a sound
sleep—I am very tired.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But there’s no fire upstairs, Fritz!
DR SCHOLZ.
Think of that. From Vienna without stopping and no fire!—Never mind;
Friebe will have seen to that. Tell me about Friebe—I mean—is he still as
trustworthy?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Friebe is—what he always was.
DR SCHOLZ.
I was sure of it—well for the present—(_after he has pressed his wife’s
hand, he turns with a deep thoughtful expression and goes towards
the staircase. Noticing the Christmas tree, he stops and looks at it
forlornly._) What is that?
MRS SCHOLZ (_disturbed, shamefaced, and a little frightened_).
We’re keeping Christmas.
DR SCHOLZ.
Keeping Christmas!—(_after a long pause, lost in memories_) It’s a
long—long—time (_turning and speaking with real emotion_). And you—you’ve
grown quite white!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, Fritz—both of us!
[_Dr Scholz nodding turns away and goes off through stairway L._
MRS BUCHNER (_entering quickly from R._).
So your husband has come back?
MRS SCHOLZ.
It’s as though—as if—I don’t know—Christ! what am I to think!
MRS BUCHNER.
That it is a gift, dear friend, for which we must all be thankful.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah! what he looks like! How he has lived! What an existence!—from one
country to another, from one town to—ah! he’s gone through something!
[_Mrs Buchner is going to stairway._
MRS SCHOLZ.
What are you going to do?
MRS BUCHNER.
Tell Ida of the joyful event.
[_Goes off through stairway._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes!—no, no,—what are you thinking of! We mustn’t let that out. If my
husband finds out that anyone but himself lives up there, I should get
into nice trouble.
MRS BUCHNER (_from the stairs_).
I’ll go very gently.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, quite gently.—That would be dreadful!
MRS BUCHNER.
I’m going quite gently.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!—Well—very, very gently!
AUGUSTA (_hastily entering from R._).
Father is here?
MRS SCHOLZ (_beside herself_).
Why, of course! And now what’s to be done! The next thing will be
William—Oh! the deadly fear I’ve been in! if he and his father were to
meet! Any minute he may come in! What an experience to go through for an
old woman like me!
AUGUSTA.
What an extraordinary sensation, mamma, extraordinary!—We were so used
to—It’s like a man risen from the dead after long years.—I’m frightened,
mamma.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Do you suppose he’s come to the end of his money?
AUGUSTA.
Now—that would be—Well! I—that would be the last straw!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, in that case, how should we manage at all! We might as well go and
beg at once.
[_Ida fully dressed enters from stairway, presses Augusta’s
hand joyfully._
IDA.
Gussie! (_winningly_) It’s really true! Oh! I am so glad.
[_Mrs Scholz and Augusta show a certain painful emotion._
[_Robert enters from one of the doors R.; he is of middle
height, slender, pale-faced, and haggard-looking. His eyes
are sunken, and at times glitter feverishly; moustache and
imperial. He smokes Turkish tobacco out of a noticeably
short-stemmed pipe._
ROBERT (_lightly_).
You’re going to have it warm here, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now _he’s_ beginning!
AUGUSTA.
For all I care!
[_Steals sidelong glances at Ida’s dress._
ROBERT (_to Ida, who has looked at him reproachfully_).
Yes, that’s how I’m made, Miss Ida!
IDA (_shaking her head at him incredulously_).
No! no!
AUGUSTA (_exploding_).
You’re too maddening, Robert!
ROBERT.
Not intentionally! Don’t _get_ mad!
[_Augusta makes a contemptuous gesture._
ROBERT.
And then——?
AUGUSTA.
And then!—And then!—Bosh!
ROBERT (_with simulated astonishment_).
I beg your pardon—I thought—but you no longer depend on mere outward
charms!
IDA (_soothingly_).
Oh! Mr Robert!
ROBERT.
H’m, mustn’t I defend myself?
AUGUSTA (_half choked with tears_).
Just like you! Just like you. Your whole—my age—it’s infamous of you!
Mrs Buchner! isn’t it too mean of him? To me! I—I who have stuck to
mother—through the best—most beautiful time of my young life!—whilst all
of you—I—just as if I’d been a servant-girl!
ROBERT.
On my word!—that has the true ring—try the stage! (_with an altered
manner: roughly_) Don’t play the fool; just think! you with a martyr’s
halo, that would be too funny! You’d have come off even worse anywhere
else than you have at home, that’s the truth of it!
AUGUSTA.
Mother! you can bear witness—haven’t I refused three proposals?
ROBERT.
Pff! If mother had only forked out the necessary money the gentlemen
would no doubt have included you in the bargain.
MRS SCHOLZ (_stepping up to Robert, holding her hand out_).
There, take a knife—cut it out of me—cut the money out of my hand!
AUGUSTA.
Listen to me! Would you like to see the letters of refusal?
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_).
Children! (_She makes a movement as if to bare her breast for a
death-stroke._) Here—rather kill me at once! Haven’t you so much pity for
me? Not so much? What? Ah! good Lord! Not five minutes! I never saw such
children; not five minutes can you keep peace!
ROBERT.
Exactly, that’s what I said: things are warming up again.
[_Friebe comes importantly from the stairway; he whispers to
Mrs Scholz, whereupon she gives him a key. Friebe goes out
through cellar door. Robert has stood watching this proceeding._
ROBERT (_as Friebe disappears down the cellar steps_).
Aha!
AUGUSTA (_who has kept her eye on Robert: breaking out furiously_).
You haven’t a shred of filial feeling!—not one shred!
ROBERT.
And then——?
AUGUSTA.
But you’re a good hand at acting—you lie abominably; and that’s the most
disgusting part of it.
ROBERT.
About father, do you mean?
AUGUSTA.
Especially about father.
ROBERT (_shrugging his shoulders_).
If you mean——
AUGUSTA.
Yes—yes—that—_that_! Yes—for—if it were _not_ so, then, yes _then_ you
would be a scoundrel——
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_).
Will you two be quiet or——
ROBERT (_without noticing her_).
Then I am a scoundrel—well and then?——
[_Ida, who for a long time has shown restless expectation goes
out through glass door._
AUGUSTA.
Pfui! shameless!
ROBERT.
Shameless—just so. So I am.
MRS BUCHNER.
Mr Robert! I don’t believe you—you are better than you would have us
believe—better than you yourself believe!
ROBERT (_with slight but increasing sarcasm, coldly_).
My dear Mrs Buchner! it is no doubt very kind of you—but as I said—I
hardly know—to what this honour—indeed I can lay no claim to your
indulgence. My self-esteem is at the present moment by no means so slight
that I feel the need of anyone to——
MRS BUCHNER (_slightly bewildered_).
That isn’t at all what I mean—only—your _father_?
ROBERT.
My father for me is a certain Fritz Scholz, doctor of medicine.
AUGUSTA.
Oh yes—go on!
ROBERT.
And if I cannot feel towards this man quite so indifferent as towards any
other tomfool, it is because I—and then—(_he smokes_) because I—well just
this—I am myself to a certain extent the product of his folly.
MRS BUCHNER (_hardly believing her ears_).
Excuse me! I can’t follow you so far. How can you say such a thing?—It
really quite upsets me.
MRS SCHOLZ (_to Mrs Buchner_).
There, there!—You’ll see things in this house——
AUGUSTA.
Now what do you mean by that, mother? We are—_what_ we are. Other people
who do—Lord knows what—they’re no better!
ROBERT.
As a matter of fact there are always simple souls to be found who are
never happy unless they can potter about tinkering their neighbours’
affairs—exploded ideas!—Rubbish!
MRS BUCHNER (_seizing Robert by both hands, with feeling_).
Mr Robert! I feel under a distinct obligation to you. I’m quite charmed.
Honestly, you haven’t offended me in the least!
ROBERT (_a little taken aback_).
You are an extraordinary woman!
[_Friebe comes from the cellar; he carries in his left
hand three bottles of red wine, the bottle necks between
his fingers, a bottle of cognac under his left arm. In his
right hand he has the cellar key. Advancing to Mrs Scholz,
importantly._]—
FRIEBE.
Now then—the cigars.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Good gracious, Friebe, I really don’t know—
ROBERT.
In the writing-table, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah—yes!—
[_She takes a bunch of keys and fumbles nervously for the right
one._
AUGUSTA.
Why! you know the key of the desk!
ROBERT.
The one with the straight ward.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes! wait a minute!
ROBERT.
Give it to me.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Wait—wait—here—ah!—no!—I’m quite confused! (_handing Robert the bunch_).
There!
ROBERT (_detaching the right key and passing it to Friebe_).
There, I trust my father’s cigars may meet with your approval.
FRIEBE.
There you are! We shan’t get him away from them all day! (_bell rings
loudly_) Coming—coming! (_goes off upstairs_).
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now the wine will soon come to an end!—Good heavens! What are we coming
to! All that wine. Always those strong, expensive cigars! I tell you he
will ruin himself!
ROBERT.
Well, it’s a free country!
MRS BUCHNER.
What do you mean?
ROBERT.
Everyone has a right to amuse himself in his own way. I, at any rate,
would not have my right interfered with, not even by law. H’m, it’s
extraordinary!
MRS BUCHNER.
What!
ROBERT.
Extraordinary!
MRS BUCHNER.
Why do you look at me so critically? Is it something about me that is
_extraordinary_?
ROBERT.
Depends how you look at it! You’ve been with us several days, and you’ve
not yet thought of going—!
AUGUSTA.
What a way to talk!
MRS SCHOLZ.
They _won’t_ stop!
[_She shakes her head despairingly._
ROBERT (_with brutal candour_).
Well mother, isn’t it true? Have any strangers ever been able to stand
us more than half a day? Haven’t they all cleared out?—The Schulzes—the
Lehmanns?
AUGUSTA.
As if we were dependent on strangers—for my part we’re enough for
ourselves.
ROBERT.
Oh _more_ than enough! (_Brutally_) I tell you, Mrs Buchner, they
would fly at each other’s throats before perfect strangers—like
wild beasts. Mother would tear off the tablecloth, father smash the
water-bottle—cheerful, eh?—Pretty scenes!—Charming impressions for
children!
AUGUSTA.
You ought to crawl out of sight for shame, you mean wretch, you!
[_Goes off quickly._
MRS SCHOLZ.
You see? _This_ is what I’ve endured for years—_years_!
[_Goes out in great agitation._
ROBERT (_going on, quite unmoved_).
And no wonder. A man of forty marries a girl of sixteen and carries her
off to this godforsaken corner. A man who has served as surgeon in the
Turkish army, and travelled through Japan. A cultivated, enterprising
spirit, who works out the most daring projects—joins himself to a
woman who a few years before was firmly convinced, that America was
one of the stars in the sky. Truly I don’t exaggerate! Well, the
result—a stagnant, corrupt, fermenting swamp—out of which we have had
the doubtful advantage of growing—Horrible!—Love?—not a trace. Mutual
understanding?—respect?—not a touch—and this is the soil from which we
children have grown.
MRS BUCHNER.
Mr Robert!—I want to beg you—
ROBERT.
All right! I don’t want to talk of it. Besides the story is—
MRS BUCHNER.
No, no!—I want to ask you for something—pressing.
ROBERT.
Ask me—what?
MRS BUCHNER.
Couldn’t you—to please me—couldn’t you?—wouldn’t it be possible—just this
one evening—couldn’t you put off your mask?
ROBERT.
That’s good! Put off my mask?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, for it’s not really you—it’s not really your own face that you show
us.
ROBERT.
What an idea!
MRS BUCHNER.
Promise me—Mr Robert!—
ROBERT.
But I really don’t know—
MRS BUCHNER.
William—your brother William may come at any moment—and—
ROBERT (_interrupting_).
Mrs Buchner, if you would only—Believe me!—your efforts, I assure you,
are quite useless—all this will lead to nothing—absolutely nothing—it’s
all been spoilt for us—ruined—bungled from the very beginning—bungled
through every year of our lives. There’s nothing more to be done.
It all looks very—promising—Christmas tree—candles—presents—family
gathering—That’s only on top: a downright damnable lie—nothing else! And
now—Father!—If I didn’t know how unmanageable he is—on my honour I should
believe—that it was you—who brought him here—
MRS BUCHNER.
Indeed no! That is just what has quickened my hopes. It is not chance,
it’s providence—and so from my heart I beg you to be kind and brotherly
to William. If you only knew how highly he speaks of you, with what love
and what respect—
ROBERT (_interrupting_).
H’m!—and what use will it be?
MRS BUCHNER.
What?
ROBERT.
Why should I be kind and brotherly to him?
MRS BUCHNER.
You ask that!
ROBERT.
Yes.
MRS BUCHNER.
Well—at least not to spoil his return home for him.
ROBERT.
Oh, we don’t affect each other as you seem to think, and, besides, if you
imagine he is going to be overcome by a subtle emotion on first entering
here—
MRS BUCHNER.
Your brother is so good—a really fine character!—He must have fought a
great fight before bringing himself to this point. He is coming with an
intense desire for reconciliation, that I can _assure_ you!
ROBERT.
I can’t understand all that. Reconciled—to what?—That’s what I can’t
see. As a rule, we understand one another fairly well in this family.
But this is quite beyond me! I’ve nothing to say against him, but on the
other hand there’s no disguising facts.—I ask you—do you imagine that
I have any exaggerated respect for my father?—Of course not.—Or that I
have any—love—for him?—Or any childlike feeling of gratitude?—You see,
I haven’t the slightest reason for any such feeling. In all our lives,
the most that we have ever been to each other, has been a source of
amusement. At moments, when we have blamed each other for our common
unhappiness, we have actually hated each other. Well, between father
and William this same hatred grew. That I understand well enough. That I
haven’t done what William did is perhaps an accident. So I have nothing
against him—_nota bene_, so long as I don’t see him. But if I see him,
then all my logic goes to the devil, for I am rather,—rather—h’m, what
shall I say?—Well, _then_ I only see the man who has struck my father,
not his, but _my_ father, struck him in the face!
MRS BUCHNER.
Oh my God!—
ROBERT.
And then I can answer for nothing—you see?—absolutely for nothing.
MRS BUCHNER.
My God!—Was that it!—Struck him, you say?—In—the—f—, in the face? His own
father?—
ROBERT.
Just that.
MRS BUCHNER (_half beside herself_).
Oh my God!—But then—then I can indeed!—Ah! then I must speak to him at
once.—Your good old father—for—
ROBERT (_quite startled_).
To whom?—
MRS BUCHNER (_bursting into tears_).
To your poor dear old ill-treated father!
ROBERT (_trying to restrain her_).
For heaven’s sake what can you—
MRS BUCHNER.
Let me go—I must—I must—!
[_Goes through stairway._
ROBERT (_calling after her_).
Mrs Buchner! (_Turning back_) Damned hysteria!—
[_He shrugs his shoulders, and paces the room more than once;
he makes a movement as if to hurry after her, but finally
gives up the idea, and forces himself into a state of apparent
indifference; he first occupies himself with his pipe; knocks
it out, fills it with new tobacco from his pouch, lights it,
and seems for some minutes lost in the enjoyment of smoking.
Presently his interest is roused by the Christmas tree, and
turning to the presents on the table, he plants himself before
them; while surveying them, pipe in mouth, he laughs bitterly
more than once. Suddenly he starts, takes his pipe in his hand,
and bends low over the table: straightening himself, he seems
for the first time to discover that he is alone; looking round
as cautiously as a thief, he bends forward again, hastily
seizes the yellow silk purse, looks at it more closely, and
presses it with a sudden passionate movement to his lips. In
this movement he shows, as by a lightning flash, an eerie,
feverish passion. A noise startles him. Instantly the purse
lies where it was. On tiptoe he tries to slip away. Just as he
is disappearing through the door down R., he sees his mother
enter by the adjoining door, and on his part stands still.
Mrs Scholz goes heavily but quickly across the room to the
stairway, where she stands and listens._]
ROBERT (_turning back_).
I say, mother, what does that woman want?
MRS SCHOLZ (_frightened_).
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!!! How you startle one!
ROBERT.
What! (_puffs_) wh—(_puffs again_), what does Mrs—Mrs Buchner really want
here, I should like to know?
MRS SCHOLZ.
What _I_ want to know is, what your father—what _he_ really wants? Ah,
just tell me! what is it?
ROBERT.
Well, you’ll scarcely refuse him a roof over his head?
MRS SCHOLZ (_perversely, almost in tears_).
I really don’t see. It’s so long since he wanted me; one was at any rate
one’s own master; now it will begin all over again. The old worry!—now in
one’s old days, one will be ordered about like a little child!
ROBERT.
Oh! how you exaggerate! It’s always the same, you will exaggerate so.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Just you wait till he sees the empty greenhouse to-morrow. There’s waste
enough without my keeping another gardener; the bee-hives, they’re
gone too. No flowers need trouble themselves to grow for anything I
care, they only give you headaches; and then the insects——I don’t know
what he gets out of it; and for that, one must be ordered about like a
good-for-nothing! The first “hallo!” startles me out of my wits. Oh, this
world is no longer any good.
ROBERT (_while Mrs Scholz speaks, shrugs his shoulders and turns to go,
then stops and answers_).
Was it ever better, then?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Better! I should think so!!
ROBERT.
Really! that must have been before my time!
[_Goes out through lower door._
MRS SCHOLZ (_listening again on stairway_).
When I remember—they’re talking upstairs (_she looks up, sees she is
alone, listens again uneasily, and finally goes out through stairway, one
hand up to her ear, her face expressing fright and curiosity_).
[_Ida and William enter through the glass door: William is of
middle height, strong, healthy-looking; fair hair, cut short;
his clothes fit well without being foppish; overcoat, hat,
satchel. His left arm is laid round Ida’s shoulders. She has
her right arm thrown around him, and with gentle force is
pushing him on._]
IDA.
You see now, you’re inside! The worst is over already.
WILLIAM.
Ah no!
[_Sighs heavily._
IDA.
You may believe me how very glad your mother is—and Gussie too. (_She
pulls off his winter gloves_) Where did you get these from!
WILLIAM.
So you know my—mother now?
IDA.
All of them, dearest; we’re sworn friends already.
WILLIAM.
And how do you—like them?
IDA.
_Dear_ people, as you know very well.
WILLIAM (_growing each moment more constrained and depressed, speaks as
though to himself_).
Extraordinary! (_his eyes catch sight of the Christmas tree, he
immediately lowers them; starting involuntarily_).
IDA.
But, dearest, surely that’s not the first Christmas tree which you—
WILLIAM.
Yes, _here_, and you cannot possibly feel with me how—how—extraordinary——
IDA (_taking off his coat; he remains passive_).
Please, please, Willy (_standing in front of him, his coat over her arm,
his hat and satchel in her hand_), Willy, look at me! (_encouragingly_)
straight—(_stands a moment drawn up to her full height, then puts the
things quickly to one side, and comes back to William_). You have
promised me!
WILLIAM.
Have you ever,—Ida,—have you ever seen a vaulted tomb hung with wreaths
and—
IDA (_shocked_).
Oh William! (_quite beside herself, throws her arms about him_) that _is_
bad of you!—that is too bad! that is really too, _too_ bad of you!
WILLIAM (_putting her gently from him with suppressed emotion_).
All that means nothing, nothing at all. (_Coldly repelling her._) Be
reasonable, be reasonable!
IDA.
Oh! what _is_ the matter with you!
WILLIAM (_looking through the tree_).
Everything else is as it used to be. Ida, you must really, really
remember what this all means to me.
IDA.
I’m getting so frightened, Willy! Perhaps, after all, it would have been
better to——Mother certainly did not know that it would be _so_ hard for
you,—and I—I only thought—because mother said—it wasn’t that _I_ wished
it—! But now, now that you’ve got so far, do—will you?—for my sake! Ah!
(_putting her arms round him_).
WILLIAM (_drawn a little further into the room by Ida’s embrace, with
sighs of deep inward disturbance_).
Every step forwards—what I have lived through in this very place!
IDA.
Only don’t stir that up! Don’t stir all that up!
WILLIAM.
See! now it’s getting clear to me—your mother should not have persuaded
me to this. She’s always so confident,—so—I knew—I told her—but that
simple absolute confidence! If only I hadn’t allowed myself to be blinded—
IDA.
Ah! how seriously you take everything, William! Believe me, you will
speak differently to-morrow,—as soon as you’ve once seen them all again.
Then you’ll at any rate have done your part; you will have proved that
you were in earnest in your wish to live at peace with your family.
WILLIAM.
To see it all again! all the old places! Everything comes back—so
vividly, you know—the past comes so close to me—so oppressively close—one
can—one is quite helpless—
IDA (_embracing him with tears_).
When I see you like this, William—ah, don’t think—for pity’s sake don’t
think I would have urged you. I am so frightfully sorry for you!
WILLIAM.
Ida, I can tell _you_!—I assure you—I must get away from here! That’s
evident.—I’m not equal to this struggle evidently; it might wreck me
altogether! You are such a child, Ida! a sweet, innocent child—how should
you know! Thank God indeed that you cannot even dream what I—what this
man whom you know—I can tell _you_—Hatred!—Bitterness!—the very moment I
came in—
IDA.
Shall we go? shall we go away? this minute?
WILLIAM.
Yes! For in these surroundings you—even you—I can scarcely separate you
in my mind from the rest! I’m losing you! It’s criminal in me the mere
fact that you should be here!
IDA.
If you could only explain, William, there must be—something terrible must
have happened here that—
WILLIAM.
Here! A crime—all the more terrible because it did not count as one.
Here my life was given to me, and here that same life—I can tell _you_,
was—I had almost said systematically destroyed, till it grew loathsome
to me—till I dragged it—bowed down like a beast of burden—crept about
with it—buried myself, hid myself.—What can I say—one suffers beyond
words!—Fury—hate—revenge—despair without ceasing, day and night; the same
gnawing devouring pain (_pointing to his forehead_) _here_ (_pointing to
his heart_) and _there_!
IDA.
Only—what can I do, William? I dare not trust myself to advise you in any
way, I am so—
WILLIAM.
You should have been contented to leave me with at least the happiness
that I had gained. It had all grown so mercifully dim, I realise now
_how_ dim! (_overcome with excitement, he sinks on to a chair_).
IDA (_with a suppressed cry_).
William!
MRS BUCHNER (_rushing in through the stairway to William_).
William! listen to me! Only remember now what has been said between us.
Now that I am so much to you—I implore you—now show your—yes, I demand
it—I demand it from you, as the mother of my child! William, it rests
with _you_ now—with you only, William! you have been terribly, terribly
to blame; you have a terrible debt to pay—you shall be happy again; I
have done it, I have spoken to your father—he—
WILLIAM (_springs up, straight and stiff, with fixed eyes, stammering_):—
F—F—father!—what—t—to my f—father (_he staggers and stumbles like one out
of his mind, and catches at his overcoat_) I—
IDA (_frightened_).
Willy! Willy!
WILLIAM (_makes signs that he must not be stopped_).
IDA.
Ah, mother! William! you—you shouldn’t have told him so suddenly.
MRS BUCHNER.
William! are you a man! you cannot have deceived us. If you have still a
spark of love for us—for Ida, I demand it of you. I—a woman—
IDA (_intercepts William, who has seized his outdoor things, flings her
arms round and holds him fast_).
You shall not go—or else I—mother, if he goes, I go with him!
WILLIAM.
Why have you concealed this from me?
IDA.
Never! don’t think so badly of us! We have concealed nothing from you!
All of us, your mother, your sister, we had not an idea, any more than
you had; he only came a few minutes ago,—without letting anyone know
beforehand, and so, you see—I thought immediately—
WILLIAM.
Who has told you that?
MRS BUCHNER (_in tears, seizing his hands_).
You were terribly, terribly to blame.
WILLIAM.
So you know?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, now.
WILLIAM.
Everything?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, everything, and you see I was right: you were still dragging a load,
that was the secret.
WILLIAM.
You know that I—?
MRS BUCHNER (_nods affirmatively_).
WILLIAM.
And Ida, is she to be sacrificed to a man like—like me? Does she know
it—do you know it, Ida, too?
IDA.
No, William, but whether I know it or not, that really does not matter.
WILLIAM.
No?—This hand, that you, that you have often,—this hand (_to Mrs
Buchner_), it _was_ that?
MRS BUCHNER (_nods as before_).
WILLIAM (_to Ida_).
How shamefully I have deceived you! No, I can’t tell you—another time!
MRS BUCHNER.
William, I know what I am asking, but I—you _must_ humble yourself before
your poor father; till then you will never feel quite free! Call to him,
pray to him. Ah! William! you _must_! You must cling to his knees, and
if he spurns you with his foot, you must not defend yourself! You must
not speak a word! patient as a lamb! Believe me, a woman who wishes the
_best_ for you!
WILLIAM.
You _don’t_ know, you cannot know, what you are asking of me! Ah! you may
thank God, Mrs Buchner, that he has hidden the extent of your cruelty
from you! Infamous it may have been what I did! Sacrilegious!—But
what I have gone through, here—fought through, suffered—those fearful
tortures—he laid the full burden, all the burden on me, and at the end
of all, that accursed sin! But in spite of all (_after a long deep look
into Ida’s eyes, bracing himself as if to a firm resolution_), perhaps I
shall succeed—in spite of all!