Twilight. All lights are extinguished except a few on the
chandelier, and one on the Christmas tree. In front, near
the stove, William sits at the table, his back towards the
adjoining room, sunk in dreary hopeless meditation. Robert and
Mrs Scholz enter together from next room.
MRS SCHOLZ (_looking worn out, in lowered tones_).
No, my boy, don’t tell me! Now there’s no knowing what next. As soon as
trouble comes—Then, ah well!
ROBERT.
You’re not alone now, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah, just listen to you! You know better. It’s too absurd. Where can you
be off to in the middle of the night!
ROBERT.
Oh, there are always trains and I _must_ go. I really can’t stand it any
longer; besides, it’s best for all of us!
MRS SCHOLZ (_whimpering_).
These last years it has always been pleasant. And now they’ve come
back!—Since those Buchners came, everything’s turned upside down.
ROBERT.
Be glad that you have them, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh, I could have managed quite well by myself.
ROBERT.
Father seems able to bear none of us about him—?
MRS SCHOLZ (_crying_).
Just as if I had done him any harm! Surely I have always been the same—I
have always done my best—Do be just, Robert!—I have cooked him his hot
dinners, he’s had his warm stockings—
ROBERT.
Ah, leave it alone, mother! What good is this everlasting lamentation?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, that’s what you say. It’s all very well for you! But if you have
worried yourself sick all your life—if one has beaten one’s brain to
know:—Have I done _this_ right? have I done _that_ right?—and then
strange people come, and one sees them preferred!
ROBERT.
Ida is with him still?
MRS SCHOLZ.
A perfect stranger!—Ah, I might as well be dead—and that lump!—that
Friebe!—Creature!—The airs he gives himself!—But Gussie’s let him have
it!—Gussie talked to him pretty straight! The fellow’s as impudent—he
wanted to push her out of the room. The girl was beside herself!—His own
daughter! No—You children! What my life has been!—I wouldn’t wish a dog
to lead it.
ROBERT _(with a little sigh, involuntarily_).
Father too!
MRS SCHOLZ.
What?
ROBERT.
Oh, nothing. I only said, father too.
MRS SCHOLZ.
What about him?
ROBERT.
Well, father too has had a good deal to bear.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well not from me, anyhow. I haven’t troubled him much. I’ve made no very
great claims.
ROBERT (_sceptically_).
Hja—tja—tja!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Just wait till I’m in my grave, then he’ll begin to see—
ROBERT.
Ah, leave it alone, mother! I’ve heard that hundreds of times.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Maybe! You’ll see too, and before very long either.
ROBERT.
Ah, mother, I don’t deny that you’ve had a lot to bear with through
father. You’ve both suffered. But I don’t see why you—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Stuff and nonsense. I should like to know what has _he_ ever wanted for?
ROBERT (_incautiously_).
To be understood, if you will insist on knowing.
MRS SCHOLZ.
I can’t make myself cleverer than I am.
ROBERT.
Nobody asked you to try. Besides—it’s the merest folly to talk of it so
much.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now there’s an end of everything—(_Crying._) After all, it’s not my doing
that he lies there ill, and—
ROBERT.
I never said it was.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You did. That’s what you _did_ say.
ROBERT.
Ah, mother—I’d better go. I—mother, I really can’t stand any more.
MRS SCHOLZ.
No! I should just like to know what I have to reproach myself with. I
have a good conscience.
ROBERT.
Then keep it, in God’s name keep it! (_With a movement of self-defence_)
Only, _leave off_.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You mean that money business, I suppose?
ROBERT.
I mean nothing.
MRS SCHOLZ.
My parents earned it hardly enough, no woman would have put up with it!
Your father just pitched it out of window.
ROBERT.
But your uncle lied to you about it.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You can’t be sure of that.
ROBERT.
And father earned the whole over again.
MRS SCHOLZ.
He might as well have gambled with it.
[_Robert laughs bitterly._
MRS SCHOLZ.
I’m only a poor ignorant woman. Your father was always above me. His
mother was quite a lady too. But my father was once as poor as a rat.
I’ll never get the chill of poverty out of my blood! I can’t alter
myself. Well, it’s all the same!—for the year or two of life that’s left
me!—The Lord will deliver me in his own good time.
ROBERT.
I would rather be delivered _from_ the Lord.
MRS SCHOLZ.
For shame! What a scoundrelly speech! Delivered from the Lord.—I might as
well take a dagger and stab myself here in the heart—Frightful!—Delivered
from the Lord!—Where should I have been if it had not been for the
Lord?—Are you really going away, Robert?
ROBERT (_already on the stairs_).
Oh, be quiet, mother! It’s peace I want, peace!—
[_Goes up the stairs._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh dear, dear—yes—amongst you all, it isn’t an easy life! (_To William
who has remained the whole time at the table without paying attention to
them_) Just think!—You!—Robert’s going!
WILLIAM.
All the same to me!
MRS SCHOLZ.
What are you sitting there for?—That’s no use. Do be sensible.
WILLIAM (_sighing_).
Ah, yes!
MRS SCHOLZ.
And sighing’s no use! Look at me, at my age—and if I were to squat myself
down like you!—What’s done is done! There’s no changing it now. Look
here! Read something! Get up, take a book and amuse yourself!
WILLIAM (_sighing_).
Oh mother, do let me alone—I’m troubling nobody!—Has Friebe come back
from the Doctor’s?
MRS SCHOLZ.
No, that he hasn’t. It’s what I always say, as sure as one wants a
doctor, there isn’t one to be found.
WILLIAM.
It is serious, isn’t it, especially if—_that_ were to happen again?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah God! Who knows!
[_William stares at his mother, then with sudden passionate
sobs lets his head fall in his hands._
Yes, yes, my boy, who would have thought it! I’m not saying—I
blame no one, but just to-day you surely might have kept from
quarrelling.—However, we must just hope for the best.—At least his mind’s
not wandering any more. If Ida only doesn’t overlook anything! Any one of
us would have a hundred times more experience. Why he should have taken
so to Ida!—I don’t bite!—Though I will say in other ways—Ida—she’s really
a good girl—and you of all people! (_patting him on his shoulders_) You
may thank the Lord! You might wait long enough before you’d find another
one like Ida! (_Cautiously, confidentially_) Tell me,—are the Buchners
well off?
WILLIAM (_roused_).
Oh leave me alone! How should I know!—What do I care!
MRS SCHOLZ.
What now!—I suppose I’ve a right to ask!—You’re a perfect bear!
WILLIAM.
Ah mother, let me alone.—If you have a spark of pity for me, let me
alone.—Don’t trouble about me, let me alone.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes, of course, I’m always in the way. An old woman—good for nothing
but to snap at.
[_Augusta and Mrs Buchner come hastily out of Room R._
AUGUSTA.
Mother!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh Lord! What now?
AUGUSTA.
Friebe has just come.
MRS BUCHNER.
Friebe has brought no doctor with him.
AUGUSTA.
Father asked him, and he said—
MRS BUCHNER.
He won’t _have any_ doctor!
AUGUSTA.
He’s furious, he’ll throw him out of the room.
MRS BUCHNER.
Friebe won’t go again.
AUGUSTA.
You come and speak to Friebe.
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, _you_ speak to him. It is so necessary!
AUGUSTA.
A doctor _must_ come—or I’ll go myself; I’m not afraid, not if I have to
run all the way to Friedrichshafen.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, why not?—But it’s the middle of the night, won’t—just let me come.
[_Mrs Buchner, Mrs Scholz and Augusta go off hastily. Mrs
Buchner is scarcely out before she returns. Whilst speaking
she has looked several times furtively and with a grieved
expression at William, who is still in the same place, silent
and gloomy. Mrs Buchner looks round to make sure that William
and she are quite alone. At first quickly, then with hesitation
she approaches him._
WILLIAM (_raising his head as she goes to him_).
What do you want?—I told you everything before.
MRS BUCHNER.
But I wouldn’t believe you; I couldn’t picture it to myself.
WILLIAM.
And now you believe it?
MRS BUCHNER.
I—don’t—know.
WILLIAM.
Why do you lie to me?—Say straight out, yes. It was perfectly natural
that it would all turn out like this; so ridiculously natural. How in the
world I could have been so blind!
MRS BUCHNER (_with feverish eagerness_).
William, I take you to-day as I always have, for an honest, honourable
man. I assure you that not for one moment have I doubted you—even
now—when all at once I’m so afraid and anxious.
WILLIAM (_lifts himself up, draws a deep breath as though oppressed_).
It’s only what I—I’ve known it all along.
MRS BUCHNER.
I come to you, William, I speak to you frankly;—it has all come upon me
so suddenly. All at once I am so terribly anxious about Ida.
WILLIAM.
I must confess—only just now—
MRS BUCHNER.
I know well you love the child. Nobody could love her more truly! I know
that with all your strength you will try to make my daughter happy;—it
won’t be your _will_ that will fail, but now I have—I have seen and
discovered so many things. It’s only now that I really understand
much—much of what you told me. I _didn’t_ understand you; I took you
for a pessimist—in some things I scarcely took you seriously!—I came
here with a firm, happy faith. I’m really ashamed! The confidence I had
in myself!—I, to fancy I could influence such natures!—a weak, simple
creature like me! But now I’m uneasy about it all—now all at once I feel
my heavy responsibility. I am responsible for my child—for my Ida. Every
mother is responsible for her child! Only tell me, William, tell me
yourself, that it will all come right—Say to me, “we shall be happy,”
you and Ida. Convince me that my fear, my dread, is needless—_William_—
[_A pause._
WILLIAM.
Why did you let it go so far?—I warned you—and warned you. What did
I say to you? I said, all of us, every one in this family, are sick,
incurables—I most of all. That we all drag with us—“Don’t give your
daughter to a maimed creature,” I said to you—Why wouldn’t you believe?
MRS BUCHNER.
I don’t know. I myself don’t know.
WILLIAM.
Now you have lulled me to rest, weakened my conscience—and now I have
been half mad with happiness—I have tasted—lived through moments! and
others besides. The most frightful battle of my life, and _now_ you
demand—now one must consider—perhaps, yes, perhaps—
MRS BUCHNER.
William! I honour you!—I know that you would make any sacrifice. But
Ida!—If it should be too late for her—if it were to be her ruin!
WILLIAM.
Why couldn’t you believe me? You don’t know what that cost me; now I have
built it up by painful steps—step by step—so painfully! This place lay
far behind me—I was almost saved. Now to pull it all down. Why need you
have let it go so far? _Why?_—
MRS BUCHNER (_with tears_).
I don’t know! I myself don’t know! I brought the child up. She was all
in all to me; to work for her happiness has been all I have lived for.
Then—_you_ came into our house. I grew fond of you—I thought of your
happiness too, I—perhaps I ought not to have done that. I thought perhaps
just as much of _your_ happiness—and—who knows?—In the end, most of
all—of—_your_ happiness!
[_During a minute she and William look startled into each
other’s eyes._
WILLIAM.
Mrs Buchner!!!
[_Mrs Buchner, hiding her face in her hands, as if in shame,
goes off crying through the stairway. William follows her
mechanically a few steps, stops, tries to master his inward
excitement, then suddenly, shaken with weeping, leans for
support against the wall. Ida enters, her face pale, looking
serious and careworn, comes with gentle steps to William,
embraces him, pressing her cheek to his._
IDA.
Ah, Willy, sad days are coming, and, and, yes, Willy, bright days will
come again. You mustn’t give way like that—so hopelessly.
WILLIAM (_stammering passionately_).
Ida!—You only! Dearest, sweetest! Only say how I can—how could I bear my
life now without you! Your voice, your words, your whole sweet wondrous
presence, your hands—your gentle, faithful hands.
IDA.
And what of _me_?—What do you think of my life without _you_? No,
love!—we will cling to each other and never let go, close, close, and
however long it lasts—
WILLIAM.
Yes, yes! but supposing anything were to happen?
IDA.
Oh, don’t speak like that!
WILLIAM.
I only mean—one can never tell—one of us might die.
IDA.
Ah, we are young.
WILLIAM.
Even then!—One day it must happen, some day, and I, at any rate, shall
never live to be old.
IDA (_passionately_).
Then I shall fasten my arms round you—press myself to you—Then I shall go
with you.
WILLIAM.
Ida! That is what one _says_. But you would never really do it.
IDA.
I would do it!
WILLIAM.
You think so now. You don’t know how quickly one forgets.
IDA.
I could not breathe without you.
WILLIAM.
That is what one fancies—
IDA.
No, no, no, William!—
WILLIAM.
But to love like that, would be a kind of madness. One shouldn’t put
everything on the turn of one card.
IDA.
I—don’t quite understand you.
WILLIAM.
Why—I—you see (_in irritable tones_). Ugh! Darling, it’s not an
enlivening subject!—How’s Father?
IDA.
He’s asleep now! but what _is_ the matter with you?
WILLIAM (_walking about_).
The feeling will come, no one knows how. (_Suddenly grinding his teeth_)
I tell you, there are moments—when that rage of despair seizes you, those
are the moments—I can well understand—in those moments a man might throw
himself head first from five stories high on to the pavement.—The idea
becomes positively alluring.
IDA.
God forbid! You mustn’t give way to such ideas, Willy!
WILLIAM.
Why not, I should like to know? What should such fellows as I do,
crawling between heaven and earth?—Useless creatures! Exterminate
themselves! That would be something. They would at least have done _one_
useful thing.
IDA.
After all, it is not a thing to admire. You are overwrought and exhausted.
WILLIAM (_in sharp, unyielding tones_).
Leave me in peace, can’t you? What do you understand of all
that.—(_Shocked at himself, adds_) Ah, love! You must forgive me. You had
better leave me now—I can not bear to wound you. And in this mood, as I
feel now, I can’t answer for myself.
[_Ida kisses him silently on the mouth, then goes into the
next room. William looks after her, stands still, shows fright
and astonishment in his face, and strikes his forehead, like
one who has detected himself on the track of an evil thought.
Meantime, Robert has come downstairs. Robert, his hat in his
right hand, overcoat and rug over his arm, rug straps in his
left hand, goes to the table and lays his things down on it._
WILLIAM (_after he has watched him a moment or two_).
Where are you going?
ROBERT.
Away.
WILLIAM.
Now?
ROBERT.
Why not? (_spreading out his straps_) I’ve had enough of this and to
spare. In future mother—mother will celebrate Christmas without me!
(_Looks round at stove_) It’s cold here.
WILLIAM.
It’s freezing outside.
ROBERT (_rolling up his rug_).
There!—Is it? It was thawing about ten o’clock.
WILLIAM.
There’s a change.
ROBERT.
How’s one to get down the mountain and keep one’s footing?
WILLIAM.
There’s a fine moon.
ROBERT.
Yes, but still—
WILLIAM.
He’s not delirious any longer.
ROBERT.
H’m, h’m!
WILLIAM.
He won’t have a doctor.
ROBERT.
H’m, h’m!
WILLIAM.
It’s all come so suddenly, one hardly—
ROBERT.
H’m, yes!
WILLIAM.
It must have been latent in him.
ROBERT.
Of course, or he would not have come home.
WILLIAM.
I dread to think what’ll come of it.
ROBERT.
What’s one to do?
WILLIAM.
On my soul, I don’t know what _I_ should do if he died. Conscious as I
am, knowing what I now know!—I really did not know, and _now_ the added
remorse, the gnawing of conscience! Ah! well, what’s the use of it all?
ROBERT.
Eh! as to that! one would have enough to do. The old fellow is different,
not what we imagined, that’s true enough! But that doesn’t change
matters.
WILLIAM.
I tell you, it is sacred earnest to me—I would lay down this pitiful life
of mine gladly, if it would do him any good.
ROBERT.
To my thinking, there’s no sense in that. Now just look here! I go back
to my hot little den of an office, sit with my back to the fire, cross
my legs under the table, light this same old pipe, and write—in peace
and quietness of mind, I hope—the same old jokes, you know them,—the old
chestnuts—African traveller—nearly spent—h’m, and then I generally bring
along a caravan, which takes the article along with it.—My chief is well
satisfied, it gets copied in as many papers as possible—and, the main
thing is that—! Well, I sit there, and the gas jet hisses over my head
all day—a glance now and then into the court—the courtyard of a warehouse
like that has something marvellous about it—something even romantic, I
can tell you—in a word I’m not troubled with any bees in _my_ bonnet.
WILLIAM.
Rather be dead once for all.
ROBERT.
Matter of taste!—For me, that’s just an ideal nook—Is one to be always
getting shaken off one’s balance, always letting oneself be driven
crazy?—It’ll take me a good two or three days now to pick up my scattered
philosophy.
WILLIAM.
Say what you will, I call that cowardly.
ROBERT.
And then—If it is! Sooner or later, you will come to think as I do.
Father himself had at last got to that standpoint. Father and you, you
are as alike as two peas. You are both idealists of the same sort. In ’38
father started on the barricades, and he finishes up as a hypochondriacal
hermit—One must get accustomed to the world and to oneself _in time_,
that’s the thing; before one has finished sowing one’s wild oats.
WILLIAM.
Or else work at oneself, to become something different.
ROBERT.
I think I see myself! What I am, I am. I have the right to _be_, whatever
I am.
WILLIAM.
Then claim your right openly.
ROBERT.
Not I, for I mean to _have_ it. The Philistine morality-mongers are in
the majority at present. Anyhow it’s time for me to be off. And if I
were to offer you a bit of advice, it would be, beware of so-called good
intentions!
WILLIAM (_coldly_).
How do you mean?
ROBERT.
Simply that; it’s no use to think of accomplishing something which
entirely contradicts one’s whole natural bent.
WILLIAM.
As, for instance?
ROBERT.
Oh!—for instance, fellows come to me sometimes, who babble ideals to me
till my head swims. Fight for the ideals of humanity, and—God knows what
all! I—fight for other people!—Childish!—Why, and what for? But _you_,
that just suits you. You would rush round like a runaway thief. “What a
wretch I have been,” you would keep on telling yourself! Aren’t I right?
Well, and then on the top would come the good intentions, and they get
hold of you, I know. _I_ used to go about hung round with hundreds of
those good intentions—for years together—and it’s not pleasant, I can
tell you.
WILLIAM.
I don’t really know what you are driving at.
ROBERT.
Nothing very definite. This unrest, from which you are suffering now,
has no doubt other causes—At least I—if I once noticed—there was a time
when I went through something of the sort, but once I noticed that the
business was likely to be stronger than I—I generally made short work of
it, and turned my back.
WILLIAM.
Is that a hint?
ROBERT.
Hint? I didn’t know—well, once more—good luck to you and—
WILLIAM.
But just tell me—it has a certain objective interest for me—only because—
ROBERT.
Pray, what do you want to know?
WILLIAM.
Just now you said something.
ROBERT.
How—just now?
WILLIAM.
When we were speaking of father.
ROBERT.
Ah, true, yes;—what did I say?
WILLIAM.
You said, it might perhaps turn out well for Ida and me.
ROBERT.
Ah, yes, your engagement;—was that what I said?
WILLIAM.
That’s what you said.
ROBERT.
H’m, I said many things.
WILLIAM.
That is to say, you have changed your mind about a good deal of what you
said.
ROBERT.
Quite true, so I have.
WILLIAM.
And even—about that—very thing—
ROBERT.
Your engagement?
WILLIAM.
Yes.
ROBERT.
It’s important to you?
WILLIAM.
Yes, perhaps.
ROBERT.
Yes.
WILLIAM.
You no longer think—that we—
ROBERT.
No.
WILLIAM.
Good—Thanks—You are candid—I thank you—But let us suppose,—say that I
_did_ turn my back on the whole affair—leave on one side all thought of
what it would cost _me_, say I were to go straight off with you—then
what—about—Ida?
ROBERT.
H’m, Ida—Ida?—(_Shrugs his shoulders._) H’m, yes. That’s not so
quickly—at least—that wouldn’t trouble me over much.
WILLIAM.
Ah! That’s your old selfishness!!! Now I recognise you.
ROBERT.
Selfish? How? No, that’s just your mistake! I am not deeply enough
interested to be selfish—interested in this particular matter, I mean. I
really don’t believe—
WILLIAM.
I know better. You don’t suppose _you_ can teach me how to understand
this girl? Once for all, it _is_ so. Depend upon it—she has that sort
of feeling for me, which—well, I can’t alter it. You needn’t think me
conceited—But, you see, what’s to become of her, if I should go?
ROBERT.
H’m, you really ask yourself—that—seriously—
WILLIAM.
Most seriously—I do—indeed.
ROBERT.
Just oblige me by answering this one question first. If you were to
_marry_, what would Ida become then?
WILLIAM.
That no one can know.
ROBERT.
Oh yes, but one can:—mother!
WILLIAM.
As if mother is to be compared with Ida!
ROBERT.
But you with father.
WILLIAM.
Every man is a _new_ man.
ROBERT.
That’s what you’d _like_ to believe! Let it alone. You’re asking too much
of yourself. You yourself are the embodied argument against it.
WILLIAM.
I don’t believe it.
ROBERT.
You _know_ it well enough.
WILLIAM.
After all one can make oneself into something.
ROBERT.
If one is brought up that way.
WILLIAM.
Tch! There’s no sense in talking about it.
ROBERT.
Entirely my opinion.
WILLIAM.
It leads to nothing! (_Breaking out, quite beside himself_) You all want
to ruin me—I’m the victim of a conspiracy! You’re all in league against
me; you want to destroy me—you all want to destroy me—utterly!
ROBERT.
Father’s very words.
WILLIAM.
Ridiculous—Your remarks are simply ridiculous—Haven’t I reason enough
for what I’m saying? Don’t you want to part me from Ida? It is—simply!—I
haven’t words enough!—The absurdity of it! The brutality beyond
belief!—_I_ am to have pity on Ida! Who has pity on _me_!—Tell me that!
Name me any one person—who?
ROBERT.
Naturally!—When that’s the way you speak, naturally!
WILLIAM.
The sacrifices demanded of me!—The most senseless outrageous sacrifices!
I’m—
ROBERT.
You can spare yourself the trouble of talking; if that’s the case—You are
in your rights, keep the girl.
WILLIAM.
If that’s the case! If what’s the case, pray? Just tell me!
ROBERT.
You spoke of—Ida a while ago—if I remember—
WILLIAM.
Well—what then?
ROBERT.
Now it seems you’re speaking of yourself—H’m, plainly—if you are
indifferent as to what becomes of the girl, if you have the desirable
dose of—well call it recklessness—if you take her, as you would a new
coat or hat or something—
WILLIAM.
Robert!—Heartless through and through as you are—you’re right this time.
I’m with you, out of this place—That is, I’ll go with you a little
way, not far, and now, now I’ve done with all of you—Yes, yes, now
I’m—don’t speak!—now I’ve really done—absolutely—(_Robert looks at him
astonished, and shrugs his shoulders. With increasing vehemence_) Don’t,
don’t trouble yourself—it’s no good! You can’t do it—you can’t take me
in with your harmless quiet. You’re in the right, but what has put you
in the right, what has made you so clear-sighted? Shall I tell you?
Jealousy—miserable _jealousy_—nothing else—simply pitiful malice!—You
know very well that I should fight honestly—try to be a little worthier
of her. You know very well that with her purity, this girl has power
to purify me!—But you don’t want that! You don’t want to see me
cleansed!—Why not?—Because you—you yourself must always be what you
have been—because it is _me_ she loves, and never you! And so the whole
evening you have shadowed me with your detective looks—for ever there to
remind me you know me for what I am! Yes! You are right!—I am sin-stained
through and through!—Nothing left of me is pure. Tainted, I have nothing
in common with her innocence—and I am determined not to commit this
crime. But you, Robert!—That makes you none the purer; give thanks that
you no longer can feel shame!
[_Robert during the last part of William’s speech has taken his
things and gone towards the door. He stands, hand on the latch,
as if going to speak. Thinks better of it, shrugs his shoulders
resignedly, and goes out very quietly._
WILLIAM (_calling after him_).
Robert! Robert!
IDA (_coming from next room_).
Whom are you calling?
WILLIAM.
Ah, it’s you.
IDA.
The doctor’s there, William, he says it is very serious, it—
[_Voice of Mrs Scholz heard wailing, “My dear good husband.
Ah!—ah, my dear kind husband!”_
WILLIAM.
What have I done! What have I done now?
IDA.
It crushes my heart. I would like not to ask you—but something
must—something’s the matter, Willy!
WILLIAM.
Nothing. I want to be out there in solitude again. That is where I should
be. Our place is there, Ida.
IDA.
Why?—I can’t understand.
WILLIAM (_hastily and violently_).
Yes, yes, yes—the old story—: I don’t understand, I don’t
understand!—Mother and father have spoken different languages all
their lives; you don’t understand, you don’t _know_ me! You have stale
schoolgirl illusions and I have nothing more to do with all that, only to
hide away from you, hide—hide away, until there’s nothing of me but the
miserable traitor and scoundrel—
[_Ida, after looking dazed at William, bursts into tears._
WILLIAM.
There, you see, this is my real self. I need only for one moment to
forget my part, the part I play before you and my true self appears. You
can’t bear me as I really am. You cry, and you _would_ cry, year out,
year in, if I did not have pity on you.—No, Ida, it must come to an end
between us. I’ve come to that fixed resolve.
IDA (_throwing herself on his neck_).
That’s not true! That is not, that never _shall_ be true.
WILLIAM.
Think what you have seen here to-day; shall we start the game
afresh?—Shall we build this home again?
IDA.
It would be different! It would be better, William.
WILLIAM.
How can you say that?
IDA.
I _feel_ it.
WILLIAM.
But you are throwing yourself to destruction, Ida! I am dragging you to
your ruin.
IDA.
I’m not afraid of that, William, not the least afraid! Only have
faith again! Only give me your hand again! Then I can be something to
you.—Don’t push me away.
WILLIAM.
Let me go!—You are in love for the first time!—You love an illusion.
I have thrown myself in the gutter time after time. I have degraded
womanhood with other women.—I am an outcast—
IDA (_sobbing and crying, embraces him_).
You are _mine_, you are _mine_!
WILLIAM.
I am not fit for you!
IDA.
Oh, _don’t_ say that! I am so small before you, so small!—Like a little,
little moth. William, I am nothing without you—everything through
you;—don’t take your hand away from me.—I am so lost without you.
WILLIAM.
IDA!!! I—? _I_—
[_They embrace and kiss between laughing and crying._
I am not to take—my hand from you—what are you saying—what—why, you—bad—
IDA.
Now—promise me—now—
WILLIAM.
I _swear_ to you now—
[_A piercing scream from the next room cuts his words short.
Startled and terrified they stand looking into each other’s
eyes. Voice of Mrs Scholz:—“My husband’s dying, my dear good
Fritz is dying, my husband!”—Loud crying._]
WILLIAM.
My God!—What?—Father!!! Father!!!
[_Is about to rush into next room, Ida stops him._
IDA.
William!—Control yourself, and—don’t go without me.
[_Friebe comes shaking with sobs out of the next room and
disappears into the kitchen._]
AUGUSTA (_follows Friebe in; stopping in front of William, she moans at
him_).
Who—is to blame now, who—who?
[_She sinks with head and arms on a table, a muffled moaning is
wrung from her. Mrs Scholz is still heard crying loudly in next
room._
WILLIAM (_breaking out_).
Augusta!
IDA (_her hands on William’s breast, in trembling tones_:)
William—I think—your father—is dead.
[_William is again near an outbreak, but Ida calms him; he
controls his emotion, possesses himself of Ida’s hand, which he
grips in his own, and hand in hand they go with firm and quiet
steps out into the next room._]
NOTES
Title-page. _The Coming of Peace._ This is a somewhat free translation
of the title of Hauptmann’s play. Friedensfest means literally the Feast
or Festival of Peace, but the English title we have chosen seemed more
euphonious and has besides a bearing on the end of the play, when the old
man at any-rate enters into his rest.
P. 6. _O Gottogottogott!_ The effect of this exclamation, which Mrs
Scholz uses all through the play, cannot be reproduced in English. We
have tried, in the translation, by joining the words with a hyphen, to
give as far as might be the look of one word. Oh Godohgodohgod! would
only have puzzled readers. Even in speaking, the change from the _t_ to
_d_ makes the attempt to pronounce the exclamation as one word almost
impossible. Moreover to English eyes and ears “Oh God” of course carries
a weight quite incongruous in Mrs Scholz’s chatter. Here, as in many
other places, we were unable to arrive at an entirely satisfactory
equivalent for the German.
P. 16. _That’s an inhuman hand!_ This cannot be called a _translation_.
Mrs Scholz says: “Aus dem Grabe wachsen solche Hände!” She here alludes
to an old German saying still quoted among the peasantry, which declares
that the hand of anyone guilty of striking a parent would, after death,
point upward from the grave in ceaseless self-accusation. We have been
unable to find any similar superstition in English folk-lore.
MODERN PLAYS
EDITED BY
R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON AND N. ERICHSEN.
_=NOW READY=_
HENRIK IBSEN
“Love’s Comedy” (_Kjærlighedens Komedie_).—Professor C. H.
HERFORD
EMILE VERHAEREN
“The Dawn” (_Les Aubes_).—ARTHUR SYMONS
AUGUST STRINDBERG
“The Father” (_Fadren_).—N. ERICHSEN
OSTROVSKY
“The Storm.”—CONSTANCE GARNETT
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
“Intérieur.”—WILLIAM ARCHER
“La Mort de Tintagiles.” }
“Alladine et Palomides.” }—ALFRED SUTRO
1 vol.
GERHART HAUPTMANN
“The Coming of Peace” (_Das Friedensfest_).—JANET ACHURCH and
C. E. WHEELER
_=EARLY VOLUMES=_
VILLIERS DE L’ISLE ADAM
“La Révolte.” }
“L’Evasion.” }—THERESA BARCLAY
SERGIUS STEPNIAK
“The Convert.”—CONSTANCE GARNETT
BRIEUX
“Les Bienfaiteurs.”—LUCAS MALET
Arrangements are also in progress with representative dramatists of
Spain, Italy, and other countries. Further translations have been
promised by Dr GARNETT, Messrs WALTER LEAF, G. A. GREENE, EDGAR PRESTAGE,
etc.