In "The Fires of St. John," Sudermann does not go as far as in "Magda."
Nevertheless the play deals with important truths. Life does not always
draw the same conclusions; life is not always logical, not always
consistent. The function of the artist is to portray Life--only thus can
he be true both to art and to life.
In this drama we witness the bondage of gratitude,--one of the most
enslaving and paralyzing factors. _Mr. Brauer_, a landed proprietor, has
a child, _Gertrude_, a beautiful girl, who has always lived the
sheltered life of a hot-house plant. The Brauers also have an adopted
daughter, _Marie_, whom they had picked up on the road, while traveling
on a stormy night. They called her "the calamity child," because a great
misfortune had befallen them shortly before. _Mr. Brauer's_ younger
brother, confronted with heavy losses, had shot himself, leaving behind
his son _George_ and a heavily mortgaged estate. The finding of the
baby, under these circumstances, was considered by the Brauers an omen.
They adopted it and brought it up as their own.
This involved the forcible separation of _Marie_ from her gypsy mother,
who was a pariah, an outcast beggar. She drank and stole in order to
subsist. But with it all, her mother instinct was strong and it always
drove her back to the place where her child lived. _Marie_ had her first
shock when, on her way home from confirmation, the ragged and brutalized
woman threw herself before the young girl, crying, "Mamie, my child, my
Mamie!" It was then that _Marie_ realized her origin. Out of gratitude
she consecrated her life to the Brauers.
_Marie_ never forgot for a moment that she owed everything--her
education, her support and happiness--to her adopted parents. She
wrapped herself around them with all the intensity and passion of her
nature. She became the very spirit of the house. She looked after the
estate, and devoted herself to little _Gertrude_, as to her own sister.
_Gertrude_ is engaged to marry her cousin _George_, and everything is
beautiful and joyous in the household. No one suspects that _Marie_ has
been in love with the young man ever since her childhood. However,
because of her gratitude to her benefactors, she stifles her nature,
hardens her heart, and locks her feelings behind closed doors, as it
were. And when _Gertrude_ is about to marry _George_, _Marie_ throws
herself into the work of fixing up a home for the young people, to
surround them with sunshine and joy in their new love life.
Accidentally _Marie_ discovers a manuscript written by _George_, wherein
he discloses his deep love for her. She learns that he, even as she, has
no other thought, no other purpose in life than his love for her. But he
also is bound by gratitude for his uncle _Brauer_ who had saved the
honor of his father and had rescued him from poverty. He feels it
dishonorable to refuse to marry _Gertrude_.
_George._ All these years I have struggled and deprived myself with
only one thing in view--to be free--free--and yet I must bow--I must
bow. If it were not for the sake of this beautiful child, who is
innocent of it all, I would be tempted to--But the die is cast, the
yoke is ready--and so am I!... I, too, am a child of misery, a
calamity child; but I am a subject of charity. I accept all they
have to give.... Was I not picked up from the street, as my uncle so
kindly informed me for the second time--like yourself? Do I not
belong to this house, and am I not smothered with the damnable
charity of my benefactors, like yourself?
It is St. John's night. The entire family is gathered on the estate of
the Brauers, while the peasants are making merry with song and dance at
the lighted bonfires.
It is a glorious, dreamy night, suggestive of symbolic meaning.
According to the servant _Katie_, it is written that "whoever shall give
or receive their first kiss on St. John's eve, their love is sealed and
they will be faithful unto death."
In the opinion of the _Pastor_, St. John's night represents a religious
phase, too holy for flippant pagan joy.
_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--
But Christian symbolism having mostly descended from primitive pagan
custom, _George's_ view is perhaps the most significant.
_George._ 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 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 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!
_George_ and _Marie_ meet. They, too, have had their instinct locked
away even from their own consciousness. And on this night they break
loose with tremendous, primitive force. They are driven into each
other's arms because they feel that they belong to each other; they know
that if they had the strength they could take each other by the hand,
face their benefactor and tell him the truth: tell him that it would be
an unpardonable crime for _George_ to marry _Gertrude_ when he loves
another woman.
Now they all but find courage and strength for it, when the pitiful
plaint reaches them, "Oh, mine Mamie, mine daughter, mine child." And
_Marie_ is cast down from the sublime height of her love and passion,
down to the realization that she also, like her pariah mother, must go
out into the world to struggle, to fight, to become free from the
bondage of gratitude, of charity and dependence.
Not so _George_. He goes to the altar, like many another man, with a lie
upon his lips. He goes to swear that all his life long he will love,
protect and shelter the woman who is to be his wife.
This play is rich in thought and revolutionary significance. For is it
not true that we are all bound by gratitude, tied and fettered by what
we think we owe to others? Are we not thus turned into weaklings and
cowards, and do we not enter into new relationships with lies upon our
lips? Do we not become a lie to ourselves and a lie to those we
associate with? And whether we have the strength to be true to the
dominant spirit, warmed into being by the fires of St. John; whether we
have the courage to live up to it always or whether it manifests itself
only on occasion, it is nevertheless true that there is the potentiality
of freedom in the soul of every man and every woman; that there is the
possibility of greatness and fineness in all beings, were they not bound
and gagged by gratitude, by duty and shams,--a vicious network that
enmeshes body and soul.