Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans obtained from The
Internet Archive.
Transcriber's Note:
1. Source of this book is found in the Web Archive at
http://www.archive.org/details/germanclassicsof20franuoft
2. The diphthong oe is transcribed as [oe].
VOLUME XX
* * * * * *
JAKOB WASSERMANN
BERNHARD KELLERMANN
MAX HALBE
HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
FRANK WEDEKIND
ERNST HARDT
[Illustration: THE WARDEN OF PARADISE]
_From the Painting by Franz von Stuck_
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Masterpieces of German Literature
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
Patron's Edition
IN TWENTY VOLUMES
ILLUSTRATED
THE GERMAN PUBLICATION SOCIETY
NEW YORK
Copyright 1914
by
THE GERMAN PUBLICATION SOCIETY
CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS
VOLUME XX
* * * * * *
Special Writers
MRS. AMELIA VON ENDE:
The Contemporary German Drama.
Translators
PAUL H. GRUMMANN, A.M., Professor of Modern German Literature,
University of Nebraska:
Mother Earth.
BAYARD QUINCY MORGAN, Ph.D., Assistant Professor of German,
University of Wisconsin:
The Marriage of Sobeide.
JOHN HEARD, JR.:
Tristram the Jester.
KATHARINE ROYCE
God's Beloved.
ALBERT WILHELM BOESCHE, Ph.D., Assistant Professor of German,
Cornell University:
The Court Singer.
A. I. DU P. COLEMAN, A.M. Professor of English Literature,
College of the City of New York:
Literature.
JULIA FRANKLIN:
Clarissa Mirabel.
HORACE SAMUEL:
The Green Cockatoo.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XX
PAGE
JAKOB WASSERMANN
Clarissa Mirabel. Translated by Julia Franklin. 1
BERNHARD KELLERMANN
God's Beloved. Translated by Katharine Royce. 59
The Contemporary German Drama. By Amelia von Ende. 94
MAX HALBE
Mother Earth. Translated by Paul H. Grummann. 111
HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL
The Marriage of Sobeide. Translated by Bayard Quincy Morgan. 234
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
The Green Cockatoo. Translated by Horace Samuel. 289
Literature. Translated by A. I. du P. Coleman. 332
FRANK WEDEKIND
The Court Singer. Translated by Albert Wilhelm Boesche. 360
ERNST HARDT
Tristram the Jester. Translated by John Heard, Jr. 398
ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME XX
PAGE
The Warden of Paradise. By Franz von Stuck. Frontispiece
Jakob Wassermann. 20
Bathing Woman. By Rudolf Riemerschmid. 40
Hera. By Hans Unger. 70
In the Shade. By Leo Putz. 100
Max Halbe. 130
Mother Earth. By Robert Weise. 160
Fording the Water. By Heinrich von Zuegel. 190
Sheep. By Heinrich von Zuegel. 220
Lake in the Grunewald. By Walter Leistikow. 240
Lake in the Grunewald. By Walter Leistikow. 260
A Brandenburg Lake. By Walter Leistikow. 280
Arthur Schnitzler. 290
Henrik Ibsen. (From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous
Contemporaries") 310
Georg Brandes. (From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous
Contemporaries") 330
Gerhart Hauptmann. (From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous
Contemporaries") 340
Paul Heyse. (From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous
Contemporaries") 350
Frank Wedekind 360
Siegfried Wagner. (From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous
Contemporaries") 370
Leo Tolstoy. (From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous
Contemporaries") 380
D. Mommsen. (From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous
Contemporaries") 390
Ernst Hardt 420
A Daughter of the People. By Karl Haider. 440
Approaching Thunderstorm. By Karl Haider. 480
EDITOR'S NOTE
This, the last volume of THE GERMAN CLASSICS, was intended to be
devoted to the contemporary drama exclusively. But the harvest of the
contemporary German Short Story is so rich that an overflow from Volume
XIX had to be accommodated in Volume XX. It is hoped that this has not
seriously crippled the representative character of the dramatic
selections, although the editors are fully aware of the importance of
such dramatists as Herbert Eulenberg, Wilhelm Schmidtbonn, or Fritz von
Unruh. The principal tendencies, at any rate, of the hopeful and eager
activity which distinguishes the German stage of today are brought out
in this volume with sufficient clearness, especially in combination
with the selections from Schoenherr and Hofmannsthal in Volumes XVI and
XVII.
The European war, unfortunately, has prevented us from making the
selections from contemporary German painting in Volumes XIX and XX as
varied and representative as we had hoped.
KUNO FRANCKE.
JAKOB WASSERMANN
* * * * * *
CLARISSA MIRABEL (1906)
TRANSLATED BY JULIA FRANKLIN
In the little town of Rodez, situated on the western side of the
Cevennes and washed by the waters of the river Aveyron, there lived a
lawyer by the name of Fualdes, a commonplace man, neither good nor bad.
Notwithstanding his advanced age, he had only recently retired from
affairs, and his finances were in such a bad shape that he was obliged,
in the beginning of the year 1817, to dispose of his estate of La
Morne. With the proceeds he meant to retire to some quiet spot and live
on the interest of his money. One evening--it was the nineteenth of
March--he received from the purchaser of the estate, President Seguret,
the residue of the purchase-money in bills and securities, and, after
locking the papers in his desk, he left the house, having told the
housekeeper that he had to go to La Morne once more in order to make
some necessary arrangements with the tenant.
He neither reached La Morne nor returned to his home. The following
morning a tailor's wife from the village of Aveyron saw his body lying
in a shallow of the river, ran to Rodez and fetched some people back
with her. The rocky slope was precipitously steep at that point, rising
to a height of about forty feet. A great piece of the narrow footpath
which led from Rodez to the vineyards had crumbled away, and it was
doubtless owing to that circumstance that the unfortunate man had been
precipitated to the bottom. It had rained very heavily the day before,
and the soil on top had, according to the testimony of a number of
people who worked in the vineyards, been loose for a long time. It
seemed a singular fact that there was a deep gash in the throat of the
dead man; but as jagged stones projected all over the rocky surface of
the slope, such an injury explained itself. On examination of the
steep wall, no traces of blood were found on stone or earth. The rain
had washed away everything.
The news of the occurrence spread rapidly, and all through the day two
or three hundred people from Rodez--men, women, and children--were
standing on both shores staring with a look of fascination and
self-induced horror into the depths of the ravine. The question was
raised whether it was not a will-o'-the-wisp that had misled the old
man. A woman alleged that she had spoken with a shepherd who declared
he had heard a cry for help; this, it is true, occurred about midnight,
and Fualdes had left his house at eight o'clock. A stout tinker
contended that the darkness had not been as dense as all believed; he
himself had crossed the fields, on his way from La Valette, at nine
o'clock, and the moon was then shining. The inspector of customs took
him severely to task, and informed him that a new moon had made its
appearance the day before, as one could easily find out by looking in
the calendar. The tinker shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that in
such conjunctures even the calendar was not to be trusted.
When it grew dusk the people wandered homeward, in pairs and groups,
now chatting, now silent, now whispering with an air of mystery. Like
dogs that have become suspicious and keep circling about the same spot,
they strained with hungry eagerness for a new excitement. They looked
searchingly in front of them, heard with sharpened ears every word that
was uttered. Some cast suspicious side-glances at each other; those who
had money closed their doors and counted their money over. At night in
the taverns the guests told of the great riches that the miserly
Fualdes had accumulated; he had, it was said, sold La Morne only
because he shrank from compelling the lessee, Grammont, who was his
nephew, by legal means to pay two years' arrears of rent.
The spoken word hung halting on the lips, carrying a half-framed
thought in its train. It was an accepted fact among the citizens that
Fualdes, the liberal Protestant, a former official of the Empire, had
been annoyed by threats against his life. The dark fancies spun busily
at the web of fear. Those who still believed it was an accident
refrained from expressing their reasons; they had to guard against
suspicion falling upon themselves. Already a band of confederates was
designated, drawn from the Legitimist party, now become inimical,
threatening, arrogant. Dark hatred pointed to the Jesuits and their
missions as instigators of the mysterious deed. How often had justice
halted when the power of the mighty shielded the criminal!
The spring sun of the ensuing day shone upon tense, agitated, eager
faces gradually inflamed to fierceness. The Royalists began to fear for
their belongings; in order to protect themselves, infected as they,
too, were by the general horror which emanated from the unknown, they
admitted that a crime had been perpetrated. But how? and where? and
through whom?
A cobbler has a better memory, as a rule, and a more active brain, than
other people. The shoemaker, Escarboeuf, used to gather his neighbors
and trusty comrades about him now and then at the hour of vespers. He
remembered exactly what the doctor had said on the discovery of the
corpse; he was standing close by and had heard every syllable. "It
almost looks as if the man had been murdered;" those were the
astonished words of the doctor when he was examining the wound in the
throat. "Murdered? what are you saying, man?" interposed one of the
company. "Yes, murdered!" cried the cobbler triumphantly.--"But it is
said that there was sand sticking to the wound," remarked a young man
shyly.--"O pshaw! sand, sand!" retorted the shoemaker, "What does sand
prove anyway?"--"No, sand proves nothing," all of them admitted. And by
midday the report in all the houses of the quarter ran: Fualdes had
been murdered, he had been butchered. The word gave the inflamed minds
a picture, the whispering tongues a hint.
Now, by a strange chance it happened that on that fateful evening the
night watchman had deposited in the guardroom a cane with an ivory knob
and a gilt ring, which he had found in front of the Bancal dwelling,
separated from lawyer Fualdes' house by the Rue de l'Ambrague, a dark
cross street. Fualdes' housekeeper, an old deaf woman, asserted
positively that the cane was the property of her master; her assertion
seemed incontestable. A long time after, it came to light that the cane
belonged to a traveling tradesman who had spent the night carousing in
the company of some wenches; but at the time, attention was at once
turned to the Bancal house, a dilapidated, gloomy building with musty,
dirty corners. It had formerly been owned by a butcher, and pigs were
still kept in the yard. It was a house of assignation and was visited
nightly by soldiers, smugglers, and questionable-looking girls; now and
then, too, heavily veiled ladies and aristocratic-looking men slipped
in and out. On the ground floor there lived, beside the Bancal couple,
a former soldier, Colard, and his sweetheart, the wench Bedos, and the
humpbacked Missonier; above them, there dwelt an old Spaniard, by the
name of Saavedra, and his wife; he was a political refugee who had
sought protection in France.
On the afternoon of the twenty-first of March, the soldier, Colard, was
standing at the corner of the Rue de l'Ambrague, playing a monotonous
air on his flute, one that he had learned from the shepherds of the
Pyrenees. The shopkeeper, Galtier, came up the road, stood still, made
a pretense of listening, but finally interrupted the musician,
addressing him severely: "Why do you gad about and pretend to be
ignorant, Colard? Don't you know, then, that the murder is said to have
been committed in your house?"
Colard, brushing his scrubby moustache from his lips, replied that he
and Missonier had been in Rose Feral's tavern, alongside the Bancal
house, that night. "Had I heard a noise, sir," he said boastfully, "I
should have gone to the rescue, for I have two guns."
"Who else was at Rose Feral's?" pursued the shopkeeper. Colard
meditated and mentioned Bach and Bousquier, two notorious smugglers.
"The rascals, they had better be on their guard," said the shopkeeper,
"and you, Colard, come along with me; poor Fualdes is going to be
buried, and it is not fitting to be playing the flute."
Scarcely had they reached the main street, where a great number of
people had collected, when they were suddenly joined by Bousquier, who
exhibited a strange demeanor, now laughing, now shaking his head, now
gazing vacantly before him. Colard cast a shy, sidelong glance at him,
and the shopkeeper, who thought of nothing but the murder and saw in
all this the manifestations of a bad conscience, observed the man
keenly. Those around them, too, became watchful, and it at once struck
everybody that if any one had a knowledge of the crime committed in the
Bancal house, it was Bousquier. The excited Galtier questioned him
bluntly. Bousquier was the worse for liquor, the unusual hubbub
intoxicated him still more; he seemed confused, but felt himself, at
the same time, a person of importance. At first he assumed an air of
unwillingness to speak out, then he related with solemn
circumstantiality that he was summoned on the night of the murder by a
tobacco-dealer clad in a blue coat; three times had the stranger sent
for him, finally he went, was told to carry a heavy bundle, and was
paid with a gold piece.
Even while he was speaking, an expression of horror ran across the face
of the loquacious fellow; he grew gradually conscious of the
significance of his words. The listeners had formed a compact circle
around him, and a shrill voice rang out from the crowd: "It was surely
the corpse that was wrapped up in that bundle!"
Bousquier looked uneasy. He had to start at the beginning again and
again, and the strained glances turned upon him forced him to invent
new minor details, such as that the tobacco-dealer suddenly disappeared
in an unaccountable manner, and that his face was concealed by a black
mask, "Where did you have to carry the body?" asked Galtier, with
clenched teeth. Bousquier, horrified, remained silent; then,
intimidated by the many threatening glances, he replied in a low tone:
"Toward the river."
Two hours later he was arrested and put behind bolts and bars. That
same evening he was brought before the police magistrate, Monsieur
Jausion, and when the unfortunate man became aware that the matter was
growing grave, that his chatter was to be turned into evidence, that
every word he spoke was being noted down, and that he would have to
answer for them with his freedom, nay, perhaps with his life, he was
seized with terror. He denied the story of the tobacco-dealer and the
heavy bundle, and when the magistrate grew angry, relapsed into
complete silence. On being remanded to his cell he fell into a dull
brooding. "Come, wake up, Bousquier," the jailer exhorted him, "you
mustn't keep the gentlemen waiting; if you are stubborn, you will have
to pass some bad nights."
Bousquier shook his head. The jailer fetched a heavy folio, and as he
himself could not read, he called another prisoner, who was made to
read aloud a passage of the law, according to which a person who was
present by compulsion at the commission of a crime, and voluntarily
confessed it, would get off with a year's imprisonment. The jailer held
the lantern close to the tanned face of the reader and nodded
encouragingly to Bousquier. The latter was mumbling the Lord's Prayer.
Greatly agitated, and groping about for a way out of his plight, he
said finally that everything was as he had first related, only the
tobacco-dealer had paid him not with a gold-piece but a couple of
silver coins. He repeated his confession before the magistrate, who had
been summoned despite the lateness of the hour.
The next morning all Rodez knew that Bousquier had confessed that
Fualdes had been murdered in the Bancal house, and the body carried at
night to the river. Lips that had up to that time been sealed with fear
were suddenly opened. Some one, whose name could not be ascertained,
declared that he had seen some figures stealing past the house of
Constans the merchant; he had also noticed that they halted some steps
further on and drew together for consultation, whereupon, divining the
horrible deed, he fled. The search for this witness, whose voice died
away so quickly amid the other voices, and yet who was the first to
trace, as with an invisible hand, a sketch of the nocturnal funeral
train, proved vain. Each one's fancy silently carried out the picture
further; they saw the body itself on the stretcher; the bier was
depicted with distinctness as if it were a concrete token of the
mysterious deed; a carpenter even drew it in chalk in bold strokes on
the wall of the court-house. A woman who suffered from insomnia stated
that she was sitting at the window that night and in spite of the
darkness, recognized Bancal as well as the soldier, Colard, who were
bearing the two front handles of the bier. Furthermore, she had heard
the laborer, Missonier, who closed the procession, cursing. Summoned
before the magistrate, she fell into a contradictory mood, which was
excused on the score of her readily-comprehended excitement. But the
words had been said; what weight should be attached to them depended on
the force and peculiarity of the circumstances; the lightly spoken word
weighed as heavily in the ears of the chance auditor as if it had
been his own guilt, so that he sought to free himself of the burden
and passed it on as if it would burn his tongue should he delay
but a moment. Perhaps it was this sleepless woman, perhaps the
lips of nameless Rumor herself, that enriched the picture of this
murder-caravan with the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered man, armed
with a double-barreled gun, who headed the procession. Now the
gray web had a central point, and received a sort of illumination and
vividness through the probable and penetrable criminality of a single
individual. Twelve hours more, and every child knew the exact order of
the nocturnal procession: first, the tall, powerful man with the
double-barreled gun, then Bancal, Bach and Bousquier, bearing the bier,
then the humpbacked Missonier, as rear-guard. At the last houses of the
town the road to the river grew narrow and steep; as there was not room
enough for two people to walk abreast, Bousquier and Colard had to
carry the body alone, and it was Bousquier, not Missonier, who cursed,
on that account, cursed so loud that the licentiate, Coulon, was
startled from his sleep and called for his servant. On the steep place
in front of the vineyards the body of the dead man was unwrapped and
thrown into the water, and when that had been done, the tall, powerful
man, pointing his gun at his confederates, imposed eternal silence upon
them.
By this action the stranger with the double-barreled gun emerged
completely from the mist of legend and the position of a merely
picturesque accessory; his threatening attitude shed a flood of light
upon the past. What had taken place after the murder, then, had outline
and life. But had no eye accompanied poor Fualdes on his last walk? Had
no one seen him leave his house, without any foreboding, and, whistling
merrily perhaps, pass through the dark Rue de l'Ambrague, where the
accomplices of the murder doubtless lay in waiting? Yes. The same
licentiate whom Bousquier's cursing had roused from his sleep had seen
the old man at eight in the evening turn into the narrow street, and
shortly after some one follow hastily behind him; whether a man or a
woman, Monsieur Coulon could not remember. Besides, a locksmith's
apprentice came forward who had observed, from the mayor's residence,
some persons signaling to each other. The mayor's dwelling was
situated, it is true, in a different quarter of the town, but that
circumstance was considered of little account in so widespun a
conspiracy--had they not the testimony of a coachman who had seen two
men standing motionless in the Rue des Hebdomadiers? Many of the
inhabitants of that street now recalled that they had heard a constant
whispering, hemming and hawing, and calling, to which, being in an
unsuspicious mood at the time, they naturally paid no special heed. It
was an accepted fact that watchers were posted at every corner, nay,
even a female sentinel had been observed in the gateway of the
Guildhall. The tailor, Brost, asserted that he had heard the whispering
or sighing more distinctly than any one else; he had, thereupon, opened
his window and seen five or six people enter the Bancal house, among
them the tall, powerful man. Some time after, a neighbor had observed a
person being dragged over the pavement; believing it was a girl who had
drunk too much, he attached no further significance to it. Far more
important than such confused rumors did it seem that as late as between
nine and ten o'clock, an organ-grinder was still playing in the Rue des
Hebdomadiers. The purpose was clear: it was to drown the death-cry
of the victim. It soon turned out that there must have been two
organ-grinders, one of whom, a cripple, had squatted on the curbstone
in front of the Rue de l'Ambrague. To be sure, it had been the annual
fair-day in Rodez, and the presence of organ-grinders would, therefore,
not have signified anything mysterious, if the lateness of the hour had
not exposed them to suspicion. Several persons even mentioned midnight
as the time of the playing. A search was instituted for the musicians,
and the villages in the vicinity were scoured for them, but they had
disappeared as completely as the suspicious tobacco-dealer.
On the same morning when the Bancal house was searched and a policeman
found a white cloth with dark spots in the yard, the Bancals, Bach, and
the laborer Missonier, were taken into custody and, loaded with chains,
were thrown into prison. Staring vacantly before them, the five men sat
in the police wagon, which, followed by a crowd of people, chattering,
cursing, and clenching their fists, carried them through the streets.
The report of the cloth discovered in the yard spread in an instant;
that the spots were blood-spots admitted no doubt; that it had been
used to gag Fualdes was a matter of course.
Meanwhile Bousquier, all unstrung by his miserable plight, dragged from
one hearing to another, alarmed by threats, racked by hunger, enticed
by hopes of freedom and illusory promises, had confessed more and more
daily. He was driven by the jailer, he was driven by the magistrate;
for the latter felt the impatience and fury of the people, and the
fables of the press, like the lash of a whip. Bousquier had seemed to
be stubborn; but the presentation of his former stories, which now,
like creditors, extorted an ever-increasing usurious interest of lies,
sufficed to render him tractable. He appeared to be worn out, to be
incapable of expressing what he had seen, of describing what he had
heard,--Monsieur Jausion assisted him by questions which contained the
required answers.
Thus he admitted that he had gone into the Bancal house, and found the
Bancals, the soldier Colard, the smuggler Bach, two young women, and a
veiled lady in the room. The more persons he mentioned, the more
conciliatory grew the countenance of the magistrate, and, as though
into the jaws of a hungry beast, he continued unconcernedly throwing
him bit after bit. He probably recalled other nights spent in the
motley company, and it struck him that the person of the veiled lady
would be an addition which might enhance his credit. Monsieur Jausion
found, however, that an important figure was lacking, and he asked in a
stern tone whether Bousquier had not forgotten somebody. Bousquier was
startled and pondered. "Try your best to remember," urged the
magistrate; "what you conceal may turn into a rope for your neck. Speak
out, then: was there not a tall, robust man present also?" Bousquier
realized that this new person must be included. One shadowy shape after
another, wild, fantastic, started up in his distracted brain, and he
had to let the puppets play, to satisfy his tormentor. To the question
of how the tall, powerful man looked and how he was dressed, he
answered: "Like a gentleman."
And now it was his turn to describe, to vivify the scene of action. On
the large table in Bancal's room there lay, not the bundle of tobacco
for which he had been called, but a corpse. He tried to flee, but the
tall, robust man followed him and threatened him with a pistol.
The magistrate shook his head reproachfully. "With a pistol?" he said.
"Think well, Bousquier, was it not a gun, perhaps? was it not a
double-barreled gun?" "All right," reflected Bousquier, infuriated; "if
they are bent upon a gun, it may just as well have been a gun." He
nodded as if ashamed, and went on to say that, his life being thus
threatened, he was obliged to remain in Bancal's chamber and aid and
abet him. The dead man was wrapped in a linen cloth, bound with ropes,
and placed upon the stretcher. The stretcher was constructed, in
Bousquier's imagination, aided by the turnkey, with the utmost
perfection. When he was about to describe the funeral train, however,
the tortured man lost consciousness, and when, late in the evening, he
was again conducted to the hearing--rarely did the night and the
candle-light in the dreary room fail of their spectral effects--he
unexpectedly denied everything, cried, screamed, and acted as if
completely bereft of his senses. In order to encourage and calm him.
Monsieur Jausion resorted to a measure as bold as it was simple; he
said that Bach and Colard had likewise made a confession, and it was
gratifying that their declarations coincided with those of Bousquier;
if he comported himself sensibly now, he would soon be allowed to leave
the prison.
Bousquier was startled. The longer he reflected, the more profoundly
was he impressed by what he had heard. His face blanched and
he grew cold all over. It was as if a disordered dream were suddenly
turned into a waking reality, or as if a person in a state of
semi-intoxication, recounting the fictitious story of some misfortune
and becoming more and more enmeshed in a web of falsehoods with every
new detail, suddenly learned that everything had actually taken place
as he had related. A peculiar depression took possession of him, he had
a horror of the solitude of his cell, a dread of sleep.
All Rodez had listened to Bousquier's statements with feverish avidity.
Finally the form of the stranger with the double-barreled gun obtained
distinctness and tangibility. That he had the air of a gentleman
spurred the rage of the people, and the Legitimist party, which was
composed in great part of the rich and the aristocracy, began to
tremble. It was probably among them that a person was first mentioned
whose name ran, first cautiously, then boldly, then accusingly, from
mouth to mouth, and over whose head a thunder-cloud, born of a wreath
of mist, hung arrested, quivering with lightning. It was well known
that Bastide Grammont, the tenant of La Morne, in spite of his
relationship to the lawyer Fualdes, lived in a state of animosity, or
at least of the oppressive dependence of a debtor, with the old man.
Every one knew, or thought he knew, that stormy scenes had often taken
place between uncle and nephew. Was not that enough? Moreover,
Bastide's domineering temperament and harsh nature, the sudden sale of
La Morne, and a well connected chain of little suspicious signs--who
still dared to doubt?
The unwearied architect who was at work somewhere there, in the earth
below or the air above, took care that the circle of ruin should be
complete, and enlisted associates with malicious pleasure in every
street, among high and low. In the forenoon of the nineteenth of March,
Fualdes and Grammont were walking up and down the promenade of Rodez. A
woman who dealt in second-hand things had heard the young fellow say to
the old man: "This evening, then, at eight o'clock." A mason who was
shoveling sand for a new building had heard Monsieur Fualdes exclaim:
"You will keep your word, then?" Whereupon Grammont replied: "Set your
mind at rest, this evening I shall settle my account with you." The
music-teacher Lacombe remembered distinctly how Bastide, with a
wrathful countenance, had called to the old man: "You drive me to
extremity." The idle talk of a chatterbox gained, in the buzz of
hearsay, the same importance as well established observations, and what
had been said before and after was blended and combined with audacious
arbitrariness. Thus, Professor Vignet, one of the heads of the
Royalists, alleged that he had gone into a fruit store about seven in
the evening, shortly before the murder, and met one of his colleagues
there. He related that he had seen Bastide Grammont, who was walking
rather rapidly on passing him. He declared that he exclaimed: "Don't
you find that Grammont has an uncanny face?" To which the other
answered affirmatively and said that one must be on one's guard against
him. Witnesses came forward who confirmed this conversation. Witnesses
came forward who claimed to have seen Bastide in front of the Bancal
house; he had emitted a shrill whistle a number of times and then
dodged into the shadow.
Bastide Grammont had lived at La Morne for five years. He was perhaps
the only man in the entire district who never concerned himself about
politics, and kept aloof from all party activity, and this proud
independence exposed him to the ill will, nay, the hatred, of his
fellow-citizens. When upon one occasion a demonstration in favor of the
Bourbons was to take place in Rodez, and the streets were filled with
an excited crowd, he rode with grave coolness on his dapple-gray horse
through the inflamed throng and returned the wild, angry glances
directed at him with a supercilious smile.
It was related of him that he had wasted his youth and a considerable
fortune in Paris, and had returned home from there sick and tired of
mankind. His mode of life pointed to a love of the singular. In former
years a learned father from the neighboring Benedictine abbey had often
been his guest; it seemed as if the quiet student of human nature took
a secret pleasure in the unbridled spirit and the pagan fervor of
Nature-worship of the hermit, Bastide; but when he forcibly abducted a
seamstress, pretty Charlotte Arlabosse, from Alby, and lived with her
in unlawful union, the Benedictine, in obedience to the command of his
superiors, was obliged to break off the intercourse. Thenceforth,
Bastide renounced all intimate human contact. He had no friend; he
wished for none. He secluded himself with disdainful pride; the sight
of a new face turned his distant and cold; people in society he treated
with insulting indifference. Perhaps it was only from a fear of
disappointment that he harshly withstood even the most friendly
advances, for there lay at times a vague yearning for love in the
depths of his eyes. To grow hard because unfulfilled claims afflict and
darken the soul, to retire into solitude because overweening pride
shuns to lay bare the glowing heart, to be unjust from a feeling of
shame and misunderstood defiance--that was perhaps his lot, and
certainly his shortcoming.
For days at a time he would roam about with his dogs in the valleys of
the Cevennes. He gathered stones, mushrooms, flowers, caught birds and
snakes, hunted, sang, and fished. If something went wrong and his blood
was up, he mounted the fieriest horse in his stable and rode over the
most dangerous paths across the rocks, to Rieux. In winter, in the
early cold hours, he was seen bathing in the river; in sultry summer
nights he lay naked and feverish under the open sky. He declared then
that he saw the stars dance and the earth tremble. At vintage time he
was, without ever drinking, as if intoxicated; he organized festivals
with music and torch-light processions, and was the patron of all
the love-affairs among the workers in the vineyards. In case of
long-continued bad weather he grew pale, languid, and supersensitive,
lost sleep and appetite, and was subject to sudden fits of rage which
were the dread of his servants; on one such occasion he cut down half a
dozen of the grandest trees in the garden, which, as everybody knew, he
loved as passionately as if they were his brothers.
That with such an irregular management the income of the estate
diminished year by year, astonished no one but himself. He fell into
debt, but to speak or think about it caused him the greatest annoyance,
and his resource against it was a regular participation in various
lotteries, to whose dates of payment he always looked forward with
childish impatience.
* * * * *
When the court, in compliance with the opinion and accusation of the
people, which could not be ignored, ordered Bastide's arrest, he
already knew the forces at work against him. He was sitting under a
huge plane-tree, occupied with some wood-carving, when the constables
appeared in the yard. Charlotte Arlabosse rushed up to him and seized
his arm, but he shook her off, saying: "Let them have their way, the
abscess has been ripe a long time." Stepping forward to meet the
gendarmes with satirical pomposity, he cried: "Your servant,
gentlemen."
The occupants of La Morne were subjected to a rigorous examination.
According to Bastide's own statement, he had ridden to Rodez on the
afternoon of the nineteenth of March; at seven in the evening he was
already with his sister in the village of Gros; there he remained over
night, returned in the morning to La Morne, then upon the news of his
uncle's death, he had ridden to Rodez once more and spent about half an
hour in Fualdes' house. His sister confirmed his statement that he had
passed the night in her house, and added that he had been particularly
cheerful and amiable. The maid, too, who had waited on him and prepared
his bed, declared that he had retired at ten o'clock. As to the
domestics at La Morne, they babbled of one thing and another. In order
to say something and not stand there like simpletons or accomplices,
they involved themselves in speeches of significant obscurity; thus one
of the servants remarked that if the master's gray mare could but speak
he could tell of some hard riding that night. The maids spoke
incoherently or shed tears; Charlotte Arlabosse even fled, but was
captured in the vineyards and incarcerated in the town prison.
These occurrences were by no means concealed from Bousquier and his
associates; nay, insignificant details were emphatically dwelt upon, in
order to give them a sense of security and assist their memory. It was
the smuggler Bach, in particular--who, with the Bancal couple, could
not at first be induced to make a statement--that the police magistrate
had in view. He had terrified judges and keepers by his violent
paroxysms of rage, and, to punish and subdue him, had been put in
chains. Unconscious of it himself, this man suffered from a fierce
longing for freedom, for he was the model of a roving vagabond and
tramp. One night when he had attempted to strangle himself. Monsieur
Jausion acquainted him with the confession of his comrade, Bousquier,
and admonished him too to abandon his fruitless stubbornness. Thereupon
the demeanor of the man changed at once; he became cheerful and
communicative, and, grinning maliciously, said: "All right, if
Bousquier knows much, I know still more." And in fact, he did know
more. He was a stammerer and took advantage of this defect to gain time
for reflection when his imagination halted, and every time he strayed
into the regions of the fabulous the keen-witted Monsieur Jausion led
him gently back to the path of reality.
This was his story: When he entered the room with Bousquier, lawyer
Fualdes was seated at the table, and was made to sign papers. The tall,
powerful man, Bastide Grammont, of course--no doubt it was Grammont;
Bach in this relied upon the information of the magistrate and upon
glib Rumor--stuck the signed papers in his pocket-book. In the
meanwhile Madame Bancal cooked a supper, chicken with vegetables, and
veal with rice; an important detail, indicating the cold-bloodedness of
the murderers. Shortly before eight o'clock two drummers came in, but
the face of the host or of the strange gentleman displeased them; they
thought they were in the way and left, whereupon the gate was locked.
But there was a knocking several times after that; the preconcerted
signal was three rapid knocks with the fist, and one after the other
there entered the soldier Colard with his sweetheart, the humpbacked
Missonier, an aristocratic looking veiled lady with green feathers in
her hat, and a tobacco-dealer in a blue coat. The hat with the green
feathers was a special proof of Bach's powers of invention, and stood
out with picturesque verisimilitude against the blue-coated
tobacconist.
At half past eight Madame Bancal went up to the attic to put her
daughter Madeleine to bed, and now Bastide Grammont explained to the
old man that he must die. The imploring supplications of the victim
resulted only in the powerful Bastide seizing him, and, in spite of his
violent resistance, laying him on the table, from which Bancal hastily
removed two loaves of bread which some one had brought along. Fualdes
begged pitifully that he might be given time to reconcile himself with
God, but Bastide Grammont replied gruffly: "Reconcile yourself with the
devil."
Here M. Jausion interrupted the relation, and inquired whether a
hand-organ had not perchance at that moment commenced to play in front
of the house. Bach eagerly confirmed the supposition, and continued his
report, which now wrought up the narrator himself to a pitch of
excitement and horror: Colard and Bancal held the old man's legs, while
the tobacconist and his sweetheart seized his head and arms. A
gentleman with a wooden leg and a three-cornered hat held a candle high
in the air. There was something weird about the emergence of this new
figure; if it stood for nothing more than a finishing touch to the
horror of that night of murder, it fulfilled its aim to perfection. The
wooden-legged man uplifting the candle was like an impious spirit from
the nether world, and it was not necessary to dwell upon the narrow
chin, the sneering mouth, the spectral eye.
With a broad knife Bastide Grammont gave the old man a stab; Fualdes,
by a superhuman effort, succeeded in breaking loose; he sprang up and
ran, already mortally wounded, through the room; Bastide Grammont,
pursuing, seized hold of him, threw him again on the table, the table
rocked, one leg broke; now the dying man was placed upon two benches
rapidly moved close to each other, and Bastide Grammont thrust the
knife into his throat. With the last groan of the old man, Bancal came
and his wife caught up the flowing blood in an earthen pot; the part
that ran on the floor was scrubbed up by the women. In the pockets of
the murdered man a five franc piece and several sous were found.
Bastide Grammont threw the money into the apron of the Bancal woman,
saying: "Take it! We are not killing him for his money." A key, too,
was found; that Bastide kept. Madame Bancal had a hankering for the
fine shirt of the dead man, and remarked covetously that it looked like
a chorister's shirt; she was diverted from her desire, however, on
being presented with an amethyst ring on Fualdes' finger. This ring was
taken away the following day by a stranger for a consideration of ten
francs.
When Bach's recital with all its circumstantiality and its simulated
completeness of strange and illuminating details became known, there
lacked but little to hailing the imaginative scamp as a deliverer.
Indignation fed belief, and criticism seemed treason. The public, the
witnesses, the judges, the authorities, all believed in the deed and
all began to join in invention. Bach and Bousquier, who were confronted
with each other, quarreled and called each other liars; one claimed
that lie had gone into the Bancal house before, the other after, the
murder; one declared that he had assisted in the deed, the other that
he had only lifted the body, which was wrapped in a sheet and bound
with ropes. The half-witted Missonnier designated still another batch
of persons whom he had seen in the Bancal house, two notaries from Alby
and a cook. In Rose Feral's tavern, where all sorts of shady characters
congregated, and old warlike exploits and thieveries were the subjects
of discussion, on the night of the murder the talk fell upon the
pillaging of a house, the property of a Liberal. This report was
designed to heighten the apprehension of the quiet citizens, and that
afterward all the conspirators, even well-to-do people, met in Bancal's
house gave no cause for astonishment. Everything harmonized in the
intricate, devilish plot; in the clothes of the dead Fualdes no money,
on his fingers no ring, had been found; Grammont had the bailiff in his
house as late as the seventeenth of March, and this circumstance,
singled out at an opportune moment from the quagmire of lies, inspired
security. Bastide was hopelessly entangled. The prisoners were thrown
into a panic by the palpable agitation of the people; each one appeared
guilty in the other's eyes, each one was ready to admit anything that
was desired concerning the other, in order to exonerate himself; they
were ignorant of their fate, they lost all sense of the meaning of
words, they were no longer conscious of themselves, their bodies, their
souls; they felt themselves encompassed by invisible clasps, and each
sought to free himself on his own account, without knowing what he had
actually done or failed to do. Every day new arrests were made, no
traveler passing through was sure of his freedom, and after a few weeks
half of France was seized with the intoxication of rage, a craving for
revenge, and fear. Of the figures of the ludicrously-gruesome murder
imbroglio, now this, now that one emerged with greater distinctness and
reality, and the one that stood out finally as the most important,
because her name was constantly brought forward, was the veiled lady
with the green feather in her hat; nay, she gradually became the centre
and impelling power of the bloody deed, perhaps only because her origin
and existence remained a mystery. Many raised their voices in suspicion
against Charlotte Arlabosse, but she was able to establish her
innocence by well-nigh unassailable testimony; besides, she appeared
too harmless and too much like a victim of Bastide's tyrannical
cruelty, to answer to the demoniacal picture of the mysterious unknown.
While Bach and Bousquier, in a rivalry which hastened their own ruin,
tempted the authorities to clemency by ever new inventions, and,
encouraged by the gossip which filtered through to them by subterranean
channels, disturbed further the already troubled waters; while the
soldier Colard and the Bancal couple, owing to the rigorous
confinement, the harsh treatment of the keepers, and the excruciating
hearings, were thrown into paroxysms of insanity, so that they reported
things which even Jausion, used as he was to extravagance, had to
characterize as the mere phantoms of a dream; while the other
prisoners, steering unsteadily between their actual experiences and
morbid visions, constantly suspected each other, and retracted today
what they had sworn to yesterday, now whined for mercy, now maintained
a defiant silence; while the inhabitants of the city, the villages, the
whole province, demanded the termination of the long-winded procedure
and the punishment of the evil-doers, with a fanaticism whose fire was
tended and fed by mysterious agents; while, finally, the court, in the
uncontrollably increasing flood of accusations and calumnies, lost its
sense of direction, and was gradually becoming a tool in the hands of
the populace;--in the meanwhile the boundless forces at work succeeded
in poisoning the mind of a child, who appeared as a witness against
father and mother, and led the deluded people to believe that God
himself had by a miracle loosened the tongue of an infant.
[Illustration: JAKOB WASSERMANN]
At the outset the eleven-year-old Madeleine Bancal had been questioned
by the police magistrate; she knew nothing. Subsequently the child came
to the tavern, and at once people came forward who had heard from
others, who again had heard from third or fourth parties, that the girl
had seen the old man laid upon the table and her mother receiving
money. Of course it was ascertained by Counselor Pinaud, the only man
who retained clarity and judgment in the wild confusion, that Madeleine
had taken presents from the managers of the tavern, as well as from
other people; but it was too late by that time to discover and
extirpate the root of the lie. She was persuaded ever more firmly into
a belief of her first statement, and the recital kept expanding the
greater the attention paid her, the more her vanity was flattered,
until she believed she had really witnessed all that she related, and
she experienced a feeling of satisfaction in the sympathy and pity of
the grown people. Her mother had taken her to the attic, so she
reported, but fearing the cold, she had stealthily crept downstairs and
hidden herself in the bed in the alcove. Through a hole in the curtain
she could see and hear everything. When the old man was about to be
stabbed, the lady with the green feather ran terrified into the room
and attempted to escape through the window. Bastide Grammont dragged
her forth and wanted to kill her. Bancal and Colard begged him to spare
her, and she had to swear an awful oath which pledged her to silence. A
little later, Grammont, whose suspicions were not silenced, examined
the bed also. Madeleine pretended to be asleep. He felt her twice, and
then said to the mother that she must attend to getting rid of the
child, which Madame Bancal promised to do for a sum of four hundred
francs. The next morning the mother sent the child to the field, where
the father had just dug a deep hole. She thought her father meant to
throw her in, but he embraced her, weeping, and admonished her to be
good.
Even if people had been ready to doubt every other testimony, the
report of the child passed as irrefutable, and no one concerned himself
as to how it had been concocted, how the ignorant young thing had been
courted, bribed, how she had been intoxicated by fondling, applause,
or, it may be, even by fear. She was dragged from her sleep at night,
in order to take advantage of her bewilderment; every new fancy was
welcomed, the girl thought she was doing something remarkable, and
played her part with increasing readiness. In such wise she molded out
of nothing things which were calculated to throw a singularly realistic
light upon the fevered image of the fateful night; for instance, how
the mother had cut bread with the same knife with which the old
gentleman had been stabbed, and how Madeleine had refused the bread,
because it made her shudder; or how the blood, caught up in the pan,
had been given to one of the pigs to drink, and how the animal had
become wild in consequence, and had rushed, screaming madly, through
the yard.
Bastide Grammont bore hearing after hearing with a cold placidity. His
frigidly haughty dignity, his mocking smile, the mute shrug of his
shoulders, caused Monsieur Jausion frequent annoyance. But there were
times when, carried away by impatience, he interrupted the judge
outright, and attacked, boldly and eloquently, the frail yet
indestructible structure of the evidence.
"If it was my intention and interest to do away with my uncle, did it
require a conspiracy of so many people?" he asked, his face blazing
with scorn. "Am I supposed to have such a combination of craft and
stupidity as to ally myself with brothel-keepers, harlots, smugglers,
old women, and convicted criminals, people who would, as long as I
live, remain my masters and blackmailers, even supposing silence to be
among their virtues? Can anything more senseless be imagined than to
seize a man on an open road and drag him into a house known to be
suspicious? Why all this elaborate plot? Did no better occasion offer
itself to me? Could I not have enticed the old man to the estate, shot
him and buried him in the woods? It is claimed that I forced him to
sign bills,--where are they, these bills? They would be bound to turn
up and expose me. You say yourself that the Bancal house is
dilapidated, that one can look into Bancal's room from the Spaniards'
dwelling through the rotten boards; why, then, did Monsieur Saavedra
hear nothing! Aha, he slept! A sound sleep, that. Or is he likewise, in
the conspiracy, like my mother, my sister, my sweetheart, my faithful
servants? And admitting all, were not the Bancal couple sufficient to
help kill a feeble old man and dispose of his body; did I have to fetch
half a dozen suspicious fellows, besides, from the taverns? Why did not
my uncle cry out? He was gagged; well and good; but the gag was found
in the yard. Then he did scream, after all, when the gag was removed,
and I had the organ-grinders play. But such organs are noisy and draw
people to the windows and into the street. And why butcher the victim,
since so many strong men could easily have strangled him? Show me the
medical report. Monsieur, does it not speak of a gash rather than a
stab? And what twaddle, that about the funeral train, what betraying
arrangements in a country where every sign-post has eyes! I am accused
of having rushed into my uncle's house the following day and stolen
some papers. Where are those papers? My uncle died almost poor. His
claim against me was transferred to President Seguret. Why, then, the
deed? What do they want with me? Who that has eyes sees my hands
stained?"
This language was defiant. It aroused the displeasure of the court and
increased the hatred of the multitude, whom it reached in garbled
shape. Through fear of the people, no lawyer dared undertake Bastide
Grammont's defense. Monsieur Pinaud, who alone had the courage to point
out the improbabilities and the fantastic origin of most of the
testimony, came near paying with his life for his zeal for truth. One
night a mob, including some peasants, marched to his house, smashed his
windows, demolished the gate, and set fire to the steps. The terrified
man made his escape with difficulty, and fled to Toulouse.
Bastide Grammont clearly recognized that, for the present, it was
useless to offer any resistance; he determined, therefore, to transform
all his valor into patience and keep his lips closed as if they were
doors through which his hopes might take flight. He, the freest of men,
had to pass the radiant spring days, the fragrant summer nights, in a
damp hole which rendered one's own breath offensive; he, to whom
animals spoke, for whom flowers had eyes, the earth at times a
semblance of the glow of love, who walked, strode, roamed, rode, as
artists produce enchanting creations--he was condemned by the perverse
play of incomprehensible circumstances to a foretaste of the grave and
deprived of what he held dearest and most precious. Frequent grew the
nights of sullenness when his eyes, brimming over with tears, were
dulled at the thought of disgrace; more frequent the days of
irrepressible longing, when every grain of sand that crumbled from the
moist walls was a reminder of the wondrous being and working of the
earth, the meadow, the wood. From the events which had overshadowed his
life he turned away his thoughts in disgust, and he scarcely heard the
keeper when he appeared one morning and exultingly informed him that
the mysterious unknown, who was destined to become the chief witness,
the lady with the green feathers, had finally been found; she had come
forward of her own accord, and she was the daughter of President
Seguret, Clarissa Mirabel.
Bastide Grammont gazed gloomily before him. But from that hour that
name hovered about his ears like the fluttering of the wings of
inevitable Fate.
* * * * * *
This is what took place: Madame Mirabel confessed that on the night of
the murder she had been in the Bancal house. This confession, however,
was made under a peculiar stress, and in less time than it took swift
Rumor to make it public, she retracted everything. But the word had
fallen and bred deed upon deed.
Clarissa Mirabel was the only child of President Seguret. She was
brought up in the country, in the old Chateau Perrie, which her father
had bought at the outbreak of the Revolution. Owing to the political
upheavals, and the uncertain condition of things, she did not enjoy the
benefit of any regular instruction in her childhood. The profound
isolation in which she grew up favored her inclination to romanticism.
She idolized her parents; in the agitated period of anarchy, the girl,
scarcely fourteen years old, exhibited at her father's side such a
spirit of self-sacrifice and such devotion that she aroused the
attention of Colonel Mirabel, who, five years later, came and sued for
her hand. She did not love him,--she had shortly before entered into a
singularly romantic relationship with a shepherd,--yet she married him,
because her father bade her. The union was not happy; after three
months she separated from her husband; the Colonel went with the army
to Spain. At the conclusion of the war he returned, and Clarissa
received an intimation of his desire that she should live with him; she
refused, however, and declared her refusal, moreover, in writing,
incensed that he should have sent strangers to negotiate with her. But
she learned that he was wounded, and this caused a revulsion of
feeling. In the night, by secret passages, with ceremonious
formalities, the Colonel was carried into the chateau, and Clarissa
tended him, in a remote chamber, with faithful care. As long as it
remained secret, the new sort of relationship to the man as a lover
fascinated her, but her mother discovered everything and believed that
nothing stood in the way of a complete reconciliation between the pair.
Clarissa succeeded in removing him; in a thicket near the village she
had nightly rendezvous with him. Colonel Mirabel, however, grew weary
of these singular doings; he obtained a position in Lyons, but died
soon after from the consequences of his excesses.
Years passed; her mother, too, died, and Clarissa's grief was so
overwhelming that she would spend entire days at the grave, and the
influence of her more readily consoled father alone succeeded in
inducing her to reconcile herself to her lonely, empty existence. Left
completely to herself, she indulged in the pleasure of indiscriminate
reading, and her wishes turned, with hidden passion, toward great
experiences. Her peculiar tastes and habits made her a subject of
gossip in the little town; she had children and half-grown boys and
girls come to the chateau, and recited poems to them and trained them
for acting. Her frank nature created enemies; she said what she
thought, offended with no ill intention, caused confusion and gossip in
all innocence, exaggerated petty things and overlooked great ones, took
pleasure at times in masking, appearing in disguise, and impersonating
imaginary characters, and captivated the susceptible by the charm of
her speech, the bright versatility of her spirit, the winning
heartiness of her manner.
She was now thirty-five years old; but not only because she was so
exceedingly slender, small, and dainty, did she seem like a girl of
eighteen--her nature, too, was permeated by a rare spirit of youth; and
when her eye rested, absorbed and contemplative, upon an object, it had
the clearness and dreamy sweetness of the gaze of a child. She was a
product of the border: southern vivacity and northern gravity had
resulted in a restless mixture; she was fond of musing, and, playful as
a young animal, was capable of arousing in men of all sorts desire
mingled with shyness.
The flood of reports concerning the death of the lawyer Fualdes left
her, at first, unmoved, although her father, by his purchase of the
domain of La Morne, seemed directly interested in the happenings, and
new accounts were brought to the chateau daily. The occurrence was too
complicated for her, and everything connected with it smelt too much of
the unclean. Only when the name of Bastide Grammont was first mentioned
did she prick up her ears, follow the affair, and have her father or
the servants report to her the supposed course of events, displaying
more interest than astonishment.
She knew nothing about Bastide Grammont. Nevertheless, his name, as
soon as she heard it, fell like a weight upon her watchful soul. She
began to make inquiries about him, ventured upon secret rides to La
Morne, and led one or another of his servants to talk about him; nay,
once she even succeeded in speaking with Charlotte Arlabosse, who was
free again at that time. What she learned aroused a strange, pained
astonishment; she had a feeling of having missed an important meeting.
In addition, she suddenly remembered having seen him. It must have been
he, if she but half comprehended the confused descriptions of his
person. It was a year ago, one early morning in the first days of
spring. Seized by the general unrest with which the vernal season stirs
the blood and rouses the sleeper sooner than his wont, she had wandered
from the chateau, over the vine-clad hills, into the woody vale of
Rolx. And as she strode through the dewy underbrush glistening with
sunshine, above her the warbling of birds and the glowing blue of the
celestial dome, beneath her the earth breathing like a sentient being,
she caught sight of a man of powerful build who was standing erect,
bareheaded, with nose in the air, and was enjoying with a preternatural
eagerness, with distended gaze, all that lay open for enjoyment--the
scents, the sun, the intoxicating dewiness, the splendor of the
heavens. He seemed to scent it all, sniffing like a dog or a deer, and
while his upturned face bore an expression of unfettered, smiling
satisfaction, his arms, hanging by his side, trembled as in a spasm.
She was frightened then; she fled without his perceiving her, without
his hearing the sound of her footsteps. Now the picture assumed a
different significance. Often when she was alone she would abandon
herself to a fancied image of that hour: how she had gone forward to
meet the singular being, and by skilfully planned questions beguiled
answer upon answer from his stubborn lips, and how, unable to disguise
his feelings any longer, he had spontaneously opened his heart to her.
And one night he came riding on a wild steed, forced his way into the
castle, took her and rode away with her so swiftly that it seemed as if
the storm was his servant, and lent wings to his steed. When the talk
at table or in company turned upon Bastide Grammont and his murderous
crime, of which no one stood in doubt, Clarissa never occupied herself
with the enormity of the deed, which must forever separate such a man
from the fellowship of the good. Enveloped in a voluptuous mist, she
was sensible of the influence of his compelling force, of the heroic
soul that spoke in his gestures, of the reality of his existence and
the possibility of a close approach to the figure which persisted in
haunting her troubled dreams. She was frightened at herself; she gazed
into the dreaded depths of her soul, and she often felt as if she
herself were lying in prison and Bastide were walking back and forth
outside, planning means for forcing the door, while his swift steed was
neighing in triumph.
Now she was entangled in all the talk, whisperings, and tales, and the
whole mass of abominations, too, in which design and arbitrariness were
hopelessly mingled, passed, steadily growing, before her. The thing had
an increasingly strange effect upon her, and she felt as if she were
breathing poisoned air; she would walk through one of the streets of
Rodez and fancy that all eyes were fastened upon her in accusation, so
that she hastened her steps, hurried home, pale and confused, and gazed
at herself in the mirror with faltering pulse.
She had recently been entertained at the estate of a family on terms of
friendship with her father. One day the master of the house, a scholar,
was thrown into great agitation over the loss of a valuable manuscript.
The servants were ordered to ransack every room, but no one was
suspected of theft. Clarissa fell by and by into a painful state; she
imagined that she was suspected; in every word she felt a sting, in
every look a question; she took part in the search with anxious zeal,
fevered visions of prison and disgrace already floated before her, she
longed to hasten to her father, to assert her innocence--when suddenly
the manuscript was found under some old books; Clarissa breathed again
as if saved from peril of death, and never before had she been as
witty, talkative, and captivatingly lovable as in the hours that
followed.
When in the imagination of the multitude the lady with the green
feathers grew steadily more distinct, along with the other figures
implicated in the brutal slaughter of poor Fualdes, Clarissa was thrown
into a consternation with which she only trifled at first, as if to
test herself in a probability or balance herself upon a possibility,
like a lad who with a pleasing shudder ventures upon the frozen surface
of a stream to test its firmness. She devoured the reports in the
newspapers. The timorous dallying grew into a haunting idea, chiefly
owing to the fact that she really was the possessor of a hat with green
feathers. That circumstance could not be regarded as remarkable.
Fashion permitted the use of green, yellow, or red feathers;
nevertheless, the possession of the hat became a torment to Clarissa.
She dared no longer touch it; it seemed to her as if the feathers were
enveloped in a bloody lustre, and she finally hid it in a lumber-room
under the roof. She busied herself with plans of travel, and meant to
visit Paris; but her resolution grew more shaky every day. Meanwhile
June set in. A traveling theatrical company gave a number of
performances in Rodez, and an officer by the name of Clemendot, who had
long been pursuing Clarissa with declarations of love, but who had
always, on account of his commonplaceness and evident crudity, been
coolly, nay, at times ignominiously repulsed, brought her a ticket and
invited her to accompany him to the theatre. She declined, but at the
last moment she felt a desire to go, and had to suffer Captain
Clemendot's taking the vacant seat to her right, after the rise of the
curtain.
The troupe presented a melodrama, whose action dragged out at great
length and with great gusto the misfortune and gruesome murder of an
innocent youth. At the close of the last act a woman disguised as a man
appeared upon the scene; she wore a pointed round hat, and a mask
covered her face. A hurried love-scene, carried on in whispers, by the
light of the dismal lamp of a criminal quarter, with the chief of the
band of murderers, sealed the fate of the unhappy victim, who was
kneeling in prayer. In the house an eager silence reigned, all eyes
were burning. Clarissa seemed to hear the hundred hearts beat like so
many hammers; she grew hot and cold, every feeling of the real present
vanished, and when, in the ensuing interval. Captain Clemendot in his
half humble, half impudent way became importunate, a shudder ran
through her body, and at the fumes of wine which he exhaled she came
near fainting. Suddenly she threw back her head, fixed her gaze upon
his muddled, besotted countenance and asked in a low, sharp, hurried
tone: "What would you say, Captain, if it were I--I--who was present at
the Bancal house?"
Captain Clemendot turned pale. His mouth opened slowly, his cheeks
quivered, his eyes glistened with fear, and when Clarissa broke into a
soft, mocking, but not quite natural, laugh, he rose and, with an
embarrassed farewell, left her. He was a simple man, as illiterate as a
drummer, and, like everybody else in Rodez, completely under the sway
of the blood-curdling reports. When the performance was at an end, he
approached Clarissa, who, with an impassive air, was making her way to
the exit, and asked whether she had been trying to jest with him, and
she, her lips dry, and something like a prying hatred in her eyes,
answered, laughing again: "No, no, Captain." After that her face
resumed its earnest, almost sad, expression and her head dropped on her
breast.
Clemendot went home with a disturbed mind, thoroughly convinced that he
had received an important confession. He felt in duty bound to speak
out, and unbosomed himself next morning to a comrade. The latter drew a
second friend into the secret, they deliberated together, and by noon
the magistrate had been informed. Monsieur Jausion had the Captain and
Madame Mirabel summoned. After long and singular reflection Clarissa
declared that the whole thing was a joke, and the magistrate was
obliged to dismiss her for the present.
It was not joking, however, that the gentlemen wanted, but earnest. The
Prefect, advised of what had happened, called in the evening on
President Seguret and had a brief interview with the worthy man, who,
shaken to his inmost soul, had to learn what a disgrace, to himself and
her, his daughter had conjured up, menacing thus the peace of his old
age. Clarissa was called in; she stood as if deprived of life before
the two aged men, and the grief which spoke in her father's every
motion and feature struck her heart with sorrow. She pleaded the
thoughtlessness of the moment, the mad humor and confusion of her mind;
in vain, the Prefect openly showed his incredulity. Monsieur Seguret,
who in spite of his fondness for a jovial life, was of an exceedingly
suspicious disposition, lacking, too, a firm and clear judgment of men,
could not help regarding the depressed spirits of his daughter as a
proof of guilt, and he explained to her, with cutting severity, that
the truth alone would keep him from thrusting her from his heart.
Clarissa ceased speaking; words rushed in upon her like destroying
demons. The President grew sleepless and agitated, and wandered,
distracted, about the castle all night long. His reflections consisted
in fathoming Clarissa's nature on the side of its awful possibilities,
and he very soon saw her impenetrable character covered with the blots
and stigmas of the vice of romanticism. He, too, was completely under
the spell of the general fanatical opinion, his experience could not
hold out against the poisoned breath of calumny; the fear of being
connected with the monstrous deed was stronger than the voice of his
heart; suspicion became certainty, denial a lie. When he reflected upon
Clarissa's past, her ungovernable desire to desert the beaten paths--a
quality which appeared to him now as the gate to crime--no assumption
was too daring, and her image interwove itself in the dismal web.
Sleep was banished from Clarissa, too. She surprised her father in the
gray morning hours in his disturbed wanderings through the rooms, and
threw herself sobbing at his feet. He made no attempt to console her or
raise her; to her despairing question as to what she could be seeking
in the Bancal house, since as a widow she was perfectly free to come
and go as she pleased and could dispense with secrecy, the President's
reply was a significant shrug; and so firmly was his sinister
conjecture imbedded, that upon her dignified demand for a just
consideration, he only flung back the retort: "Tell the truth."
The news was not slow to travel. Relatives and friends of the President
made their appearance: amazed, excited, eager, malicious. To see the
impenetrably peculiar, elusively unapproachable Clarissa cast into the
mire was a sight they were all anxious to enjoy. A few of the older
ladies attempted a hypocritically gentle persuasion, and Clarissa's
contemptuous silence and the pained look of her eyes seemed to imply
avowals. The Prefect came once more, accompanied by two officials. For
the Government and the local functionaries everything was at stake; the
cry for revenge of the citizens, anxious for their safety, the defiance
and rancor of the Bonapartists, grew more violent every day, the papers
demanded the conviction of the guilty persons, the rural population was
on the point of a revolt. A witness who had no share in the deed
itself, like Madame Mirabel, could quickly change and terminate
everything; persuasion was brought to bear, she was promised, as far as
the oath to which she subscribed in the Bancal house was concerned, a
written dispensation from Rome, and a Jesuit priest whom the Mayor
brought to the chateau expressly confirmed this. When everything proved
vain and Clarissa began to oppose the cruel pressure by a stony calm,
she was threatened with imprisonment, with having her disgrace and
depravity made public through all France. And at these words of the
Prefect her father fell upon his knees before her, as she had done that
morning before him, and conjured her to speak. This was too much; with
a shriek, she fell fainting to the floor.
Clarissa believed she remembered having spent the evening of the
nineteenth of March with the Pal family, in Rodez; she believed she
remembered that Madame Pal herself remarked to her the following day:
"We were so merry yesterday, and perhaps at that very time poor Fualdes
was being murdered." Upon referring to this, the Pals made a positive
denial of everything; they denied that Clarissa had paid them a visit;
nay, in their vague, cowardly fright, they even declared that they had
been on bad terms with Madame Mirabel for years.
To human pity spirits blinded by fear and delusion were no longer
accessible. Even had the sound sense of a single individual attempted
resistance, it would have been useless; the giant avalanche could not
be stayed. A diabolical plot was concocted, and it was the Prefect,
Count d'Estournel, who perfected it in such wise that it promised the
best success. Toward one o'clock at night a carriage drove into the
castle grounds; Clarissa was compelled to enter it; the President, the
Magistrate, the Prefect, were her companions. The carriage stopped in
front of the Bancal house. Monsieur Seguret led his daughter into the
ground floor room on the left, a cave-like chamber, gloomy as a bad
conscience. On the shelf over the stove there stood a miserable little
lamp whose light fell on two sheriff's officers and a lawyer's clerk,
with stern countenances, leaning against the wall. The windows were
hung with rags, the alcoves were pitchy dark, a mute silence reigned
throughout the house.
"Do you know this place?" asked the Prefect with solemn deliberation.
All turned their gaze upon Clarissa. In order to soften the frightful
tension of her breast, she listened to the rain, which was beating
against the wall outside; all her senses seemed to have gathered in her
ear to that end. Her body grew limp, her tongue refused to utter more
than "no" or "yes," and since the first promised new torment and agony,
but the latter perchance peace, she breathed a "yes:" a little word,
born of fear and exhaustion, and, scarce alive, winged with a
mysterious power. Her mind, confused and consumed with longing, turned
a phantom image, the creation of a thousand effervescent brains, into
an actual experience. The half consciously heard, half distractedly
read, became a burning reality. Her existence seemed strangely
entangled in that of the man of the wood and dale, who had fervently
lifted his head to heaven, and sniffed in the air with the expression
of a thirsting animal. Now she stood upon the bridge which led to his
domain; she beheld herself sitting at his feet, drops of blood from his
outstretched hand fell upon her bowed head. Consternation on the one
hand, and the most radiant hope on the other, seized her heart, while
between there flamed like a torch, there rang out exultant like a
battle-cry, the name Bastide Grammont, a plaything for her dreams.
An expression of relief flitted over the faces of the men upon this
first syllable of a significant confession. President Seguret covered
his eyes with his hand. He resolved in his heart to renounce his love
for his misguided child. Clarissa felt it; all the ties which had
hitherto bound her were broken.
She had, then, been in the room on the evening of the nineteenth of
March? she was asked. She nodded. How had she come there? questioned
Monsieur Jausion further, and his tone and mien were marked by a
certain cautiousness and nicety, as if he feared to disturb the still
timorous spirits of memory. Clarissa remained silent. Had she come by
way of the Rue des Hebdomadiers? asked the Prefect. Clarissa nodded.
"Speak! Speak!" thundered Monsieur Seguret suddenly, and even the two
sheriff's officers were startled.
"I met several persons," Clarissa whispered in a tone so low that all
involuntarily bent their heads forward. "I was afraid of them, and I
ran, from fear, into the first open house."
Monsieur Jausion winked to the clerk. "Into this house, then?" he asked
in a caressing voice, while the clerk seated himself on the bench near
the stove and wrote in a crouching position.
Clarissa continued in the same plaintive whisper: "I opened the door of
this room. Somebody seized me by the arm and led me into the alcove. He
enjoined me to be silent. It was Bastide Grammont."
At last the name! But how different it was to pronounce it than merely
to think it! Clarissa paused, while she closed her eyes and elapsed her
hands convulsively. "After leaving me alone a while," she resumed as if
speaking in her sleep, "he returned, bade me follow him and led me into
the street. There he stood still and asked whether I knew him. I first
said yes, then no. Thereupon he asked me if I had seen anything, and I
said no. 'Go away!' he ordered, and I went. But I had not reached the
centre of the town when he was again at my side and took my hand in
his. 'I am not one of the murderers,' he protested, 'I met you and my
only object was to save you. Swear that you will remain silent, swear
on your father's life.' I swore, whereupon he left me. And that is
all."
Monsieur Jausion smiled skeptically. "You claim, Madame, to have fled
in here from the street," he remarked, "but it has been established by
unexceptionable testimony that the gate was locked from eight o'clock
on. How do you explain that?"
Clarissa remained mute, even her breath seemed to stop. The Prefect
motioned to Monsieur Jausion to desist; for the present enough had been
attained, it was enough that Bastide Grammont had been recognized by
Clarissa. The resolve to force the criminal, who denied all share in
the guilt, to a confession by having him unexpectedly confront the
witness, came as a matter of course.
The gentlemen led Clarissa to the carriage, as she was scarcely able to
walk. At home she lapsed into a peculiar state. First she lay back
lethargically in a chair; suddenly she sprang up and cried: "Take away
the murderers!" The door opened and the terrified face of a servant
appeared in the crack. All the domestics stood waiting in the hall,
most of them resolved to leave the President's service. Clarissa saw
herself deprived of all the protection of love, and cast out from the
circle where birth is respected and binding forms are recognized as the
least of duties. She was exposed to every eye, the boldest gaze could
pry into her inmost soul, she had become a public object, nothing about
her was any longer her own, she herself could no longer find herself,
find anything in herself upon which she could lean, she was branded,
without and within, food for the general prurience, tossed
defenselessly upon the filthy floods of gossip, the centre of a fearful
occurrence from which she could no more dissever her thoughts. Sadness,
grief, anxiety, scorn, these were no longer feelings for her, her blood
coursed too wildly for that; uncertainty of herself dominated her,
doubts as to her perception, doubts as to visible things in general;
and now and then she would prick her finger with a needle just to feel
the pain, which would serve as evidence of her being awake and might
preserve her heart from decay. Added to this, the torment she suffered
from the intrusive: appeals to tell the truth, the jeers from below,
the command from above, the thirst for revenge and the ineffaceableness
of a word once spoken; lastly, she saw the whole world filled with red
tongues, ceaselessly chattering; bloody tongues with snakelike
movements, directed toward her; every object she touched turned into a
slippery tongue. Human countenances grew dim, save one, which, despite
guilt and condemnation, was enthroned, in heroic suffering, high above
the others, nay, appeared preeminent through his guilt as well as his
defiance. And the day she was told that she was to confront Bastide
Grammont in order to accuse him, her pulses beat in joyous measure
again for the first time, and she arrayed herself as if for a festival.
The meeting was to take place in the magistrate's office. Besides
Monsieur Jausion and his clerks, Counselor Pinaud, who had returned,
was present. Monsieur Jausion cast a malicious glance at him over his
spectacles as Clarissa Mirabel, decked in lace, rustled in, bowed
smiling to the gentlemen, and then swept her gaze with cheerful
calmness over the inhospitable room. From a frame in the centre of the
wall the fat and ill-humored face of the King looked down upon her, as
ill-humored as if each one of his subjects were especially repugnant to
him. She forgot that it was only a picture that hung before her and
looked up with a coquettish pout.
The magistrate made a sign, a side-door was thrown open, and Bastide
Grammont, with hands chained together and with an officer of justice on
either side of him, walked in. Clarissa gave a low cry and her face
turned livid.
Prison atmosphere enveloped Bastide. The shaggy hair, the long,
neglected beard, the staring, somewhat dazed look, the slight stoop, as
of a carrier of burdens, of the gigantic form, the secretly quivering
wrath upon his newly furrowed brow--all proclaimed their cause and
origin. Yes, he seemed to carry about him the invisible walls which
filled him with agony and gloom, and which, month after month, pictured
to him with more and more hopeless brilliance the images of freedom,
until finally they refused to delude him with blooming tree or
flourishing field; then they resembled the desolate gray of an autumn
evening, when the air already smacks of winter, the hearse rattles
oftener than usual past the garden-gate toward the little churchyard,
and the rising half-moon floats in glowing radiance in the misty azure
like a bleeding, divided heart.
And yet that haughty eye, in which shone the resolve to be true to
himself? And yet that strangely bitter scorn in his mien which might be
compared to the cautious and at the same time majestic crouching of a
tiger cat? The infinite contempt with which he looked at the hands of
the clerks, prepared to write, his inner freedom and grand detachment
in spite of the handcuffs and the two soldiers?
It was this that wrung the cry from Clarissa's lips, and drove the mad
merriment from her face. Not, indeed, because she was forced to behold
the former genius of the woods and wilds bound and shattered, but
because she recognized as in a flash of lightning that that hand could
not have wielded a murderous knife, that such a deed did not touch the
circle of his being, even if he may have been capable of the act, and
that all was in vain, an incomprehensible intoxication and madness, an
impenetrable horror, an exhibition of hypocrisy and disease, A
dizziness seized her as if she were falling from a high tower. She was
ashamed of her showy dress, its conspicuous finery, and in passionate
excitement she tore the costly lace from her arms and, with an
expression of the utmost loathing, threw it on the ground.
Monsieur Jausion must have interpreted it differently. Again he smiled
at Monsieur Pinaud, but this time in triumph, as if he would say: the
sample tallies. "Do you know this lady, Bastide Grammont?" he asked the
prisoner. Bastide turned his head aside, and his look of careless,
bitter disdain cut Clarissa to the quick. "I don't know her," he
replied gloomily, "I have never seen her."
And once more Monsieur Jausion smiled, as if to correct a parsing
error, and murmured: "That is not possible; Madame Mirabel, dressed at
that time as a man, and with a hat with green feathers, was in the
Bancal house, and was led by you yourself to the street, where you
received her oath. I beg you to call it to mind."
Bastide's face contracted as if at the annoying persistence of a fly,
and he repeated in a loud, energetic tone: "I don't know the lady. I
have never seen her." And his tightly compressed lips betrayed his firm
resolve to remain silent.
Monsieur Jausion adjusted his wig and looked troubled. "What answer
have you to that, Madame?" he asked, addressing Clarissa.
"He may not know that I saw him," she said in a whisper, but her voice
had the penetrating quality of the chirping of a cricket.
Bastide turned toward her once more, and in the somewhat oblique glance
of his wearily brilliant eyes there was a mixture of curiosity and
scorn, no more, however, than would be bestowed upon a mushroom or a
spider. Inwardly he weighed, as it were, the slender, childlike form,
wondered casually at the agitation of her gestures, her flashing eyes,
the helpless twitching of her lips, wondered at the lace lying on the
floor, and thought he was dreaming when he became aware that an
imploring gesture of her hands was meant for him.
The magistrate sprang up and, with distorted face, cried: "Do not jest
with us, Madame, it may cost you dear. Speak out, then! A forced oath
is not valid! The peace of your fellow-citizens, the peace of the
country is at stake. Free yourself from the spell of the wretched
being! Your infamous smile, Grammont, will be laid to your account on
the day of the sentence."
Counselor Pinaud stepped forward and murmured a few words into the ear
of Bastide, who lifted his arms, and with an expression of consuming
rage pressed his clenched, chained hands to his eyes. Clarissa
staggered to the magistrate's table, and while a deadly pallor
overspread her cheeks, she shrieked: "It is all a lie! Lie! Lie!"
Monsieur Jausion measured her from head to foot. "Then I place you in
the position of an accused person, Madame, and declare you under
arrest."
A gleam of mournful satisfaction flitted over Clarissa's features.
Swiftly, with the lightning-like wheeling of a dancer, she turned
toward Bastide Grammont, looked at him as one looks up at a stormy sky
after a sultry day, and with a pained, long-drawn breath, she called
his name in a low voice. He, however, stepped back as if at an impure
touch, and never before had Clarissa encountered such a glance and
expression of disdain. Her knees shook, a feeling of distress overcame
her, her eyes filled with tears. It was only when the door of the
prison closed behind her that the helpless sensation of being flogged
left her. Shame and remorse overpowered her; even the mysteriousness of
her position afforded her but slight consolation. Controlled by no law,
she seemed to have been shoved off the track upon which, in the
ordinary course of nature, cause and effect, cumbrously linked
together, crawl along in the slow process of experience.
In accordance with her station, she had been assigned the best room in
the prison. The first hours she lay on the straw-bed and writhed in
agony. When the keeper on her urgent request brought a light, as she
feared she would go insane in the darkness, the candle-light fell upon
the image of Christ upon the cross with the crown of thorns, which hung
upon the gray-tinted wall. She gave a shriek, her overstrained senses
found in the features of the Saviour a resemblance to those of Bastide
Grammont. His lips had had the same agonized curve when he pressed his
clenched hands to his eyes.
Once more she rebelled against the boundless injustice. To live with
the world was her real element; her entire nature was attuned to a
kindly understanding with people. She asked for paper and pen, and
wrote a letter to the Prefect.
"Justice, Count!" she wrote. "It is still time to prevent the worst.
Remember the difficulty you had in extorting from me what was supposed
to be the truth, remember the threats which made me compliant. I am a
victim of circumstances. Whatever I confessed is false. No man of sense
can discover the stamp of probability in my statements. In a freak of
desperation I bore false witness. Tell my father that his cruelty is
more sure to rob him of his daughter than her seeming transgression.
Already I know not what I should believe, the past escapes my memory,
my confidence begins to totter. If it is too much to ask for justice,
then I beg for mercy. My destiny seeks to try me, but my heart is clear
as the day."
[Illustration: BATHING WOMAN]
It was in vain. It was too late for words, even if the mouth of a
prophet had proclaimed them in tones of thunder. The next morning many
of the witnesses and prisoners were brought before Clarissa. Thus there
were Bach, the Bancals, the soldier Colard, Rose Feral, Missonier, and
little Madeleine Bancal. Bousquier was ill. The sight of the crushed,
slouching, phantom-like creatures, intimidated by a hundred torments,
revengefully ready for any deed, disturbed her to the core, and gave
her at the same time a feeling of indelible contamination. "Is she the
one?" each of the unfortunates was asked--and with insolent
indifference they answered: "It is she." Missonier alone stood there
laughing like an idiot.
Clarissa was amazed. She had not expected that the answers would be
characterized by such assurance, such a matter-of-fact air. With inward
sobs she held from her what was undeniable in the present situation,
and shudderingly sought a path in her memory to that past situation on
which the present was founded and which she was asked to verify. Her
agitated spirit crept back to her earlier years, back to her youth, to
her childhood, in order to discover her inimical second-self; that
which had seemed weird and strange gradually became the essence and
centre of her being, and the fateful night in Bancal's house turned,
like the rest of the world, into a vision of blood and wounds.
But athwart the gloomy fancies the way led to Bastide Grammont; a
flowery path among burning houses. It seemed fine to her to be assured
of his guilt. Perchance he had pressed his lips to hers before he had
clutched the murderous knife. She coupled her own obscurely felt guilt
with his greater one. That which cut him off from humanity bound him to
her. His reasons for the deed? She did not concern herself about them.
No doubt it had struck root when she had first beheld him, when he had
swallowed in a breath all the wood, all the springtime. No matter
whether he dipped his hands in the sunlight or in blood, both pertained
to his image, to her mysterious passion, and Fualdes was the evil
genius and the destructive principle. "Ah," she reflected in her
singular musing, "had I known of it, I should have committed the deed
myself and might have been a heroine like Charlotte Corday!" Why,
however, did he deny it, why was he silent? Why that look of
overwhelming contempt, which she could not forget and which still
scorched her skin like a brand of infamy? Was he too proud to bow to a
sentence which put his crime on a level with that of any highwayman? No
doubt he did not recognize his judges. She could, then, draw him down
to herself, make him dependent upon the breath of her lips; and she
forgot the iron alternatives that confront one's destiny here, and let
herself go like a child that knows nothing of death.
The trial before the court of assizes was set for the sixteenth of
October. At noon of the tenth, Clarissa requested an interview with
Monsieur Jausion. Conducted before the magistrate, she declared she
knew about the whole matter, and wished to confess everything. In a
voice trembling with excitement. Monsieur Jausion summoned his clerks.
"I came into the room and saw the knife glisten," Clarissa confessed.
"I took refuge in the alcove, Bastide Grammont hurried after me,
embraced and kissed me. He confided to me that Fualdes must die, for
the old devil had destroyed his happiness and made life worthless to
him. Bastide was intoxicated, as it were, with enthusiasm, and when I
raised objections, he stopped my mouth with kisses once more, yes, he
kissed me so hard that I could not offer any resistance. Then he had me
take an oath, whereupon he left me and I heard a groaning, I heard a
terrible cry; little Madeleine Bancal, who was lying in bed, raised
herself suddenly and wept. Then I lost consciousness, and when I
regained it I found myself in the street."
She recounted this story in a mechanically measured tone; her voice had
a metallic ring, her eyes were veiled and half closed, her little hands
hung heavy at her side, and when she ceased she gazed before her with a
pleased smile.
"You had consorted with Bastide Grammont before that, then?" questioned
the Magistrate.
"Yes, we met in the forest. In the neighborhood of La Morne there is an
old well in the field; there, also, we used to meet frequently;
particularly at night and by moonlight. Once Bastide took me on his
horse and we rode at a furious pace to the gorge at Guignol. I asked,
'What are you fleeing from, Bastide?' for I was cold with fright; and
he whispered: 'From myself and from the world.' Otherwise, however, he
was always gentle. I have never known a better man."
More and more silvery rang her voice, and finally she spoke like one
transported or asleep. Her statement was read aloud to her; she affixed
her signature calmly and without hesitation, whereupon Monsieur Jausion
stated to her that she was free.
In the chateau she was met by a hostile silence. The few domestics who
remained whispered insolently behind her back. Nobody looked to her
comfort, she had to fetch the pitcher of water herself from the
kitchen. In the meantime when President Seguret returned home, he
already knew, as did the whole town, about Clarissa's confession. The
circumstance of her amorous relation to Bastide shed a sudden light
upon preceding events and wove a halo about her former silence. But
Monsieur Seguret only hardened his heart all the more, and when he
passed her as she stood on the threshold of her room, he turned away
his head with a gesture of disgust.
In the evening the President entertained a number of his friends. In
the course of the meal the door opened and Clarissa made her
appearance. Monsieur Seguret sprang from his chair, rage robbing him of
speech. "Do not dare," he stammered hoarsely, "do not dare!"
Regardless of that, Clarissa advanced to the edge of the table. A
radiant, bewitching expression lit up her countenance. She turned her
full gaze upon her father, so that he dropped his glance as if dazzled.
"Do not revile me, father," she said gently in a tone of captivating
entreaty.
She turned to one of the guests with a commonplace question. The
gentleman addressed hesitated, seemed confounded, astonished, but was
unable to resist. Her features, pallid from the prison atmosphere, had
acquired something dreamily spiritual; the most ordinary word from her
lips had a charm of its own.
The conversation became general; the guests conquered, nay, forgot,
their secret amazement. Clarissa's wit and playful humor exercised a
great fascination. Along with them, there was a sensuously pungent air
about her which does not escape men, her gestures had something
flattering, her eyes glowed with a romantic fire. Disturbed, lending
but a reluctant ear. Monsieur Seguret could, nevertheless, not wholly
evade the witchery which took his guests captive. A power stronger than
his resolve forced him to leniency; he took a timid share in the
conversation, in spite of the heavy load upon his heart. The talk
turned upon politics, books, art, hunting, the war, nothing and
everything--a sparkling interchange of polished phrases and sparkling
reflections, of smiles and plaudits, jest and earnest. At times it
seemed like a scene in a play enacted with masterly skill, or as if a
light intoxication induced by champagne had exhilarated their spirits;
each one was at his best and strove to outdo himself, and Clarissa held
and led them all, like a fairy who upon a chariot of clouds guides a
flock of pigeons.
Shortly after midnight she rose, a fleeting, complacent, capricious
smile flashing across her face, and, with a rather affected bow, she
left the room, the men relapsing into a sudden, strange silence.
Monsieur Seguret was agitated when he conducted his guests to the door,
and they left the chateau as silently as thieves.
The President strode up and down the entrance-hall awhile, his thoughts
chasing each other like a fleeing troop of wild animals. As the echo of
his footsteps struck him unpleasantly, he stepped out into the garden,
and, strolling in the winding paths, he inhaled the fresh night air
with a feeling of relief. As lie was leaving the avenue of yews, a
streak of light fell across the path; Monsieur Seguret stepped upon the
low wall encircling a small fountain and could thus look into
Clarissa's room, the windows of which stood open. With difficulty he
refrained from crying out in astonishment on beholding Clarissa in a
loose nightdress, dancing with an expression of ecstasy and with
passionate movements. Her eyes were tightly closed, as if they were
sealed, her eyebrows lifted in coquettish anxiety, her shoulders rocked
in a stream of inaudible tones whose tempo seemed now hurried, now
excessively slow. Suddenly she seized something and held it before
her,--it was a mirror; glancing into it, she recoiled with a shudder
and let it fall, so that the listener could hear the clinking of the
broken glass; then she went up to the window, tore her dress from her
bosom, laid her hand upon her bare breast and looked straight in the
direction where Monsieur Seguret was standing. He crouched down as if a
gun had been aimed at him; Clarissa, however, did not see him; she
fixed her gaze awhile upon the sweeping clouds and then closed the
window. The President remained standing at his post some time longer
and was unable to divert the current of his thoughts. Whom is she
deceiving? he pondered, distressed--herself, or people in general, or
God?
For the first time in many days Clarissa enjoyed a peaceful sleep once
more. Yet when she laid herself in her white bed the pillows seemed to
assume a purple hue and she fell into slumber as into an abyss. She
dreamed of landscapes, of weird old houses, and of a sky that looked
like clotted blood. She herself wandered in the silvery light, and
without feeling any touch or seeing any human form, she nevertheless
had a sensation of passionate kisses being pressed upon her lips, and
there was a stirring in her body as of life taking shape.
This strange mood and agitation endured for days afterward. A silvery
veil lay between her and the world. For fear of rending it, she spoke
in low tones and walked with measured steps; beyond it, the sun had no
more illuminating power than the moon. When, on the evening before the
trial, she was returning from a stroll in the fields, she saw two women
standing in the gateway of the chateau. One of them hurried forward to
meet her, threw herself on her knees and seized her hands. It was
Charlotte Arlabosse. "What have you done?" murmured the beautiful girl,
panting. "He is innocent, by Christ's Passion, he is innocent! Have
mercy, Madame, even if not upon me, at least upon his old mother!"
The crimson of the setting sun lit up her features, distorted by grief.
Behind Charlotte there stood a lady of portly build, with great warts
on her hands; yet her face was thin, and her countenance as motionless
as that of the dead. She resembled a tree exuberant in strength, whose
crown is blighted.
Clarissa made a deprecatory gesture, yet she retained a friendly and
calm air. A second later, she thought she beheld herself in the
kneeling figure, beheld her double; and a cruel triumph filled her
heart. "Have no care, my child," said she, smiling, in a low voice; "as
far as Bastide is concerned, everything is already settled." Thereupon
she opened the gate and walked into the house. Charlotte arose and
gazed motionless through the grating.
That night Clarissa retired early, but she awoke at four o'clock and
began dressing. She selected a black velvet dress, and, as her only
ornament, she fastened a diamond star in the edge of it at her bare
neck. Her heart beat faster the nearer the hour approached. At eight
o'clock the carriage drew up; it was a long drive to Alby, where the
Court of Assizes sat. Monsieur Seguret had ridden away early in the
morning, nobody knew whither.
The walls of the old town had hardly come in sight before such a mass
of people was to be seen on the road that the horses were obliged to
slacken their pace. They surrounded the carriage and gazed with
strained attention into the open windows; women lifted up their
children that they, too, might see the famous Madame Mirabel. She did
not seek to escape the general curiosity; with the happy smile of a
bride she sat there, her fine black brows lifted high on her forehead.
On the stroke of ten President Enjalran, who was to preside at the
trial, appeared in the overcrowded hall, and after the reading of the
lengthy indictment Bastide was summoned to the hearing.
Firm as if cast in bronze he stood before the judge's table. His
answers were cool, terse, and clear. From beginning to end he now saw
through the senseless fable, woven of stupidity and malice. By a biting
sarcasm he showed his unutterable contempt of all the accusations
against him, thus placing the counsel assigned to him at the last
moment, with whom he stubbornly refused to confer, in no slight
embarrassment.
Now and then he turned his glance toward the tall, church-like windows,
and when he caught sight of a bird that had alighted on the sill and
dug his yellow bill into the feathers on his breast, he lost his
self-command for a moment and his lips parted in pain.
His examination lasted but a short time. It was only a matter of form,
for his fate was sealed. With Bach, Colard, and the other accomplices,
Monsieur d'Enjalran's task was easy; their testimony was petrified, as
it were. Bousquier had died in prison. Of the others, each one sought
to grab at a little remnant of innocence; they produced the impression
of men crushed and wholly bereft of will-power. A sensation was created
by old Bancal, who became hysterical during his examination, and then,
protesting his innocence, behaved like a madman. The humpbacked
Missonier grinned when the question of his presence at the murder was
discussed; he had become brutalized by his long imprisonment and the
repeated examinations. Little Madeleine Bancal behaved like an actress,
and greeted her acquaintances and patrons in the audience by throwing
them kisses. Rose Feral turned deadly pale at the sight of the bloody
rags on the Judge's table, and could not utter a word. Madame Bancal
remembered that Monsieur Fualdes was dragged into her house by six men,
that he was made to sign a number of papers, crisscross, as she said.
The day following, she had found one of these bills, made out upon
stamped paper, but as it was stained with blood, had burned it. More
than that she positively refused to confess, met all questions with a
stolid silence, and declared finally that whatever else she knew she
would confide to her confessor alone.
The witnesses testified placidly the most incredible things. Their
memory was so good that they recollected the hour and minute of the
merest trifles, which are forgotten from one day to the next. In night
and fog they had seen and recognized people, their features, their
gestures, the color of their clothes. They had heard speaking,
whispering, sighing, through thick walls. A beggar by the name of
Laville, who used to sleep in Missonier's stable, had heard not only
the organ-grinders but also four men carrying a burden, something like
men dragging a barrel. Bastide Grammont laughed repeatedly at
statements which he declared to be shameless lies. When the Bancal
woman began her testimony he remarked that since it came so late he had
expected that the old woman would be delivered of it with still greater
difficulty. To another witness he represented, in a vibrating voice,
how the hand of Heaven rested heavy upon her, and reminded her of the
awful death of her child. He was like a fencer whose opponent is the
mist; nobody, indeed, replied to him, he stood alone, the
contradictions which he believed he had demonstrated remained there,
that was all. At first he was self-confident and maintained his
composure, looked firmly into the witnesses' faces; then he felt as if
his sense for the significance of words were leaving him, not alone for
his own but for that of all the words in existence, or as if the ground
were giving way under him and he were falling irresistibly from space
to space into an awful, infinite, boundless void. His mind refused to
work; he asked himself, horrified, whether this was still life, dared
call itself life; Nature's glorious structure seemed to him ravaged
like a wall rent by a storm, the speaking mouth of all these people
struck him as nothing but a chasm convulsively and repellently opening
and shutting, darkness invaded his spirit, he burned with a feeling of
shame, he felt ashamed in the name of the nameless God, ashamed that
his body was molded like that of these creatures around him. He had
loved the world, had once loved the people in it; now he was ashamed of
them. It pained him to think that he had ever cherished hopes, buoyed
up his heart with promises, that sunshine and sky had ever been able to
lure from him a joyful glance, sportive words a smile; he wished he
had, like the stone by the wayside, never betrayed what he felt, so
that he might not have been doomed to bear witness before his own
branded, scourged, unspeakably humiliated self. Thought alone seemed
offensive enough to him, how much more so what he could have said; it
was nothing, less than a breath. What could he depend upon? what hope
for? They had no faith, not even in his scorn, not even in his silence.
And Bastide locked himself up, and looked into the dawning countenance
of Death.
It was already growing dark when the King's evidence, Madame Mirabel,
was finally summoned to the court-room, and the whole tired assemblage
started up convulsively like a single body. She entered, and in spite
of the close air of the room, she seemed to be shivering. She trembled
visibly on taking the oath. Monsieur d'Enjalran urged her to testify
in accordance with the truth. In a strange, uniformly dull tone, yet
speaking rather hurriedly, she repeated the statement that she had made
before the examining magistrate. An oppressive silence pervaded the
hall, and her voice, in consequence, grew steadily lower. She knew now
a multitude of details, had seen the long knife lying on the table, had
seen Bancal and Colard bring in a wooden tub, and the lawyer Fualdes
sitting with bowed shoulders near the lamp, writing. She had also seen
the mysterious stranger with the wooden leg, and noticed that Bach and
Bousquier unfolded a large white cloth. To the question why she had
appeared in men's clothes, she gave no reply. And when, with fingers
convulsively clasped, head bowed, her slender body bent slightly
forward, writhing almost imperceptibly, as if in the clutches of an
animal, yet with that blissful, sweet smile which lent her countenance
an expression of subdued madness, she related with bated breath how
Bastide had embraced and kissed her in the dark adjoining room, he
sprang up suddenly, wrung his hands in despair and made a few hurried
steps until he stood at Clarissa's side. His heavy breathing was
audible to all.
The presiding officer rebuked him for his behavior, which he designated
as indelicate, but Bastide cried in a firm, ringing voice: "Before God,
who hears me and will judge me, I declare that it is all an awful lie.
I have never as much as touched that woman or set eyes upon her."
Clarissa turned as white as chalk. It seemed to her as if she had but
just now heard the clinking of the shattered mirror which she had
dashed to the floor after the dance. When the prosecuting attorney
asked her to continue, she remained silent; her eyes rolled and her
whole body shook convulsively.
"Speak out!" exclaimed Bastide, addressing her, and indignation almost
choked his voice, "speak! Your silence is even more ruinous to me than
all the lies."
Clarissa lifted her eyes to him and asked with curious emotion: "Do you
really not know me, Bastide?"
"No! no! no!" he burst out, and looking upward he muttered in distress:
"She is demented."
Within a second's space Clarissa grew fiery red and again deathly pale.
And turning toward Bastide once more, she exclaimed in a terrible tone
of reproach: "Oh, murderer!"
The public applauded. Clarissa reeled, however; an usher of the court
hurried to her side and caught her in his arms, a number of ladies left
their places and busied themselves about her, and half an hour elapsed
before she regained consciousness; but her appearance was as changed as
if she had suddenly aged by twenty years. Monsieur d'Enjalran tried to
continue the examination, but she answered only in incoherent words;
she did not know; it was possible; she did not wish to contradict.
Bastide Grammont had resumed his seat in the prisoner's dock;
immeasurable distress and consternation were pictured on his
countenance. His counsel bade Clarissa, since she had spoken, to
continue. "I adjure you, Madame, make yourself clear," he said; "it
depends upon you whether an innocent man shall be saved or shall be
sent to the scaffold." Clarissa remained silent, as if she had not
heard; in her breast there surged, like morning mist over the waters, a
consoling and captivating image. Counselor Pinaud now turned to her
with a severe exhortation; she was not to think she could make her
assertions at will and suppress what she wished. The prosecuting
attorney spoke up for her, saying that the cause of her silence was
known; she herself had asserted that she entertained a conviction the
grounds of which she could not state; it should suffice that she had
uttered what was of the greatest importance; nay, he declared,
moreover, that any further urging would be improper. He had not
concluded his speech when Clarissa interrupted him; raising her right
arm she said in solemn protest: "I have taken no oath."
Bastide Grammont looked up. Shaking off his stupor, he raised himself
slowly and began in a voice all the more affecting by its calmness:
"Prison walls do not speak. And yet the time will come when they will
find a voice and will proclaim the secret means which have been
employed to force all these wretches to make lies a shameful bulwark of
their lives. Fualdes was not my enemy, he was only my creditor. If
covetousness had misled a man otherwise decent and moderate, if it had
armed his hand, I would never, for all that, have raised it against a
defenseless old man. If you want a sacrifice, take me; I am ready, but
do not mingle my lot with that of this brood. My family, who have
always dwelt in the country, and have followed the customs and simple
ways of rural life, are disgraced. My mother weeps and is crushed.
Judge whether I, who am plunged in this sea of misfortune, can still
cherish a love of life. I loved freedom once, I loved animals, the
water, the sky, the air, and the fruits of the trees; but now I am
dishonored, and if there were a future before me it would be sullied
with shame, and the time would have an ill taste. Is it a court of
justice before which I have been summoned? No, it is a hunt, the judge
has become a hunter and prepares the innocent one to be a tidbit for
the rabble. I ask no longer for justice, it is too late to mete out
justice to me, too late, were the crown of France itself to be offered
to me. I surrender myself to you to destroy me, your conscience will be
loaded with that burden. One guilty man makes many, and your children's
children will for this flood the living world with disgrace."
A paralyzed silence succeeded these words. But suddenly there burst
forth an indescribable tumult. The public and the jurors arose and
clenched their fists at Bastide Grammont, screamed and howled in wild
confusion, Monsieur d'Enjalran's exhortation dying away unheard. And
just as suddenly a deathly silence ensued. A faint, long-drawn cry
which arose in the din, and now continued its plaintive note, petrified
the faces of the listeners. All eyes tourned toward Clarissa. She felt
the glances showering down upon her like the beams in a falling
building.
Her heart was aflame with a desire for expiation ...
The speech of the public prosecutor gathered together once more the
weapons of hatred which Rumor had forged against its victims; with
cunning skill, he painted the night of the murder in such colors that
the horror of it seemed to live for the first time, Bastide's advocate,
on the other hand, contented himself with high-sounding phrases; he
waxed warm, his listeners remained cold. While he was speaking there
was a shoving and pushing in the rear of the hall; some of the ladies
shrieked, a fair-sized dog ran through an opening in the bar, looked
around him with glistening eyes, and, giving a short bark, crouched at
Bastide's feet. Deeply moved, he laid his hand on the animal's neck,
and motioned the usher, who wanted to remove it, back with a commanding
gesture.
When the court retired for consultation, no one dared speak above a
whisper. A woman sobbed and she was told to be quiet; it was the
Benoit girl, Colard's sweetheart. She had wound her arms about the
poor wretch's shoulders and her tear-stained face expressed but one
desire--to share his fate. A relative of Bastide approached him in
order to speak to him; Bastide shook his head and did not even look at
the man. A sort of drowsiness had settled on his countenance--at
any rate, words no longer carried any weight in his ears. Yet it
happened that he lifted his eyes once more and after coursing through
illimitable space they met those of Clarissa. Now the strange woman did
not strike him as so strange. He heard, again the sound of her voice
when she called him murderer; was it not rather a cry for help than an
accusation? and that beseeching look, as if invisible hands were
clutching at her throat? and that most delicate form so singularly free
from indications of her age, quivering like a young birch in autumn?
Two lonely shipwrecked beings are driven by the currents of the ocean
to the same spot, coming from opposite ends of the earth, unable to
abandon the plank upon which their life depends, unable even to grasp
each other's hands simply driven by the gradually dying wind to unknown
depths. There was something weird in their mutual feeling of
compassion. Yet Bastide's pained and gloomy astonishment gave way to
the dreamy intoxication of fatigue, and the watchful eyes of his dog
appeared to him like two reddish stars between black tree-tops. He
heard the sentence of death when the court returned; he had risen, and
listened to the words of the presiding judge; it sounded like the
splashing of raindrops on withered leaves. He heard himself say
something, but what it was he hardly knew. He saw many faces turned
toward him in the dim light, and they gave him the impression of
worm-eaten and decaying apples.
The verdict concerning the other accused persons was not to be
announced until the following day. The crowds in the hall, in the
entrances, and on the street, dispersed slowly. When Clarissa passed
through the corridor every one stepped timidly aside.
She had learned that Bastide was not to be taken back to Rodez, but was
to remain in the prison at Alby. She thereupon dismissed the carriage
that was waiting for her, betook herself to an inn near by, where she
asked for a room, and wrote a letter to her father--a few feverishly
agitated sentences: "I know no longer what is truth and what is
falsehood; Bastide is innocent, and I have destroyed him, though my
desire was to help him; Yes and No are in my breast like two
extinguished flames; if I were to return whence I came I should suffer
a continual death; for that reason and because people live as they do,
I go where I must." It was already past midnight when she asked to
speak to the host. She requested him to send the letter in the morning
to Chateau Perrie by a reliable messenger; she then asked the startled
man to sell her a small basket of fresh fruit. The host expressed a
polite regret that he had nothing more in his storeroom. Passionately
urgent, she offered him ten, twentyfold its value and threw a gold
piece on the table. "It is for a dying person," she said, "everything
depends upon it." The man gazed anxiously at the pallid, gleaming
countenance of the distinguished looking woman and pondered, declaring
finally that he would rouse his neighbor, and bidding her wait. Left
alone, she knelt down by the bedside, buried her face in the pillows
and wept. After half an hour the host returned, carrying a basket full
of pears, grapes, pomegranates, and peaches. Shaking his head, he
followed her with his eyes as she hastened away, and held the sealed
letter, which he was to forward, inquisitively up to the light.
The streets were desolate and bathed in shadowy moonlight. The windows
of the little houses were blinking drowsily; under a gateway stood the
night-watchman with a halberd and mumbled like a drunken man. In front
of the low prison building there was an open space; Clarissa seated
herself on a stone bench, and, as there was a pump near by and she felt
thirsty, drank her fill. The softly swelling outlines of the hills
melted almost imperceptibly into the sky, and behind a depression in
the landscape a fire-light was glowing; she seemed to hear, too, on
listening intently, the ringing of bells. The whole world was not
asleep, then, and she could link her anxious heart to human concerns
once more. After a time she rose, stepped over to the building, set the
basket of fruit on the ground, and knocked with the knocker at the
gate. It was a long while before the door-keeper appeared and gruffly
demanded what she wanted. "I must speak to Bastide Grammont," she
declared. The man made a face as if a demented person had waylaid him,
growled in a threatening tone and was about to bang the door in her
face. Clarissa clutched his arm with one hand, and tore the diamond
brooch from her breast with the other. "There, there, there!" she
stammered. The old man raised his lantern and examined the sparkling
jeweled ornament on all sides. Clarissa misinterpreted his grinning,
anxious joy, thought he was not satisfied, and gave him her purse into
the bargain, "What is in the basket?" he inquired respectfully but
suspiciously. She showed him what it contained. He contented himself
with that, thought she was most likely the mistress of the condemned
man, and, upon locking the door, walked on in front of her. They
descended a few steps, then crossed a narrow passage. "How long do you
wish to stay inside?" asked the keeper, when they had reached an iron
door. Clarissa drew a deep breath and replied in a whisper that she
would give three knocks on the door. The old man nodded, said he would
wait at the head of the stairs, opened the door cautiously, handed the
woman his lantern and locked the door behind her.
Inside Clarissa clung to the wall to give her riotous pulses time to
subside. The room seemed moderately large and not altogether
uninhabitable. Bastide lay on a pallet along the opposite wall, asleep
and fully dressed. "What a stillness!" thought Clarissa shuddering, and
stole softly to the bedside of the sleeping man. What quiet in that
countenance, too, what a beautiful slumber, thought she, and her lips
parted in mute sorrow. She placed the lantern on the floor where its
light would strike his face, then she knelt down and listened to his
steady breathing. Bastide's mouth was firmly closed, his eyelids were
motionless, a sign of dreamlessness; his long beard encircled cheeks
and chin like brown brushwood, his head was thrown slightly backward,
and his hair shone with a moist gleam. Gradually the peace of his
countenance passed into Clarissa too; all words, all signs which she
had brought with her vanished, she determined to do nothing more than
place her gift by his bed and depart. Accordingly she emptied the
basket, and started and paused every time she heard but a grain of sand
crunch under her feet. When she had laid out all the fruit and passed
her hand tenderly over each, she grew more and more peaceful and calm;
she felt herself so strangely bound to death that she dismissed the
thought of leaving this room with a feeling akin to fear, and prepared
to do what possessed her so strongly, with a composed assurance. A
desire to kiss him arose within her, and she actually bent down toward
him, but a commanding awe arrested her, more even than the fear that he
might awake. Her body twisted and turned, she embraced him in spirit
and felt as if she were freed from the earth, like a pearl dropped from
a ring. She then rose quietly, walked softly to the other side of the
room, stretched herself on the floor, took a small penknife and opened
the veins in both wrists by deep cuts. Within a quarter of an hour she
sighed twice, and the hand of Death sought in vain to wipe the
enraptured smile from her pallid lips.
Bastide still slept on, that abysmal sleep where total oblivion chains
and numbs body and spirit. Then he began to dream. He found himself in
a spacious, secluded chamber, the centre of which was occupied by a
richly decked table. Many people were seated around it; they were
carousing and having a merry time. Suddenly all eyes were turned to the
middle of the table, where a vessel of opaque blue glass, which had not
been there before, now stood. What was in the glass receptacle? what
could it signify? who brought it? was asked in muffled tones. Thereupon
an uncanny silence ensued; all gazed now at the blue vessel, now, with
sullen suspicion, at each other. All at once, the jovial revelers of a
few moments ago arose and one accused the other of having placed the
covered dish on the table. A violent clamor now arose, some drew their
poniards, others swung chairs about, and meanwhile a slim, nude girl's
figure was seen to emerge, like white smoke, from the vessel on the
table. Bastide knew the face, it was that of the false witness
Clarissa; with snake-like glistening eyes she gazed at him, always only
at him. All the men followed her glance and they hurled themselves upon
him. "You must die! You must die!" resounded from hoarse throats, but
while they were still shouting their voices died away, the shadowy arms
of the false witness stretched themselves out and divided one of the
walls, exposing to view a blooming garden, in the centre of which stood
a scaffold hung with branches laden with ripe fruit. Bastide was a boy
once more; slowly he strode out, Clarissa's hands waved above him and
plucked the fruit, and his fear of death was dulled by their
intoxicating perfume, which, like a cloud, filled the entire hall, nay,
the entire universe.
Here he awoke. His first drowsy glance fell upon the flickering light
of the lantern, the second upon a huge pear, which, yellow as a rising
moon, lay at his bedside. In dazed, joyous astonishment he grasped it,
but on raising it to his lips noticed that it was stained with blood.
He was startled, thought he was still dreaming. Beyond the windows the
gray light of dawn was already spreading. Now he caught sight of the
other fruit, gorgeous and abundant, as if paradise had been pillaged.
But all was stained with blood ... A little rivulet of blood, divided
into two streams, trickled over from the corner of the wall.
And Bastide saw ...
He tried to rise, but his unfinished sleep still paralyzed his body.
Bitter and wild grief wrung his breast. He longed no more for the day
which awoke so drearily outside; weary of his own heart-beats and
perfectly sure of what had happened and must happen, he yearned for the
final end. He desired no special knowledge of the consummated fate of
the being on the other side of the cell, who, dominated by mysterious
spirits, had trust herself into his path--no knowledge of men and what
they built or destroyed. Man was an abomination to him.
And yet when his glance fell upon the splendid fruit once more, he felt
the woe of all creation; he wished at least to close the eyes of the
giver. But just then the keeper, grown suspicious, turned the key in
the lock.
BERNHARD KELLERMANN
* * * * * *
GOD'S BELOVED (1911)
TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE ROYCE
Before dawn the lawyer rose from his bed, and at that very moment a
thousand little birds, who lived in his room, began to twitter and
trill. "Awake so early, little ones!" whispered the lawyer. He never
spoke aloud.
"Well, good morning! Hush! Hush!"
And the thousand little birds chirped in answer and then obediently
stopped singing.
The lawyer wrapped a thick woolen shawl around his shoulders, for he
was always very cold, slipped his feet into his wadded boots, drew on
his gloves, put his fur cap on his bald head and went out of the house.
It was still night and everything looked unreal and magical. Now and
then the grass would bow down with a sudden jerk, as people do in their
sleep, if they dream that they are falling, and then for a moment the
lawyer would feel a warm breath, which vanished as suddenly as it came.
A confused mass of gray and black clouds swept rapidly across the sky
and at the zenith three golden stars were visible in a line, so that
they looked like a flying spear darting through the clouds. The lawyer
gazed thoughtfully for some moments at the flying spear while his mind
struggled with some dim idea. Then he hurried with short shuffling
steps as quietly as possible along the sandy paths of the asylum
gardens.
"Hush, keep still!" he whispered, as he passed some bushes in which
something was stirring.
At the edge of the kitchen-garden there was an old well with a pump
which was no longer used, and here the lawyer began his task. He put
the watering-pot under the spout and began to pump, trying to make no
noise. As there was but little water in the well and the lawyer pumped
slowly and cautiously, it took him half an hour to fill the pot. Then,
panting and coughing, the little man carried it to the garden beds, and
began to water the flowers, smiling happily and speaking lovingly to
them meanwhile. "Don't be in such a hurry, little ones," he whispered,
"my dear children, how you drink! Good morning!"
But just then began a great fluttering and stirring in an elder bush.
Hundreds of little birds suddenly thrust their heads out between the
leaves and chirped to the lawyer.
He made a startled gesture. "For heaven's sake, be quiet!" said he.
"You are always trying to be the first! Every morning. Hush!" And
immediately silence reigned in the elder bush.
The lawyer went quietly from bed to bed and watered his flowers. He
stopped frequently to draw a deep breath and gazed up at the sky, where
the motionless golden spear still seemed to be darting through the
clouds. He pondered for some time over that and shook his head. From
the "violent ward" came a longdrawn wailing, which at regular intervals
was merged in pitiful weeping. But the lawyer paid no attention to
these sounds. He only heard the birds fluttering their wings and
whetting their beaks in the bushes.
A night nurse passed by, shivering.
"Already at work, so early?" said she, turning her pale face toward
him.
The lawyer put down his watering-pot, bowed and took off his cap. "One
must keep at it," he whispered, "the little ones will not wait."
Then he began with the tenderest care to water the beds beside the
principal buildings. He paused by the open windows of the kitchen,
which were very low, and examined the window-sills. He shook his head
and seemed much grieved and disappointed. Yes, they had once more
forgotten to put out the bread crumbs for his birds! How could any one
rely upon such maids?
He hunted up a couple of little pebbles on the path and threw them, one
at a time, into the dark kitchen, laughing softly to himself. They
really must learn to be more careful. O, he would soon teach them to
put the bread crumbs regularly on the window-sill. There was plenty of
gravel on the path. And what if they had already complained so often!
The watering-pot was empty and in the gray light of dawn the lawyer
walked back to the well.
Ever since his wife's death the poor man had been a friend of birds and
flowers. When she was dying, she had said, with her last breath, "The
flowers must always be watered and the birds must always be fed." Those
had been her last words and the lawyer heard them ringing in his ears
day and night. He heard them in every breeze, in every conversation,
even when all was silent they were wafted to him. In his wife's room
there had stood a dark, heavy clothes press (which, oddly enough, he
could still remember), and this large, dark object also repeated his
wife's last words, although it made no sound whatever. The lawyer
continued to live in seclusion and solitude, and watered the flowers in
the window-boxes and fed and watered the birds in the cages. The
flowers withered and the birds died, one by one. The lawyer took no
notice of his loss. Indeed it seemed to him as if the birds were
hopping and twittering gaily in their cages. They hatched their young
and kept on increasing. And the lawyer took a childlike pleasure in
this increase. Finally there were hundreds, thousands, whose chirping
he heard from morning till night. They lived in the walls, on the
ceiling, everywhere. And the good man could not understand why others
neither saw nor heard them.
As the sun rose, the lawyer had already finished a good part of his
day's work and turned back to the ward, which looked like a country
cottage standing in a pretty garden.
In the doorway, leaning against the doorpost, Michael Petroff, a former
officer in the Russian army, stood smiling, and greeted him with a
bright, cheerful "Good morning, my friend!"
The lawyer in his woolen shawl, scarf and wadded boots, bowed and
touched his cap.
"Good morning, Captain!"
They bowed several times, for they respected each other highly, and
shook hands only after the completion of this ceremony.
"Did you sleep well, Herr Advokat?" asked Michael Petroff, bending
forward a little and smiling pleasantly.
"Did I sleep well? Yes, thank you."
"I too passed an excellent night," Michael Petroff continued with a
bright happy laugh. "Really excellent. I had a dream--," he added,
smiling and gazing out into the garden with his right eye half closed.
"Yes, indeed!--Now do come into my office, my friend. I have news.
After you!" He laid his hand on the little lawyer's shoulder and with a
slight bow allowed him to pass in first.
Captain Michael Petroff was a tall slender man with cheerful steel-blue
eyes and a small blond mustache, which like his soft, blond, parted
hair, was beginning to turn white. He was dressed with scrupulous
neatness and was carefully shaved. His chin was round and exquisitely
formed, though a trifle weak, the modeling of his mouth was unusually
fine and delicate, like that of a mere boy.
"Please be seated," said Michael Petroff, while with a gesture he
invited the lawyer to sit on the sofa.
"But perhaps I am intruding?" whispered the lawyer, and remained
standing.
"No, indeed! How could you--?" And Michael Petroff led the lawyer over
to the sofa. The little man sat down timidly, looking gratefully up at
his host. "You are so very busy--I know--," said he, and nodded at the
writing table, which was heaped with documents, newspapers, and
manuscripts.
"I have plenty to do," added Michael Petroff, with a curious smile on
his pretty boyish lips. "But one has always time for one's friends.
Here, do listen! I have just outlined a petition to the Hessian
government--," Michael Petroff smiled and balanced a sheet of paper
on his hand--"The Hessian government is to be urgently requested,
most--urgently--requested, to reconsider the verdict in the case of
a teacher!"
Michael Petroff glanced at his guest while four deep lines suddenly
appeared on his forehead. "This teacher," he went on, "was sentenced to
four years' imprisonment, only think--four years. He had ten mouths to
feed and he embezzled some funds. Voila tout! What do you think of
that! Ha, ha! That is the way of the world, you see! In my petition I
demand not merely that the sentence should be revoked, but also that
officers' salaries should be increased. I demand it--I, Captain Michael
Petroff, and I shall also appear in the _Non-Partisan_. You will see,
my friend!" Michael Petroff cast a fearless, triumphant glance at the
little baldheaded lawyer, who listened and nodded, although he did not
quite understand what the Captain meant.
"You do a great deal of good!" he whispered, nodding, while a childish
smile flitted over his sad, pale little face. And after a moment's
reflection he added, "You are a good man. You surely are!"
Michael Petroff shook his head. "I do my duty!" he declared earnestly.
And laying his hand on his heart while his clear steel-blue eyes
flashed, he added: "My sacred duty!"
Captain Michael Petroff, former officer in a St. Petersburg regiment,
considered it his life work to plead for justice in this world. He
called himself "The Tribunal of right and justice." He subscribed for
two large daily papers, and searched them every day for cases in which,
according to his judgment, injustice had been done to some one. And
every day Michael Petroff found cases. Cases and nothing but cases.
These cases he cut out, arranged them in chronological order and
immediately went to work on them.
He often sat up late in his office, as he called his room, or in his
editorial sanctum, as he sometimes designated it in an undertone when
speaking to his confidential friend. There he would sit and write, in a
hand as neat as copperplate, his memorials, protests, petitions, which
he delivered every day at six o'clock to the head physician. Dr. Maerz.
who had undertaken to forward them regularly. Dr. Maerz was glad to
receive these manuscripts which he laid in a separate pigeonhole, in
order to use them from time to time as material for his work on
Graphomania.
The little time that this activity left him, Michael Petroff employed
in editing his newspaper. And it was because of this paper that he
sometimes secretly referred to his room as "his editorial sanctum."
This newspaper did not appear regularly, but only when it happened to
be ready. It usually appeared once a year, but sometimes twice, if his
nervous condition urged him to greater haste.
Michael Petroff's paper was a fairly accurate representation of an
ordinary daily paper, from the heading, in which the conditions of
subscription were stated, as well as the name of the city in which the
paper appeared--the city was arbitrarily chosen by Michael Petroff--to
the fictitious names of the publisher and editor. Like any other paper,
it contained advertisements, which Michael Petroff simply cut out of
other papers, a leading article, and contributions. The whole editorial
part, however, was engaged--with the exception of a few articles which
were slipped in as a disguise--with the question: Is the confinement of
Michael Petroff, Captain in the Russian army, justified? The titles of
the separate articles varied from year to year, although the ideas
expressed in them were similar. The Russian government's Ultimatum!--A
letter from the Czar to the head physician, Dr. Maerz! And every year
the paper appeared under a different name. Michael Petroff called it
_The Eye of the World, The Conscience of Europe, The Bayonet._
Michael Petroff made no secret of his petitions, but he spoke of his
newspaper only to his confidant, the lawyer. And although he was
naturally friendly and very kind-hearted, possibly the reason he was so
extremely fond of the lawyer was that he could talk to him about his
paper.
"Just a moment, my friend," said he. "There is such news! I want to
tell you the very latest. Please stay."
He went to the door and cleared his throat and listened. Then he
stepped out into the corridor, coughed, looked up and down and came
back satisfied. He drew out the editorial drawer, the key of which he
wore around his neck, and with a happy laugh began: "The very latest!
Listen! This cannot fail to have its effect. Just hear the headline:
Doctor Maerz arrested!"
"Dr. Maerz arrested?" whispered the lawyer anxiously, looking up at
Petroff in open-mouthed astonishment.
Michael Petroff laughed.
"Arrested? No, of course not. I go on to explain in the article that
Dr. Maerz is going to be arrested, and that the only way for him to
escape arrest is to give Michael Petroff his discharge immediately."
The lawyer nodded. "I see," said he, smiling because he saw Petroff
looking so cheerful. And yet he was not thinking anything about
Petroff's article, but only that he must give the birds their water. He
grew restless and started to rise.
"Just a moment, please!" said Michael Petroff eagerly. "Yes, it is
really an excellent idea," he continued rapidly, while his cheeks
flushed with joy. "In my article I emphasize the fact that Dr. Maerz is
an honorable man and a highly prized and respected physician, so that
his conduct in this particular case causes widespread astonishment. I
should like to ask you, my friend, what he will do when he reads this
article? Ha, ha, ha! They will find out something, my dear fellow. I am
not going to be unkind to him, not in the least. Well, in fact, in
fact, I shall say, my dear Doctor, ha, ha! But just look at this too,
in the _Non-Partisan_. Only look at this title, will you please!"
"Which one--?"
"Why, this one!"
"An interrogation point?"
"Yes! Ha, ha-- Simply an interrogation point! And beneath that: Where
is Michael Petroff? An appeal to the public! But look at this, in the
little _Feuilleton_: Michael Petroff, a Captain in the Russian army,
has just completed his six-volume work on Shooting Stars. All the
scientific journals are praising the clearness and acumen of this
epoch-making work. Ha, ha, ha, didn't I tell you that there was news,
my friend?"
The lawyer crouched in the sofa corner and made such an effort to
think, that he held his breath.
"I don't understand--?" he whispered and slowly shook his head.
"What don't you understand?"
"That he should keep you in confinement."
Michael Petroff glanced at the lawyer in surprise. Then he leaned
forward and whispered: "But I have already told you that my relations
pay him."
"They pay him?"
"Yes, of course!" answered Michael Petroff cheerfully. "Enormous sums.
Millions!"
"Oh!" The lawyer began to understand now.
"Yes, you see, that is how it is in the world!" said Michael Petroff,
and snapped his fingers.
But the lawyer did not wholly comprehend yet.
"I do not understand," he began again. "Dr. Maerz is so kindhearted. I
live here, I have my home and my food and I pay nothing. He has never
asked me for any money.--I have no money, you know," he ended anxiously
in a still lower tone.
Michael Petroff laid his hand pompously but protectingly on his
friend's shoulder. "You work in the garden," said he, "you water the
flowers. How could he have the face to expect you to pay money? That is
perfectly simple. But perhaps you too have relations outside who pay
for you?"
"Relations?"
"Yes. Outside--there!" A bitter smile curved Michael Petroff's
beautiful boyish mouth. Should he tell this little old man in the
woolen shawl where he really was? Should he perhaps explain to this
little old man with the grayish wrinkled face, that there was an
"outside"--where one could even get into a railway train or wash one's
hands before sitting down to table? Suddenly he stood up on his tiptoes
and instantly lost all conception of his own actual body; he seemed to
himself like a gigantic tower rising up to the clouds, and looking down
on the little baldheaded man, who had only two thin tufts of gray hair
above his ears. He was seized with the desire to make the lawyer cry.
But suddenly he bowed slightly to his friend and said: "Please forgive
Michael Petroff!" He walked across the room, then turned to his guest
and said in precisely his usual tone: "Will the fair weather last
today?"
"I think so--I am not sure," answered the lawyer doubtfully.
"Well, we will play cricket this afternoon. Are you cold?"
"Yes," whispered the lawyer and drew his scarf closer.
Michael Petroff gazed at him with his head on one side. "I cannot
understand how you can be cold today." And he laughed gaily. "Come,"
said he, "let us--" he paused, for he did not know what he wanted to
do--"Let us--Oh yes, let us go and see Friend Engelhardt. Come!--The
Doctor was with him last night," he ended mysteriously.
"The Doctor?"
"Yes. Our friend is ill. Hm, hm." Michael Petroff carefully locked up
the manuscript of his newspaper, put on a big gray English traveling
cap, looked in the glass, and they left the room together. Michael
Petroff laughed a soft guttural laugh. At Engelhardt's door they paused
to listen, and then knocked.--
There were two great days in the year for Michael Petroff.
One was his birthday, the sixteenth of May. Michael Petroff never
forgot it. On May sixteenth he would walk about with an important air,
and looking about him he would say to every one he met: "This is my
birthday. I thank you for your good wishes!" The attendant always came
before dinner and asked him to come to Dr. Maerz's room to receive his
congratulations.
Then Michael Petroff would go, with quick, light steps to Dr. Maerz's
parlor, shake hands with him and thank him for the wonderful bouquet of
white roses that Dr. Maerz gave him.
Michael never suspected where the bunch of white roses came from. He
did not know that, on his birthday, his wife and daughter stood behind
the portiere of the parlor, nor that they made the long journey every
year to see him. The first few years the Captain's wife had had golden
hair, but it had gradually turned gray, and now it was white, although
she was still quite a young woman. Formerly she used to come alone, but
for three years past she had always been accompanied by a young lady,
who wept bitterly when she arrived and when she went away. This young
lady had but one ear and concealed the disfigurement by the way in
which she dressed her hair. Michael Petroff had cut off her other ear
when she was only a child, during the first outbreak of his malady.
Michael Petroff chatted and laughed pleasantly with the head physician
and carried the roses to his friend, the lawyer.
"Here are some flowers for you. I do not want them!"
The lawyer's eyes opened wide with delight, and he took the roses
carefully as if they were fragile.
Michael Petroff's second great day was that on which his newspaper
appeared.
The paper was always printed in the town. Michael Petroff had induced
the porter of the Sanatorium to undertake take this commission. The
porter delivered the manuscript to the printer and brought back the
twenty-five printed copies to Michael Petroff. And then for a few days
he was in a state of the greatest excitement. He sent the paper to the
doctors, especially to Dr. Maerz, and waited in suspense to see what
effect it would have. At such times he could not work, but wandered
about the house and garden all day. If he met a doctor, he would stop
and cast a triumphant glance at him, smiling as if secure of victory.
But a few days later he would question the doctors: "May I ask whether
you have received a newspaper?"
"A newspaper?"
"Yes! I received it myself. _The Bayonet_?"
"Oh yes, I remember now. I will take a look at it."
"Yes, please do. There may be some things in it that will interest you.
Ha, ha, ha!" And he laid his hand on the Doctor's shoulder and gazed
meaningly at him.
Finally he asked the head physician himself.
"Yes, yes," answered he, "certainly I read that paper, my dear Captain.
A curious thing. I made inquiries immediately, but the editors were not
to be found, in spite of all my pains. They do not seem to be in
existence. Or else they are gone. I scarcely know what to think of the
paper, my dear Captain."
Then for a few days Michael Petroff would wander disconsolately about,
and his depression might even bring on melancholia or frenzy. But
after a few days he would always regain his cheerful spirits. He would
greet his friends, and apologize for his disagreeable behavior. And
immediately he would begin to plan out another newspaper. This time it
must surely be a success. Take care. Dr. Maerz!
Such was Michael Petroff, Captain in the Russian army.
Friend Engelhardt, whom Michael Petroff and the lawyer were going to
visit, was a gray-haired man about fifty years old, who had been only a
year in Dr. Maerz's sanatorium. He was a shoemaker by trade and had sat
all his life, year in, year out, under his glass globe of water,[A]
tapping away on leather. He was unmarried, lived much alone and since
he was industrious and economical, he had laid up a comfortable little
property. And there he sat under his glass globe and nothing whatever
happened. But gradually the globe began to look more and more strange
to him. It flashed upon him and dazzled him, so that he sometimes felt
for a moment a certain unacknowledged fear of it. It seemed to grow
bigger and bigger, until at last the time came when Engelhardt's hair
stood on end with horror--
[Footnote A: German shoemakers used a glass globe full of water placed
in front of their lamp, to concentrate the light upon their work.]
[Illustration: HERA]
And thenceforth he suffered from the strange and terrible delusion that
he was the centre of the universe and that it was his task to keep the
whole world in equilibrium. The myriad forces of all creation were
united in him and he felt with agonizing constancy, how the suns and
the planets were circling about him, and how everything was rushing and
whirling through space. If a chain of skaters revolves around one man
who is in the middle, that man will feel the extraordinary force with
which the two rushing wings whirl around him, and he will be obliged to
exert all his strength to maintain his position. Engelhardt felt
precisely so and since his efforts were unremitting, his delusion
exhausted him to such an extent, that in one year he had aged as if in
ten. Even if--so he said--the heavenly bodies had been so marvelously
ordained by the almighty Creator, that through all eternity they
revolved in their foreordained circles and spirals (as he said), yet he
suffered beyond endurance from the slightest disturbance in outer
space. During the winter he had been unable to sleep for two weeks,
because a swiftly moving star was pulling at him. Curiously enough, at
this very time a comet appeared which astonished all the astronomers.
Just then Schwindt, an attendant, had died under peculiar circumstances
and Engelhardt--as he himself said--had _drunk in_ his soul, from which
he had gained fresh strength, sufficient to last him throughout the
spring and summer. But now again his task was wearing him out more
every day and his powers were failing rapidly. The shooting stars and
the swarms of meteors dragged at him, until he became dizzy, and
especially the moon exerted at this period a terrible power over him.
It sucked in his strength, and Engelhardt imagined that at any moment
the ground might give way beneath him and he might sink into the depths
and the whole universe might collapse above him.
When Michael Petroff and the little lawyer entered Engelhardt's room,
after vainly knocking at the door for some time, they found him in bed,
with his thin hairy hands lying helplessly on the coverlet. He was
gazing directly upward, and indeed his eyes were rolled up so far that
the whites showed, and he seemed to be looking fixedly at some special
point in the ceiling. His face was of a somewhat yellowish tone and
gave the impression of being made of porcelain, the skin was so smooth
and the bones were so prominent. His forehead was uncommonly large in
proportion to his small face and mouth, which was drawn together as if
ready to whistle and was surrounded by many little lines centering at
the lips. The shoemaker had wasted away so during the year that the
collar of his bright colored shirt stood out a finger's breadth from
his thin neck.
"Good morning!" said Michael Petroff gently and cheerfully. "Here are
some friends to see you!" The lawyer remained timidly standing in the
doorway.
Engelhardt did not answer. A shudder passed over him, and his thin
hairy hands twitched from time to time, as if he were receiving an
electric shock of varying strength.
Michael Petroff smiled and came toward him. "How are you, my dear
friend?" said he softly and sympathetically, bending over Engelhardt.
"Did the Doctor come to see you last night?"
Engelhardt rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. He was
exhausted by a sleepless night and by the effects of the hypnotics that
the Doctor had given him.
"Very ill!" answered he in a lifeless tone.
"Very ill?" Michael Petroff raised his eyebrows anxiously. He turned to
the little lawyer, who still stood at the door. "Our poor friend does
not feel well!" said he.
"Are you in pain?" Michael Petroff bent once more over the sick man and
held his ear near Engelhardt's mouth.
"Yes," answered the sick man in a dull and lifeless tone, and murmured
something in Petroff's ear. It sounded as if he were praying.
Michael Petroff straightened up again and glanced at the little lawyer.
"He says that he has come to the end of his strength, our poor friend.
He needs a new soul--like that time in the winter, when the attendant
died, don't you remember?" And he shouted into the ear of the sufferer,
unnecessarily loud: "I will speak with the Doctor, Friend Engelhardt.
This is the Doctor's business. In one way or another he will get you a
soul!"
But the little lawyer suddenly wrapped himself closer in his shawl. He
was as cold as ice. Ordinarily very few impressions remained in his
memory, but he still remembered clearly the death of the attendant
Schwindt--and how Michael Petroff had come to his room and whispered
mysteriously in his ear: "The attendant is dead. Engelhardt has taken
his soul, don't you see!" So now he was horrified at the thought that
Engelhardt might perhaps demand _his_ soul, and there was nothing that
he feared more than death.
Death dwelt in his confused sick brain as a figure that was invisible
all but the hands. Suddenly, Oh so suddenly, it would stand near him,
close by his side. And a horrible chill would stream forth from the
dread form, and all the flowers, white with frost, would die, and the
millions of swift little birds would fall frozen through the air, and
he himself would be changed into a little heap of snow.
The lawyer drew in his head, so that his thin gray beard pushed out
above his scarf, and gazed timidly at Michael Petroff with his little
mouse-like eyes and shivered.
Michael Petroff looked at him in astonishment. "What is the matter, my
dear fellow?" he drawled, smilingly. "Are you afraid! Why should you
be, I wonder? I shall go at once to Dr. Maerz and explain to him what
Engelhardt requires. From what I know of him, he will not delay, and so
everything will be attended to. I would gladly place my own soul at
your disposal. Friend Engelhardt, but I still need it myself---I have a
mission to fulfil, you know--I am Napoleon, and I fight a battle every
day, I am--" But here he paused suddenly and listened.
"The Doctor is coming! Don't you hear him?" he whispered. "He will be
here immediately--"
Dr. Maerz had come into the ward. He could be heard speaking with some
one in the corridor, and the three men in the shoemaker's room
listened. The Doctor's voice was the only one which had the power to
change the current of their thoughts and to give them hopes, great
hopes, indefinite though they were. It affected them somewhat as a
voice affects wanderers, who believe that they are lost in a solitary
wilderness. And yet Dr. Maerz did not talk much, but he had become a
master of the art of listening, and would pay attention for hours every
day to the complaints, the lamentations, and the hundreds of requests
of his patients. But a few words from him had the power to encourage,
to comfort, to cheer and to influence the mood of his patients for the
whole day.
Suddenly the lawyer ceased to shiver, Michael Petroff began to laugh
happily, and Engelhardt withdrew his gaze from the point in the ceiling
and looked toward the half open door. He gazed so intently that his
small bright eyes seemed to squint.
"Listen! The Rajah is talking with him!" said Michael Petroff, holding
up his finger for silence.
"Nobody is watching you, my dear friend," said the Doctor's quiet
voice.
And a deep and almost gentler voice replied: "I heard the watchman
walking back and forth before my door all night, Sir. And I also heard
the drum when the watch was relieved."
"My friend," answered the Doctor, "You must have been dreaming."
"No," continued the man whom Michael Petroff had called the "Rajah," "I
excuse you, Sir, because I know that you are only doing your duty. But
your tact ought to prevent you from carrying out your precautions in
such an obvious way. I have given you my word of honor not to make any
attempt to escape. I want you to tell that to the English government,
by whose authority you are keeping me here in confinement. Neither have
I any weapons concealed in my room. I want you to search it."
"I know that perfectly well, my friend!"
"All the same, I want you to search."
And the "Rajah" would not be satisfied until the Doctor had promised
that his room should be searched immediately.
During this conversation Dr. Maerz had appeared in the doorway, with
the "Rajah" just behind him. Dr. Maerz was a small man, dressed in a
light-gray suit, with a ruddy beardless face and a quick, searching
but gentle eye, while the "Rajah" stood behind him, tall and dark,
and almost filling up the doorway. The "Rajah" had a long black beard
and a fearless, dark brown face, in which the whites of his eyes showed
strikingly.
The "Rajah" was simply a teacher, who had taught for a few years in
India in a German school. A protracted fever had caused an incipient
delusion, which, after his return to his native land, took entire
possession of him. He imagined himself to be an Indian prince, who had
been exiled by the English government.
He was extremely silent and reserved, and never talked with the other
patients. His bearing expressed an inscrutable calm and an apparently
quite natural pride. For days together he would favor no one with a
glance. He would walk up and down the garden, very slowly, gazing
scornfully at the flowers and trees, and every evening, if the weather
permitted, he would sit apart on a bench and gaze at the sinking sun,
turning his dark face toward it until it disappeared. And as he gazed
at the setting sun, an obscure, wistful sorrow glowed in his dark eyes.
For he saw palm trees, that seemed to melt into the sun, so that
only their tops showed, edged with flame, while their trunks were
invisible--and elephants, stepping proudly, with their little brown
_mahouts_ upon their necks--and glittering golden temples, and crowds
of dark, half naked natives, trotting along with branches in their
hands, and uttering shrill cries--and then too, he saw himself, going
on board the steamer that was to carry him into exile, while the dark
people threw themselves down on the quay and wept. The "Rajah's" soul
was filled with deep and bitter sorrow, and he rose and held his broad
shoulders more erect, as if he were bearing a heavy burden. And he bore
it! The "Rajah" never complained, never showed despondency, nor did he
ever show any sign of what was taking place within him.
Even in his own room he behaved tranquilly. Very rarely was he heard
to speak, and only once in a while--in his sleep--would he utter
a long-drawn singing cry, such as street venders use in the Orient.
As Dr. Maerz entered the room, the little baldheaded lawyer bowed, with
his cap in his hand, and stood modestly against the wall. His
gratitude knew no bounds, because the Doctor allowed him to live
quietly and peacefully among his flowers and birds, without ever asking
him to pay anything. So today he did not even venture to ask Dr. Maerz
for crumbs for the birds nor to complain of the negligence of the maids
in the kitchen, although he had fully determined to do so.
But the lawyer could not look at the "Rajah" who stood dark and
unapproachable in the passageway, without feeling timid and slightly
anxious. To express his respect, he bowed low to the "Rajah," and since
the latter did not notice him, he bowed once more, moving his lips in a
whisper. But the "Rajah" did not vouchsafe him a glance. For a moment
the lawyer thought of approaching and kissing the "Rajah's" hand. For
he recalled a circumstance that had been sharply impressed upon his
memory: One evening he had met the "Rajah" in the corridor and had
bowed to him. They had been quite alone. The "Rajah" had come toward
him and had said in a deep, mysterious voice, "My loyal subject!" and
had given him his hand to kiss. "Wait!" the "Rajah" had continued, "I
will show my favor to you. I have very little of the treasure left,
that I brought with me into exile, but--here, take this." And the
"Rajah" had slipped a little gray stone into his hand.
Michael Petroff, on the contrary, looked smilingly and questioningly at
Dr. Maerz, while he stood politely back against the door. Meanwhile he
tipped his head somewhat backward and sidewise and looked at the
Doctor, as if he expected some very special news from him and as if he
knew quite well that Dr. Maerz had such news for him today. So
confidently did he look at him, while a smile played about his pretty
boyish mouth.
But Engelhardt, whose brows were drawn up with pain as if they were
fastened with rivets, had half sat up in bed and was explaining his
needs and his sufferings to the Doctor. He spoke in a guttural tone,
rapidly, in a murmur that was hard to understand, and his voice sounded
like the distant barking of a dog, heard on a still night.
He had come to the end of his strength--the moon was drawing at
him!--in the night thousands of people had begged him on their knees
not to give them up to destruction--only a new soul could give him back
his strength--he felt that he was bending over more and more to the
left and the whole universe might collapse at any moment: all this he
muttered indistinctly, confusedly, his distressful eyes fixed
pleadingly upon Dr. Maerz.
Dr. Maerz listened gravely, as did also Michael Petroff and even the
"Rajah," who had stepped inside the door. And because they were all
listening so earnestly--especially the "Rajah," whose large brilliant
eyes were fixed upon Engelhardt--the little lawyer was once more seized
with fear. He felt as if his legs were sinking through the floor, as if
in a swamp, but just when this fear was about to overwhelm him like
black darkness, a bird lit on the window-sill and chirped, and the
lawyer seemed suddenly transformed.
"I am coming!" he whispered hurriedly.
"Don't go!" said Michael Petroff softly, taking hold of his arm. "Where
are you going?"
"He was calling me!" answered the lawyer and slipped quickly away.
"How he is hurrying!" thought Michael Petroff, and heard himself
laughing inwardly. And presently he said to Dr. Maerz, laying his hand
confidentially on his shoulder: "The lawyer is certainly a clever, well
educated man--and yet he thinks that the birds call him! Between you
and me, Doctor, hasn't it ever occurred to you, that he is not quite
right--?"
After luncheon Dr. Maerz's patients went out into the garden as usual.
They trotted along in little groups, one after the other, round and
round the biggest flower bed, at equal distances, silently, lost in
thought. Only the "Inventor," a young man, sometimes paused, rested his
hand on his side, put his other hand to his forehead and gazed steadily
at a point on the ground.
The lawyer was watering his flowers and listening delightedly to the
thousands and thousands of birds that were hopping in the bushes and
treetops. Michael Petroff was in high good humor. There was news--!
Just listen! Just listen! He was smoking a cigarette that Dr. Maerz had
given him, and was enjoying every whiff of it. He held the cigarette
with his fingers coquettishly crossed, and swung it in sweeping curves,
as if he were taking off his hat to some one, and at every whiff he
drew, he stood still and blew the smoke up into the sunny air and
watched the blue cloud drift away. Everything gave him pleasure. Even
walking was a delight to him. His steps were short, his knees sprung
playfully; and he felt with delight how his toes crackled a little and
how the elastic balls of his feet rebounded in his thin soled shoes
from the ground, while his heels touched the path but lightly and his
knees swung. When he stood still, he set the muscles of his thighs, by
a certain pressure of the knees, and then enjoyed the firmness with
which he stood there like a statue. He was convinced that nothing could
have knocked him down. He walked along smiling and glancing cheerfully
about him, as if to share his happiness. He greeted everyone, and
whenever he met an acquaintance he would tell him the great event that
had happened today.
"Just hear this, my friend!" he called out to the little lawyer, who
was standing on the lawn, stooping over a tulip bed to water the
flowers in the middle of it. "Do come over here! There is such news!
Oh, please do come!"
He waited with friendly impatience until the lawyer had finished and
came back to the path, meaning to go back to the well with his empty
green can. "I want to tell you what has happened today," he began
hastily, "His Majesty the king of Saxony has condescended--"
"Pardon me," the lawyer interrupted him in a whisper and started to
leave him, "I am in a hurry. It is hot and the flowers are drying up."
"I will walk to the well with you," continued Michael Petroff good
humoredly, and walked rapidly beside the departing lawyer. "I can tell
you just as well while we are walking. So I said to the Doctor today:
'Now, Doctor, haven't you anything for me today?' 'No,' said he, 'my
dear Captain, nothing at all, I am sorry to say.' 'Really nothing,'
said I, and I took him by the arm. 'Has not there been a single answer
for weeks? Really nothing, Doctor?' He looked at me and thought a
while. 'Oh yes,' he said, 'I had almost forgotten. A document did come
for you. It is about that carpenter, you know, Captain.' 'A carpenter,
Doctor? I don't remember'--so I took out my memorandum book, in which I
enter all the documents that I send out: 'Where did the answer come
from? From Saxony? Ah!' said I, 'then it must be about the butcher's
apprentice who was condemned to death.' 'Yes,' said the Doctor, 'that
is it. The fellow was a butcher's apprentice.' And now listen, my
friend. Because of my petition, his Majesty the King of Saxony has
condescended to pardon him. I must write a letter of thanks to His
Majesty this very day."
"How the sun burns today," the lawyer responded to Michael Petroff's
tale, and began to work the pump handle. "All the flowers look so
wilted."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Michael Petroff. "You're not listening at all, are
you?"
No, the lawyer was not listening. He was looking into his can to see if
it was full.
Michael Petroff looked at him a while with his head on one side, then
he laughed quietly to himself and walked rapidly away. He glanced about
the garden in search of some one to whom he could tell his cheerful
tale.
Just then he espied the "Rajah," who was walking up and down in the
vegetable garden between two beds of lettuce. According to his habit,
the "Rajah" was alone, and in a place where no one else would be apt to
come.
Michael Petroff rose up on tiptoes and considered whether he had
better, with one jump, spring over the beds, which separated him by
about a hundred paces from the "Rajah." He would only have to soar
upward a very little and he would be there. But he was afraid of being
impolite to the "Rajah" or perhaps of startling him, so he gave up the
idea.
The "Rajah" was pacing up and down with his usual pride and dignity,
but today he was restless and troubled. Engelhardt's words about
preserving the equilibrium of the universe had taken possession of
his mind. He had been considering the matter, and after long and
inexorable reflection he had come to the decision that there was only
one way--only one--
Just then Michael Petroff came up to him.
"Will you permit me to disturb you?" he asked politely, taking off his
gray English traveling cap. "I am Captain Michael Petroff."
The "Rajah" gazed at him earnestly with his glowing dark eyes.
"What do you want," he asked quietly.
Michael Petroff smiled. "I want to tell you a piece of good news," he
began. "This morning I said to the Doctor: 'Now, Doctor, haven't you
anything for me today--?'"--And beaming with joy, he went on to tell
the same story that he had told a dozen times that day.
The "Rajah" listened in silence, looking thoughtfully at Michael
Petroff. Then he said: "I should like to have a word with you."
"I am quite at your service!"
The "Rajah's" eyes wandered over the garden slowly and with dignity.
"Shall we go over to that bench?"
"With pleasure."
The "Rajah" sat down, and with a condescending gesture invited Michael
Petroff to be seated also.
"I see you writing all the time--" he began,
Michael Petroff lifted his cap. "Michael Petroff, Captain in the
Russian army," he said politely.
The "Rajah" looked at him and went on, with his usual quiet pride:
"Since you write, you must understand. And you surely must have gained
knowledge of men and things from sacred books, which are closed to the
rest of us, and you must have passed your life in meditation, according
to the rules of your caste. Very well. Then explain to me the words of
the Fakir, who, according to the inscrutable decision of the Gods, is
bearing up the universe on his shoulders. Speak!"
Michael Petroff smiled, highly flattered, and bowed to the "Rajah." He
did not really understand all that the "Rajah" said, but he perceived
that his words expressed respect and admiration. He felt that it was in
some way his duty to confide to the "Rajah" the secret of his paper,
but to his own surprise he asked: "You mean our friend Engelhardt?"
"You heard what he said?"
"Yes."
"Then speak!" It appeared that the "Rajah" had not forgotten a single
word that Engelhardt had said to Dr. Maerz. Michael Petroff, on the
contrary, remembered almost nothing, and so fell into the "Rajah's"
disfavor.
"Pardon me!" he apologized. "So many things pass through my head."
"But what will happen if he cannot get another soul?" asked the
"Rajah."
"Oh, the Doctor will take care of that."
"Even Fakirs are only human. What will happen if his strength gives
way? Will the world collapse?"
"Surely it will collapse!" replied Michael Petroff, laughing.
"What are you laughing at?" asked the "Rajah" quietly, while his dark
eyes gleamed. "What will you do if it collapses?"
"I?" Michael Petroff smiled and pointed to the cottage, which showed
dimly through the shrubbery. "If that house tumbles down," he went on,
"I will run away as fast as I can, and go back to my own country.
Russia is my native land. Do you know about Russia? You could hold
Germany on the palm of your hand, but you couldn't carry Russia even on
your back. My country is so big."
The "Rajah" considered this idea long and carefully.
Then he said slowly, and as if speaking to himself: "If the world
collapses, will my kingdom be destroyed too? The mountains and the
temples, the forests and the towns, will they all fall in ruins?"
Michael Petroff nodded, laughing maliciously. "I suppose so!"
And now the "Rajah" nodded too. He bowed his head slowly several times.
"All my subjects would be destroyed?" he asked, and nodded. He rose and
shook his head. "No," he said solemnly, gazing at Michael Petroff.
"That must not be! We cannot allow it."
The "Rajah" turned away. Through the sunshine he walked, slowly and
with dignity, back to the ward.
Michael Petroff looked after him. He smiled and shook his head. "What a
curious being he is though!" said he, laughing. And when he heard his
own laughter, he laughed again, loudly and gaily and snapped his
fingers. Ha, ha, ha!
But the "Rajah" went to Engelhardt's room and informed him that he had
decided to give up his own soul to him. "If the Gods deign to accept my
sacrifice."
Engelhardt, who lay in his bed as if he were already dead, opened his
eyes and looked at the "Rajah."
"Will you?" he gasped, while his hands and face twitched convulsively.
"Yes."
"I will try to hold out for three days yet!" gasped Engelhardt.
The "Rajah" closed the door. He went to his own room and wrote, in a
large rapid hand that wandered in all directions, a short letter to Dr.
Maerz.
"Your Excellency," he wrote, "It is the will of Heaven. We shall see
the blue river no more. We shall see no more the flooded rice fields,
nor the white elephants with bands of gold upon their tusks. It is the
will of Heaven and we obey. Say to the English Government that we are
too noble for bitterness or revenge. Say to the English Government that
we are pleased to rescue our subjects and to yield up our soul, if the
sacrifice is pleasing to the Gods."
The "Rajah" rang for the attendant and gave him the letter, quietly and
with great dignity. Then he undressed and went to bed, prepared to die.
At nightfall, when it was growing dark, the lawyer, much excited,
rushed into Michael Petroff's room, without knocking, or waiting at the
door, as he was in the habit of doing.
"Help me. Captain!" he whispered, and threw himself into the arms of
the astonished Michael Petroff. The lawyer was trembling with fright.
"What in the world--?" exclaimed Michael Petroff, surprised and
startled.
"He is standing in the corridor!" whispered the lawyer.
"Who? What is the matter with you?"
"Engelhardt! He is standing at the 'Rajah's' door. He is taking away
his soul."
"What's that you say?" Michael Petroff laughed softly.
"I saw him standing there. Don't let him come near me. Oh good God!"
"Hush!" interrupted Michael Petroff. "I will attend to it."
The lawyer clung to his knees. "He will come in here! Oh my God, my
God!"
"My dear friend," Michael Petroff reassured him, "control yourself. He
shall not come in here. I promise you. But I must go and see!"
The little lawyer cowered on the floor and covered his face with his
hands. But Michael Petroff left the room. After a while he came back,
looking somewhat pale, but laughing to keep his courage up.
"Yes," he said in a low tone, "he is standing at the 'Rajah's' door
listening. What makes you tremble so, my friend?"
"Don't leave me!" whispered the lawyer, still covering his face with
his hands.
The "Rajah" lay motionless in his bed, gazing far, far away with his
great, brilliant eyes. His swarthy face was transfigured by a solemn
peace and resignation. He declined to get up and refused all
nourishment. Dr. Maerz took his temperature and found it somewhat low,
and his pulse rather slow, but he could not discover any symptoms of
bodily disorder or of an approaching illness. With cheerful earnestness
he advised the "Rajah" to get up and to eat, but as the "Rajah" did not
answer, he left him in peace. He was accustomed to his patients' whims
and knew that they went as suddenly as they came.
But Engelhardt, on the contrary, caused him great anxiety. In spite of
long continued baths and all sorts of quieting treatments, he had
passed another sleepless and excited night. He now lay in a sort of
half sleep, and shrank and trembled with the effort that his horrible
delusion required of him. He heard voices, the cries of millions of
men, who wrung their hands and begged him not to give them up to
destruction, he heard the ringing of bells, the chanting of
processions, the prayers of emperors and kings, bishops and popes. His
skin was dry and parched, his pulse was rapid and unsteady. Dr. Maerz
sat for a long time by his bedside watching him attentively, and
sometimes, closing his eyes for a moment, he would recall with
lightning rapidity all his knowledge and experience of such cases. At
last, with a thoughtful and baffled air, he left Engelhardt.
But an hour later he was beside him again.
The patients in the ward showed that special form of nervousness that
was always present whenever the frequent visits of the doctor indicated
that some one was very ill. They walked quietly, spoke in undertones,
and many of them refused to leave the room at all. The little lawyer
hardly dared to stir and begged the thousands of birds, that lived in
his room, to be very quiet, when he put their bread and water on the
table. Again and again some unknown power drove him to look through the
keyhole. He would stand there a long time, covering his left eye with
his hand as children do and peering with his right at the white wall of
the corridor. But whenever a passer-by darkened his outlook, he would
shrink back startled. If he had to go out to attend to his flowers, he
opened the door slowly and silently and walked backward, fixing his
eyes on Engelhardt's door, until he reached the steps. There he would
turn quickly and hurry away, possessed by the fear that a hand would
suddenly seize him by the coat collar.
Michael Petroff was the only one upon whom the general restlessness had
no effect. He sat at his writing table, cut out his cases, numbered,
registered, pasted, wrote. He shook his head smilingly over the little
lawyer's terror, but promised him his protection in any case.
"Make your mind easy, my friend!" said he patronizingly. "So long as I
am living, you have no cause for anxiety!" And with a pompous air he
added: "I have been to see him. He told me that the "Rajah" had
promised him his soul. Voila tout. You may rely on Michael Petroff!"
"I thank you!" whispered the lawyer, and started to kiss Michael
Petroff's hand.
"Oh no! Why should you?" said Michael Petroff, but he felt pleased and
flattered.
The lawyer was calmer as he turned away. But in the night he heard
Engelhardt crying out and crept under the bedclothes with his teeth
chattering. It seemed to him as if he were buried in the ground, on a
high mountain and he scarcely dared to breathe for fear. But just then
he saw an enormous flock of birds flying swiftly over the sky in a
gentle curve. He beckoned to them and called out: "Where are you
going?"--"Come too, come too!" chirped the birds in answer. "To Vienna,
to Vienna!" and they flew away in the distance. The lawyer gazed after
them and fell asleep.
The "Rajah's" strength failed visibly, although artificial nourishment
was given him, by Dr. Maerz's orders. He was fading away as fast as
twilight in the tropics. His brown face and hands had taken on a dull
gray hue, like dry garden earth, and his broad and powerful chest rose
and sank rapidly and silently under the bedclothes. His eyelids, which
were paler than his face, drooped so as to half cover his eyes, but as
soon as any one entered the room, they opened slowly, and his large,
brilliant eyes rested questioningly on the newcomer.
His pulse was growing weak and rapid, and Dr. Maerz sat almost
constantly at the sick man's bedside. The rapid loss of strength was
incomprehensible to the Doctor, and the inexplicable and rapid decline
of the heart action caused especial anxiety. He sat there, closing his
eyes from time to time, observed the patient, considered, tried all
conceivable means--and by evening he knew that the "Rajah" was beyond
all human aid.
"How is he, Doctor?" asked Michael Petroff, who had been watching for
the Doctor in the corridor, and nodded his head toward the "Rajah's"
door.
"Oh, not so badly off!" answered Dr. Maerz absentmindedly.
Michael Petroff laughed softly behind his back. Then he went at once to
the lawyer's room.
"The 'Rajah' is dying!" he said with a triumphant glance.
The lawyer looked up at him timidly; he did not answer.
"Yes!" Michael Petroff sat down in a cane-seated chair, and drew up his
trousers a little, so as not to get them out of shape at the knees. "I
asked the Doctor just now. He answered: 'Not so badly off.' Now that
means that the 'Rajah' is dying. When Heinrich was dying, Heinrich who
used to sing the jolly songs that you laughed at so, my friend, what
did the Doctor say? 'Not so badly off!' And Heinrich died. Oh yes! I
understand the doctors."
The little lawyer wrapped himself in his shawl. He was freezing.
"He is sucking the soul out of his body," continued Michael Petroff
with an important air. "He understands his business, Engelhardt does.
How did he manage with Schwindt, the attendant? The very same way,
don't you see!"
And Michael Petroff left the room, rubbing his hands cheerfully. He was
interested in everything that went on around him, in everything that he
_saw through_. There was news--! In the best of spirits, he sat down at
his writing table to give the final touches to his article: "Doctor
Maerz arrested."
That very night, toward three o'clock, the "Rajah" died. It was a warm,
still night and the moonlight was so bright that one could read out of
doors. The patients were restless, they cleared their throats, walked
up and down and talked together. But once in a while they would all be
silent: that was when Engelhardt began to scream out. "I can't bear it
any longer!" And then he would declaim aloud the petitions that kings
and princes addressed to him on their knees.
The little lawyer had not dared to go to bed. He sat fully dressed on
the sofa, with all his blankets wrapped around him. And yet he was so
cold that his teeth chattered. Whenever Engelhardt began to cry out, he
moved his lips in prayer and crossed himself.
Michael Petroff, on the contrary, had gone to bed with complete
unconcern. He lay, with his arms under his head, and pondered over a
suitable title for his next paper. For this time he would take the
Doctor by surprise, he would catch him--just wait and see! What was the
sense of a title like the _Non-Partisan_, if you please? Could one
overcome this case-hardened Doctor with that? What? Oh, no, no.
Surely not. The title must smell of fire and brimstone. It must
be like the stroke of a sword, like the muzzle of a gun aimed at
the Doctor--for Dr. Maerz must be startled when he reads the title! And
after much reflection, Michael Petroff decided that this time he would
call his paper _The Sword of the Archangel_. He could plainly see this
Archangel sweeping obliquely forward, with terrible fluttering garments
and an appalling and angry mien, holding his sword with both hands
somewhat backward above his head. And this sword, that was as sharp as
a razor and very broad at the back, slit the firmament open and a
steaming bloodred stream appeared. This steaming red stream gave
Michael Petroff a feeling of luxurious delight. He sat up and said:
"Just wait! Ha, ha!"
But suddenly he covered his eyes with his hand. A dim, longing pain had
come over him, and he could not tell why.
"Michael Petroff--?" said he softly, "Michael Petroff--?" and the tears
sprung to his eyes. And so, with his hand over his wet eyes and a
confused sorrow in his heart, he fell asleep.
He was sleeping soundly when he was awakened by a knock at his door:
"It is I, the attendant, don't be startled."
"What is it!"
The attendant stepped in and said in an undertone: "Dr. Maerz told me to
ask you to come. The teacher wants to speak to you."
"The teacher?"
"The 'Rajah,' you know."
"You do not know what he wants of me?"
"No, Dr. Maerz has sent for you."
"Very well, I will come."
Michael Petroff rose and made his toilet slowly and scrupulously. The
attendant came back and begged him to hurry. Michael Petroff was tying
his cravat carefully. "I am coming at once," said he impatiently, "but
I can't make a call half dressed."
Finally he was ready; he looked in the glass a moment, stroked his
moustache and stepped out.
"Oh Captain!" whispered the little lawyer through the crack of the
door, for the knocking and talking in Petroff's room had made him still
more anxious. "I beg you--!"
"I am in a hurry," answered Michael Petroff, and hastened along the
corridor. As he passed Engelhardt's door he heard him declaiming: "We
pray thee, do not destroy the dome of the world. Praised be thy name!"
And with an altered, gasping voice Engelhardt went on: "I am
struggling, I am struggling--!" In the room overhead a step went
restlessly up and down, back and forth, like the distant throbbing of a
machine.
Then the attendant opened the door of the "Rajah's" room and Michael
Petroff stepped in.
"Good morning!" said he, loudly and cheerfully, as if it were broad
daylight and as if the "Rajah" were not a dying man. "Good morning,
Doctor. Here I am.--Good morning--Prince!" he added more softly after a
glance at the "Rajah." "Michael Petroff, Captain in the Russian army."
The "Rajah's" appearance had greatly impressed Michael Petroff. The
"Rajah" was sitting up in bed with his great dark eyes fixed upon him.
A shaded electric light burned above his head, but in spite of the dim
light the "Rajah's" face, framed by his dark hair and beard, shone like
dull gold, yes, it positively shone. And it was this strange brightness
which had so impressed Michael Petroff that he spoke more softly and
addressed him as Prince. He had, in fact, never seriously considered
who the "Rajah" really was. He was a Prince, who possessed a great
kingdom somewhere and lived in exile. Now Michael Petroff believed all
this without thinking very much about it. Yet at this moment he
_understood_ that the "Rajah" was a Prince, and he entirely altered his
bearing toward him.
"You were pleased to send for me?" said he, with timid hesitation, and
bowed.
The "Rajah" turned his face toward Dr. Maerz.
"I thank you, Sir," he said, in a deep, quiet voice, whose tone had
changed. "I know that you could have refused me this favor, since I am
your prisoner."
"My dear friend"--answered the Doctor, but the "Rajah" paid no further
attention to him.
"I sent for you," he said, turning to Michael Petroff, "in order that
you may write down my last will and testament."
"I am at your disposal," answered Michael Petroff, bowing slightly.
"Then write what I tell you."
Michael Petroff felt in his pockets confusedly. "I will run," said he,
"I will be back at once"--and he left the room rapidly, to bring pencil
and paper from his office.
"Michael Petroff--" whispered the little lawyer pleadingly. "You are
leaving me--?"
"The 'Rajah' commands me!" answered Michael Petroff impatiently, and
hurried past the trembling lawyer's little outstretched hands back to
the dying man's room.
"Here I am, pardon me?" he stammered breathlessly.
"Then write!" said the "Rajah."
Michael seated himself properly and the "Rajah" began:
"We, Rajah of Mangalore, banished by the English Government, too noble
to harbor feelings of revenge toward our enemies, since we are dying,
in order to rescue our subjects, make known to our people:
"We greet you, our people! We greet the palm forests that shelter the
temples of our ancestors! We greet the blue river that refreshes our
land!"--
Michael Petroff, who was writing busily and industriously what the
"Rajah" dictated, looked up as the "Rajah" paused. He saw that two
great tears were falling from the "Rajah's" brilliant dark eyes. They
ran down his thin but strangely glowing cheeks into his beard.
The "Rajah" raised his hand with a dignified gesture. Then he went on
to the end calmly and majestically:
"We grant a universal amnesty! All our dungeons and prisons are to be
opened and then burned to ashes. From this time forth no more blood
shall be shed!"
"Oh, my Lord--my Prince--!" whispered Michael Petroff as he wrote.
"There shall no longer be an army in our land and no man shall go
begging with his bowl. The treasure in our vaults shall be equally
shared among our people. Neither castes nor classes shall exist from
this time forth. All men shall be equal and all shall be brothers and
sisters.
"The aged shall have their huts to die in, and to the children we
bequeath the meadows to play in. To the sick we grant health, and to
the unhappy sleep, quiet sleep. There shall be no more war and no more
hatred between the peoples, whatever their color, for so we decree. The
judges shall be wise and just, and to evil doers one must say: Go and
be happy, for unhappiness causes evil doing.
"To mankind we grant the earth, that they may occupy the same, to the
fish we give the waters and the sea, to the birds the heavens, and to
the beasts the forests, and the meadows that lie hidden amongst them!
"But you, our own people, we bless and kiss you, for we are dying."
The "Rajah" raised his hands in benediction and sank back upon the
pillows.
All who were present remained motionless and gazed at him. His chest
rose and fell feebly and rapidly while his lids drooped over his eyes
and showed like bright spots in his dark face.
Dr. Maerz stepped gently to the bedside.
Just then the "Rajah" smiled. He threw his head back and opened his
lips, as if he were going to sing. But only a thin, musical cry passed
his lips, so high, so thin and so far away that it seemed as if the
"Rajah" were already calling from some distant realm. It was the cry of
the street venders in the Orient.
The "Rajah" was dead.
Michael Petroff stood on tiptoes and gazed with parted lips at the
pale, mysteriously beautiful face that shone beneath the rich dark
hair. He felt a sense of shame. He had lived so long with him who was
now dead, without realizing who he was. He longed to kneel beside the
dead man's bed and whisper: "Prince, my Prince!" But he did not dare to
approach, he was afraid and stole out of the room.
After a while, when Dr. Maerz stepped out into the corridor, he was
impressed by the quiet that reigned in the ward. There was not a sound
to be heard. The muffled tread overhead, that had paced back and forth
for hours, was still. And Engelhardt had ceased crying and groaning.
Dr. Maerz went to the shoemaker's door. All was as still as death
within. He opened the door and listened. Engelhardt--was sleeping! His
breathing was deep and regular ... Dr. Maerz shook his head and went
thoughtfully out of the ward. On the steps leading to the garden he lit
a cigar and turned up his coat collar. He was shivering.
So now he is asleep, thought he, as he walked through the moonlit
garden, where the bushes cast long, pale shadows. Is there any
discoverable connection between the teacher's death and Engelhardt's
sleep? And he thought of one of his colleagues, who would invent a
connection in any case, and then he thought how much he would enjoy a
cup of strong coffee just now. Suddenly he paused, slightly startled.
In the moonlight a little man, all wrapped up, was moving. It was the
lawyer.
The little man had passed the whole night shivering and trembling in
his dark room. But when the first cock crowed he had slipped out of the
ward to water his flowers.
"Hush, hush!" he whispered to the thousands of little birds that began
to chirp in the bushes as soon as he came near. "Sleep a bit longer,
little ones!"
And while he was watering the flowers, he quite forgot the night, the
"Rajah," and Engelhardt who needed another soul, and began to smile.
"Good morning, my pets," he said softly, "here I am, I have come back
to you."
But in Michael Petroff's room the light was burning.
Michael Petroff was sitting at his writing table, smiling and
goodhumored, writing diligently. For the impression that the "Rajah's"
death had made upon him had vanished as quickly as the tears that he
had shed for him. He was now working on an article which he regarded as
a marvelously important contribution for his newspaper. And this work
brought back his happy cheerful spirits.
In the neatest characters he wrote:
"A telegram! The Rajah of Mangalore--against whose exile we have
registered our telegraphic protest with the English Government--fell
gently asleep tonight toward three o'clock. We had the honor to be
present at his deathbed and to draw up the last will and testament of
this great ruler. We will favor our readers with a copy:
"'We, Rajah of Mangalore, banished by the English Government, too noble
to harbor feelings of revenge toward our enemies, since we are dying,
in order to rescue our subjects, make known to our people ...'"
Only as the sun rose did Michael Petroff lie down to rest.
THE CONTEMPORARY GERMAN DRAMA
By Amelia von Ende
A period of transition in a nation's life is not the best foundation
upon which to rear a new literature. The change of religious, moral,
I social and political standards from their well-established and
time-honored base to new and untried planes does not favor the
development of minds, well-defined and well-balanced, and of
characters, able to translate a clear purpose into consistent
achievement.
Germany passed through such a change toward the end of the nineteenth
century. The unification of the Empire with its era of material
prosperity and progress strengthened the roots of national
consciousness; the gospel of the superman with its absolute ego-cult
stimulated individual self-assertion; the wave of altruism which swept
across the world at the same time roused the slumbering sense of social
responsibility. These three forces--national consciousness, individual
self assertion, social responsibility--profoundly affected the
character of the young generation growing up in the newly reestablished
Empire. Embracing each of these principles in turn, theorizing about
them, the young men and women of the time became unsettled. With the
gradual realization of the seriousness of the underlying ideas grew the
desire to experiment with them in life, to prove them by practice. In
the attempt to live these new ideals the individual became involved in
a conflict with the old conscience that no philosophy had yet been able
to argue away, and the road out of this dilemma lay along the line of
least resistance, which consisted in drifting with the changing tides.
The result was the gradual evolution of a type of hero which modified
the drama of the country. While the hero of old encountered and
conquered obstacles mainly of external circumstance and complication,
the hero of the present is the victim of doubts and moods rooted within
himself, defeating his purpose and paralyzing his will.
The modern German drama deals with these conditions and characters. The
writers whose creative instinct awoke in the seventies stood upon the
firm ground of old traditions and were inspired by the optimism of the
national renascence. The writers who responded to the same instinct in
the eighties stood on the plane of a philosophy which had undermined
the old traditions and conventions and had not yet crystallized
into constructive principles that could safely guide the individual
through life. Their souls wavered between self-realization and
self-renunciation; their minds eagerly followed the example of Ibsen
inquiring into individual motives and responsibilities, and their eyes
were at the same time opened to the economic struggle of the masses
which had roused the social conscience. A world unknown to the poets of
the previous generation, or ignored by them, had come within the range
of vision; it engaged not only the humanitarian's sympathy and the
philosopher's speculation, but the artist's interest. It was studied
for its scientific meaning and exploited for its esthetic
possibilities.
The floodgates of a literature rich in stimulating ideas were opened
and the new subject-matter demanded a new manner, a new style. The
influence of Darwin was not lost upon the young generation. The
significance of circumstance and environment in the making of man led
to a minute painting of the milieu, of the external setting of each
individual life at every moment of its existence in drama or fiction.
The language of the characters became the language of their class in
ordinary life. The action was immediately and directly transferred to
the written page and became a record of unadorned reality. The cry for
truth became one of the party cries of the period. Naturalistic fiction
and naturalistic drama came into being.
Within the brief space of less than twenty-five years were born three
men whose literary personalities represent this development of German
drama. Ernst von Wildenbruch in the main held fast to the traditions of
the past, which he treated in historical plays in the manner of a poet
who had matured in the period of Germany's unification and was inspired
with the consciousness of national renascence. Hermann Sudermann, who
rose on the horizon just as the old traditions began to weaken, chose
to ignore the past, took his cue from the social note of the present,
but sought a compromise with the old forms and with the taste of the
great mass of the people. Gerhart Hauptmann, the youngest of the three,
discarded all precedent and built upon new foundations with new
material in a new manner. By the success which he gained in spite of
his uncompromising attitude, he became the leader of the young
generation.
The intellectual atmosphere in the decade that witnessed the advent of
Sudermann and Hauptmann was extraordinarily alive and stimulating and
the drama was chosen by an amazing number of young aspirants to
literary fame as the vehicle of the message they had for the world. The
plays of the period suggest the fermentation going on in the young
brains, the unsettling of old and the dawn of new creeds, religious,
social and esthetic. The clash of two generations became one of the
most popular themes. Caesar Flaischlen, a Suabian, handled it most
thoughtfully and effectively in _Martin Lehnhardt_. Though the author
modestly called it "dramatic scenes," it was a play presenting with
spirited rhythm a phase of the spiritual revolution and moral
revaluation then taking place, and in the orthodox uncle and the
radical nephew he created two figures full of real dramatic life. The
well-to-do and well-satisfied middle-class with its somewhat shopworn
ideals was a popular topic with these young men who lustily set about
to demolish the Mosaic and other codes of life. Otto Erich Hartleben
was hailed as the Juvenal of the society of his time, flaying it
mercilessly in satirical comedies like _Education for Marriage_, _The
Moral Requirement_, and _Rose-Monday_.
Whatever were the shortcomings of these young hot-spurs, there is no
doubt that there were among them earnest seekers for new values of life
and letters. Many were contented with pathetic seriousness and doubtful
results to imitate their successful and popular model, Gerhart
Hauptmann. Some made no attempt at concealing that they walked closely
in the footsteps of their master. Nor did the critics of the new school
esteem them any less for being followers and imitators rather than
creators of independent merit. Among these youths, Georg Hirschfeld, a
born Berliner, was the most promising. He was of a type abundant in
every metropolis having an intense intellectual life: sensitive,
impressionable, with an amazing talent for absorption and adaptation
and a facile gift of language. The reception accorded to his drama.
_The Mothers_ (1896), which was frankly reminiscent of Sudermann's
contrast between the front and the rear house and of Hauptmann's
dialogue of real life, was so generous, that it gave the author, then
barely twenty-three, a position quite out of proportion to his
achievement. His efforts at following up the easily won success made
him a pathetic figure in the drama of that decade. He experienced
failure upon failure and has now, after the publication of some stories
of varying merit and the stage success of a clever comedy directed
against the esthetes--_Mieze and Maria_--once more dropped out of
sight.
A far more robust figure came to the fore in Max Halbe, a West Prussian
and an individuality deeply rooted in the soil of his forefathers. That
soil and his close kinship with nature gave Halbe a firmer foundation
than the shifting quicksands of metropolitan life offered. These were
the premises upon which he set out to build. But he would not have been
a child of his time had he not seen life through the temperament of his
generation. With all his sturdy mental and moral fibre he could not
withstand the torrential current of skepticism and revaluation that
swept through the intellectual world and uprooted its spiritual
mainstays. Though the action of his plays was based upon eternal
conflicts of the human tragi-comedy--the irreconcilable contrast
between two generations, between two orders of life, between love and
duty--his characters are of the new type, his unheroic heroes are like
the men he saw about him, reeds swayed by the breath of the Zeitgeist,
and true to the naturalistic creed of his generation they were
represented by him without any attempt at idealization.
Halbe made his debut in 1889 with the tragedy of a peasant parvenu. The
play was fashioned according to old formulas, but of charming local
color and with more than a touch of the new type in one of the
characters. This was followed in 1890 by _Free Love_, the hero of which
is one of those individuals unable to reconcile their convictions with
their actions--a conflict which becomes a source of torture to
themselves and those about them. The _Ice-Floe_ (1892) was a powerful
drama, in which the sudden thaw, destroying what has been, but bringing
with it a breath of the spring and the new life to come, admirably
symbolized the passing of the old order. But it was not until the
following year, which saw the publication of his _Youth_, that Halbe
attracted serious attention outside of the circles of that Young
Germany which has become identified with the literary revolution.
_Youth_ was of a human significance and of an artistic calibre which
could not well be ignored. This work presented the old theme of youth,
love and sin in the provincial setting that he knew so well; the
characters were taken from real life and portrayed with striking
truthfulness. But over it all was the atmosphere of spring, of sunshine
and blossoms and thundershowers that quicken the germs in the womb of
the earth. This was suggested with a delicacy and a chastity rare in
the literature of that period of storm and stress. _Youth_ was the work
of a true poet and would have been hailed as such even had the author
been born into a period less generous in its bestowal of praise upon
the works of the "coming men."
In _Mother Earth_, published in 1897, Max Halbe shows himself at his
best both in spirit and in manner. The hero of that play is estranged
from his paternal hearth, with its ancestral traditions and from the
simple rural life and the innocent tender love of his youth. For he has
gone to Berlin, has drifted into the circles of the intellectuals,
married the brilliant and advanced daughter of a professor and become
actively interested in feminist propaganda. Subconsciously, however,
this life does not satisfy him, and when on the death of his father he
returns to the old home and feels once more its charm, he realizes that
he has forfeited real happiness for a vague and alien ideal. In this
work with its firmly knit and logically evolved action Max Halbe
reached a climax in his development. Since its production his star has
been steadily declining and the thirteen or more works that have since
come from his pen have not added to his reputation. Embittered by his
failures, he chose some years ago to attack his rivals and critics in a
satirical comedy. _The Isle of the Blessed_, but he had miscalculated
the effect of the poorly disguised personal animosities upon an
audience not sufficiently interested in the author's friendships and
enmities. He has, however, not become sadly resigned to his fate, like
Hirschfeld, but continues to court the favor of the stage with the
tenacity of a man disappointed in his hopes but unwilling to admit his
defeat.
An important aspect of the social and esthetic programme of the new
school was the unflinching frankness with which it faced a problem
belonging to intimate life and barring public discussion, yet closely
connected with the economic conditions of society: the problem of sex.
The curious revival of pagan eroticism in lyric poetry and the growing
tendency toward a scientific cynicism in fiction were supplemented by
attempts to handle sex from the standpoint of modern psychology and
social ethics in drama. With works of that class has the name of Frank
Wedekind become inseparably associated. He is the most positive
intellect among the writers of Young Germany and their most radical
innovator in regard to form. He is a fanatic of truth and deals only
with facts; discarding the mitigating accessories of the _milieu_, he
places those facts before us in absolute nudity. This would make him
the most consistent naturalist; but when facts are presented bald and
bare, they do not make the impression of reality, but rather of
grotesque caricature. Hence Wedekind has sometimes been compared with
early English dramatists and classed with romanticists like Lenz,
Grabbe and Heine. He himself has no esthetic theories whatever that
could facilitate his being enrolled under some fetching label. Nor has
he any ethical principles, some critics allege, if they do not curtly
call him immoral. Yet his work, from the appearance of _Spring's
Awakening_ (1891) to his _Stone of Wisdom_, (1909) and his most recent
works, proves him to be concerned with nothing but the moral problem.
He treats social morality with mordant irony from an a-moral
standpoint. The distinction between a-moral and immoral must be borne
in mind in any attempt to interpret the puzzling and paradoxical
personality of the author and to arrive at an approximate understanding
of the man behind his work.
[Illustration: IN THE SHADE]
That Wedekind is not only an author, but an actor as well, has in no
small degree complicated his case. The pose seems so inseparably
connected with the art of the actor, that his intransigent policy in
sex matters and his striking impersonations of the characters in his
plays have been interpreted as the unabashed bid for notoriety of a
clever poseur. But his acting could hardly have made palatable to
theatre audiences topics tabooed in polite conversation and with
appalling candor presented by him on the stage. Neither his quality as
actor nor his quality as author could account for the measure of
popularity his plays have attained. It would rather indicate that the
German public was ready for open discussion of the problems involved
and that Wedekind's frankness and honesty, his lapses into diabolical
grimace and grotesque hyperbole notwithstanding, met a demand of his
time. Nor did he restrict himself to that one particular problem. His
irony spared no institution, no person: lese-majeste was one of his
offenses; nor did he spare himself. Born into a generation which took
itself very seriously, he created the impression as if he at least were
not taking himself too seriously. Yet a survey of his work, regardless
of the comparisons and conclusions it may suggest, tends to
substantiate the claim that Frank Wedekind is not only an
uncompromising destroyer of antiquated sentiment and a fanatic of
positive life, but a grim moralist. It is easy to recognize him in some
of his characters, and these figures, like the banished king in _Thus
is Life_, the secretary Hetman in _Hidalla_, the author Lindekuh in
_Musik_, and others, are always the tragic moralists in an immoral
world. There is something pathetic in the perseverance with which he is
ever harping on the one string.
For although he is now one of the more popular writers of his
generation, his attitude has not changed much in the course of his
career. The man who hurled into the world _Spring's Awakening_, is
still behind the social satirist who has become a favorite with theatre
audiences through his clever portrayal of a crook in _The Marquis of
Keith_ and of the popular stage favorite in _The Court Singer_. He is
little concerned with the probability of the plot; his situations will
not bear the test of serious scrutiny. They are only the background
from which the figure of the hero stands out in strong relief. The
popular tenor, who is an amusing combination of the artist and the
businessman, is one of the characters in the plays of Wedekind that
have little or no trace in them of the author himself. He is seen with
astonishing objectivity and presented with delectable sarcasm. The
story of the famous singer, who between packing his valise to take the
train for his next engagement, studying a new role, running over
numerous letters from admirers, makes love to the one caller he cannot
get rid of, a woman who chooses that inopportune moment to shoot
herself before his eyes, is a typical product of his manner, and a
grotesque satire upon the cult of histrionic stars practised by both
sexes.
While the initiative in the literary revolution of which Halbe and
Wedekind are such striking examples was taken by Northern Germany and
centred in Berlin, Austria was not slow in adding a note of its own by
giving the German drama of the period two of its most interesting
individualities. Both Arthur Schnitzler and Hugo von Hofmannsthal--to
whom might be added the clever and versatile Hermann Bahr--reflect the
complex soul of their native city, Vienna; for if Austria is
acknowledged to be a most curious racial composite, Vienna contains its
very essence. Situated at the parting of the ways for the South and the
Orient, it has ever been a much-coveted spot. After the conquest of the
original Celtic settlement by the Romans, Teutons, Huns, and Turks have
successively fought for its possession and have left their imprint upon
its physiognomy. Intermarriage with the neighboring Czechs and Magyars,
the affiliations of the court with Spain, Italy, and France, and the
final permeation of all social strata by the Hebrew element, have
produced what may be called the Viennese soul. Political conditions,
too, have influenced it: to maintain peace in a country which is a
heterogeneous conglomerate of states rather than an organic growth,
requires a diplomacy the chief aim of which is to prevent anything from
happening. This attitude of the Viennese court and its vast machinery
of functionaries slowly affected other classes, until the people of
Vienna as a body seem to refrain from anything that means action. It is
this passive fatalism which has hampered the intellectual development
of Vienna. Oldest in culture among the German-speaking cities of Europe
it has never been and is not likely ever to be a leader.
Minds that entered upon this local heritage were only too ready to
receive the seeds of skepticism abundant in the spiritual atmosphere of
the century's end. But Nietzsche's gospel of the Superman, Ibsen's
heretical analysis of human motives and Zola's cry for truth did not
affect the young generation of Vienna intellectuals as they did those
of Paris or Berlin, where the revision of old standards of life and
letters was promptly followed by daring experiments with new ideals.
Young Vienna heard the keynotes of the new time, but it was content
to evolve a new variety of an old tune. Time-honored pessimism,
world-sorrow, gave way to a sophisticated and cynical world-weariness
which is symptomatic of decadence. Widely different as their
individualities present themselves, between the pages of their books
and on the stage, both Schnitzler and Hofmannsthal reflect that
attitude of mind.
In the work of Arthur Schnitzler the Hebrew element predominates; it
has quickened the somewhat inert Vienna blood and finds expression in
analytical keenness and sharpness of vision, a wit of Gallic refinement
and a language of sparkling brilliancy. Schnitzler's profession, too,
has not been without some influence upon his poetical work. A physician
facing humanity daily not in strength and health, but in weakness and
disease, cannot divest himself of a certain pessimistic bias. Brought
up and practising in a city like Vienna, he cannot escape the cynicism
which belongs alike to the man of the world as to the doctor before
whom all veils and pretenses are discarded. It is difficult, indeed, to
banish the idea that the consultation-room of Arthur Schnitzler, Dr.
med., is the confessional which furnishes material to Arthur
Schnitzler, author. For the modern physician is not concerned with his
patient's body only, but also with his soul. He must be a psychologist
as well, and the success of his diagnosis depends upon his skill to
unravel the intricate interrelations between both. That Schnitzler is
such a physician admits of no doubt. His perspicacity as diagnostician
lends subtlety to his analysis and portrayal of characters. While his
professional bias may in a manner limit the range of his vision, his
professional knowledge and experience are strong assets of the
dramatist Schnitzler.
The world that he knows best is the modern society of Vienna. His
heroes are mostly men engaged in a quest for the joys of life, but
never attaining whole-hearted enjoyment, because of their innate streak
of world-weariness. When the hero of his _Anatol_ (1893) calls himself
"light-hearted pessimist," Schnitzler creates a term which fits as well
his Fedor in _Maerchen_ (1894), his Fritz in _Liebelei_ (1895), and
other specimens of a type related to the heroes of Musset and other
Frenchmen. His women, too, have a streak of French blood, both his
"sweet girls" and his married heroines; but unmistakably Austrian and
Viennese is their willingness to resign rather than to resist. Frau
Gabriele give Anatol flowers to take to his sweetheart and bids him
tell her: "These flowers, my ... sweet girl ... a woman sends you, who
can perhaps love as well as you, but had not the courage ..." The
playlets collectively called _Anatol_ are only scenes and dialogues
between two men or a man and a woman exchanging confidences. Limited as
he seems in his choice of themes and types, both by temperament and
association, it is amazing with what virtuosity Schnitzler varies
almost identical situations and characters until they are
differentiated from one another by some striking individual touch and
when presented on the stage act with a new and potent charm.
For that just balance of contents and form which makes for perfection,
Schnitzler's renaissance drama _The Veil of Beatrice_ is the most
noteworthy specimen. But in all his work his style is his greatest
achievement. It is of a rare spontaneity, vivacity and grace--qualities
that make his dialogue appear an impromptu performance rather than a
carefully planned structure. It abounds in paradoxes that do not blind
the vision, but reveal vistas, and that do not impress as high lights
added for effect, but as organic parts of the whole. It scintillates
with wit, though it lacks humor. It is the just medium of expression
for his characters, those types of modern intellectuals, affected by
the corrosive skepticism of the period and in turn buoyed by the
light-hearted temperament and depressed by the passive melancholy that
are indigenous to Vienna. It is this literary excellence that renders
works like _Literature_ (1902) and _The Green Cockatoo_ (1899)
enjoyable to readers to whom their spirit may be absolutely foreign. It
is their polish that robs their cynicism of its sting and brings into
relief only their formal beauty. _Literature_ deals effectively with
the literary exploitation of intimate personal experience: it presents
characters which with due local modification can be found in every
intellectual centre and is a little masterpiece of irony. In _The Green
Cockatoo_ the poet has seen his theme in a sort of phantasmagorical
perspective; he plays with reality and appearance in a play within a
play which is unique in literature. He makes his spectators feel the
hot breath of the French Revolution without burdening them with the
ideas that were back of it. It is the most solidly constructed of his
works and the one most sure of success on any stage. Exquisite as is
the art of Schnitzler, it is deeply rooted in life and does not
approach that art for art's sake which was one of the striking
phenomena of that period.
Yet the atmosphere of Vienna and the leisurely pace of its life seem to
favor the development of an art that has little or no connection with
the pressing realities of the day and is bent upon seeking the beauty
of the word rather than the truth of its message. Such a movement had
been inaugurated in German letters in 1890 by Stefan George, who
gathered about him a small group of collaborators in the privately
circulated magazine _Blaetter fuer die Kunst_. It stood for a remoteness
from reality which formed a strong contrast to the naturalistic creed
and for a formal craftsmanship which set out to counteract the grooving
tendency to break away from the fetters of conventional forms. The work
of the group bordered often upon archaic preciosity, yet its influence
was wholesome in holding up the ideal of a formalism which is after all
one of the basic conditions of art. Though not a native of Vienna,
Stefan George settled there after launching the movement and found
among its young intellectuals not a few disciples that have since
followed in his wake. There is something about an art for art's sake
that appeals to an aristocracy of birth and breeding; it touched a
responsive chord in the soul of Hugo von Hofmannsthal,[A] whose earlier
work distinctly shows its influence and who to that influence still
owes his admirable mastery of form.
[Footnote A: For Hofmannsthal, compare Vol. XVII, pp. 482-527.]
Hofmannsthal's descent from an old nobility that had passed the zenith
of its power and was but little modified by a strain of the more
democratic Hebrew blood, seemed to predestine him for the part he has
played in the literature of the present. He made his debut as a mere
youth of seventeen, when in 1891 he published the dramatic study
_Yesterday_, giving evidence of an amazingly precocious mind and a
prematurely developed formal talent. Gifted writers of that kind are
usually doomed to remain prodigies whatever may be their medium of
expression. Coming into their heritage, which is the accumulated
knowledge and experience of their ancestors, before they have acquired
a direct and profound grasp of life, they seem to enter the world
full-fledged, while it is only that ancestral heritage that works
through the impressions of the youthful brain and gives them the color
of age. Knowing and satiated when the mind is most receptive, such
individualities rarely develop beyond their first brilliant phase. Hugo
von Hofmannsthal was for a long time considered a perfect specimen of
that type. For the hero of that first work, as of every work published
by him during the first decade of his career, was his double, was
Hofmannsthal himself. All the virtuosity of style could not conceal the
paucity of invention in subject matter and in the creation of real
living characters. Even in that charming Oriental play _The Marriage of
Sobeide_ (1899) and _The Mine of Falun_ (1906) the personality of the
author obtrudes itself upon the vision of the reader.
These works, however, marked a transition. For with his thirtieth year
Hofmannsthal entered upon a new period and a new manner. The study of
the antique Greek drama and of early English dramatists diverted him
from the self-absorption and self-reflection of his previous work, and
may have brought home to him the necessity of finding a more fertile
source for his art than his own individual soul. The extraordinary
success of Wilde's _Salome_ opened possibilities of applying the
pathological knowledge of the present to the interpretation of the
past. He chose for this momentous departure the _Electra_ of Sophocles
(1903). Taking from the Greek poet the mere skeleton of the story, he
modified the characters according to his own vision and the
psychopathic viewpoint of the time--a liberty which some critics
justified, others branded as an unpardonable license. But the work was
a turning-point for Hofmannsthal, for he has since begun to face life
more directly and squarely and though he has not reached a wholesome
reading of it, he has at least struck new and powerful notes that
contrast strongly with the spirit of his previous works. Enforced by
the music of Richard Strauss, whose naturalism is the immediate
expression of his robust virility, Hofmannsthal's _Electra_ has made
the name of the author known throughout the world. To his association
with the sturdy Bavarian composer is also due the comedy _Der
Rosenkavalier_ (1911), which with its daring situations and touches of
drastic burlesque harks back to the spirit of the comedy of Moliere's
time, though in its way it is also a product of the reaction against
the puerile and commonplace inoffensiveness of mid-century letters
inaugurated by Young Germany. Since his association with Richard
Strauss has weaned Hofmannsthal from the somewhat effete estheticism
and pessimism of his youth, it is a matter of interesting conjecture
what further effect it may have upon his development.
It seems to follow with the inevitableness of a physical law, that the
alternate swing of the pendulum between a naturalism which set above
everything the material fact and the cry for truth, and a subtle
estheticism which set the word above the spirit, would in the end usher
in an art that had profited by and learned to avoid both extremes.
There was little surprise when the Royal Schiller prize, which had not
been awarded for some years, was in 1908 divided between Karl
Schoenherr[A] for his play _Erde_ and Ernst Hardt for _Tristram the
Jester_. For Schoenherr, the Tyrolese, had drawn his inspiration from
the source which ever Antaesus-like renews the strength of humanity, and
Hardt had drawn upon the rich source of racial lore. But when a jury
consisting of men like Dr. Jacob Minor, Dr. Paul Schlenther, Hermann
Sudermann, Carl Hauptmann and others within a few weeks after that
contest awarded the popular Schiller prize also to Hardt and for the
same play, with a competitor like Hofmannsthal in the race, it seemed
safe to argue that this unanimity indicated a turn of the tide. Both
Schoenherr and Hardt stand for that sane eclecticism which seems
destined to pilot German drama out of the contrary currents to which it
has long been a prey toward a type more in harmony with the classical
ideal.
[Footnote A: For Schoenherr, compare Vol. XVI, pp. 410-479.]
Though comparatively unknown when he issued as victor from those
contests and suddenly obtained a measure of celebrity, Hardt was by no
means a novice in the world of letters. The first book bearing his
name, _Priests of Death_ (1898), contained some stories of an epic
dignity and a dramatic rhythm that challenged attention and secured
interest for the works that followed. These were another volume of
fiction, one of poetry, some plays and a number of translations from
Taine, Flaubert, Balzac, and other French writers, which are remarkable
specimens of his ability to grasp the spirit of a foreign world and to
convey its essence through the medium of his native tongue. It seems
natural that his familiarity with French literature had some influence
upon the character of his prize drama, since he had chosen for its
topic a story belonging alike to German and Gallic lore. To re-create
the story of Tristan and Isolde upon the foundation of the German
source would have challenged comparison not only with the cherished
epic of Master Gottfried of Strassburg, but also with the music-drama
of Richard Wagner, who had treated it with something like finality,--at
least for the present generation. By going back to the old French
legend and to J. Bedier's book _Le roman de Tristan et Yseult_ (1900),
the author was able to present that most tragic of all love-stories
from a different angle. By complicating the plot through the
introduction of the second Isolde, jealousy became the secondary,
though hardly less powerful theme. This deviation from the
comparatively simple plot of the German story is of course more
difficult of comprehension upon the stage. It is not easy to convince
an audience that jealousy of Isolde White-hand, whom Tristan had
married after being banished from Cornwall, blinds Isolde Blond-hair
into refusing to recognize him when he returns and pleads his case
before her in the disguise of Tristram the Jester. Cavilling critics
were quick to discover and to expatiate upon this weakness of the play.
But the fine lines upon which it is built and the plastic figures
standing out against the medieval background, the glowing color,
radiant lights and brooding shadows of its atmosphere, and lastly, the
language, the verse-form admirably adapted to the subject,--all this
together makes of the drama a work coming very near that perfect
balance of contents and form which is the ideal of art.
It is a rather circuitous path which German drama has traveled since
the memorable performance of Gerhart Hauptmann's play _Before Sunrise_
in 1889. It has outgrown the one-sided naturalism which had seemed the
only medium of translating life directly into literature. It has turned
aside from the orphic symbolism and verbal artistry rooted only in
literature and having nothing in common with life. Men like Karl
Schoenherr, Carl Hauptmann, and others have found in the native soil and
its people and in the problems that confront that people at all times
as rich a source of thematic material as previous generations of poets
had found in the historic past. Men like Ernst Hardt and others have
infused new life into the old legends of racial lore. As German drama
is completing this cycle of its development it gives hopeful evidence
of returning to the safe middle course of normal growth toward a new
type, indigenous to the soil and the soul of the country.
MAX HALBE
* * * * * *
MOTHER EARTH
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
PAUL WARKENTIN, publisher of a feminist journal
HELLA WARKENTIN-BERNHARDY, his wife
DR. VON GLYSZINSKI
HELIODOR VON LASKOWSKI, owner of the estate Klonowken
ANTOINETTE, his wife
AUNT CLARA
VON TIEDEMANN, estate owner
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN
RAABE, SENIOR, estate owner
SCHNAASE, estate owner
MRS. SCHNAASE
RAABE, JUNIOR, student
DR. BODENSTEIN, physician
MERTENS, manager of a factory
JOSUPEIT, rentier
MRS. BOROWSKI, widow of a teacher
KUNZE, organist
SCHROCK, licentiate
ZINDEL, inspector
LENE, chambermaid
FRITZ, coachman
Time: The present. Place: Estate Ellernhof.
MOTHER EARTH (1897)
A Drama in Five Acts
TRANSLATED BY PAUL H. GRUMMANN, A.M.
Professor of Modern German Literature, University of Nebraska
ACT I
Ancient hall of the manor. Broad and spacious. Low ceiling. In the rear
wall, toward the garden, the bare trees of which are visible, three
wide windows with white crossbars. Chair at both ends of each window. A
folding card table between the chairs of the middle window. An Empire
commode in each space between the windows. In the centre of the two
lateral walls, folding doors, the one at the left leading into another
room, the one at the right into the vestibule. On the left, in the
foreground, a sofa which is well preserved and gives evidence of former
elegance, and similar chairs with stiff backs and light variegated
covers, grouped around a large oval table. Opposite this in the
foreground at the right, an old-fashioned fireplace, before which three
similar chairs are placed. In the background at the right, near the
window, a spinet with a chair before it. In the corresponding place on
the left near the window a tall, gilt framed mirror resting on a
cabinet base. An old fashioned chandelier, ornate with gilt and glass,
is suspended in the centre of the hall. A number of pictures, men and
women in the fashions of the last one hundred years, cover the walls.
Painted board floor. Rugs only before sofa and spinet. Furniture in
light mahogany. Wall paper of gilt design. Solid, but faded finery of
the twenties and thirties of the nineteenth century with a few more
recent additions. The general character of the hall is bright and
inviting, nevertheless serious and somewhat shut in by the low ceiling,
giving the large room an air of emptiness, for the scant furniture
along the walls seems to be lost. A mixture of a dancing hall and an
ancestral portrait gallery. At present it looks gloomy, almost
spectral. It is an early morning near the end of December. As yet not a
ray of sunlight comes in through the heart-shaped apertures of the
shutters, which are hung on the outside and are fastened on the inside
by means of thumbscrews. A lamp stands at the extreme end of the room
on one of the commodes. Beyond its radius deep shadows gather on every
side. In the foreground logs are burning brightly in the fireplace. An
indistinct light falls past the chairs over the foreground. From the
other side, the light of a candle falls upon the sofa table which is
covered with a white cloth. It also illumines only the immediate
vicinity. Dusk predominates in the spacious hall. At every passing and
repassing great shadows flit back and forth.
AUNT CLARA stands on a chair under the chandelier and slowly revolves
it, scrutinizing it, and causing the glass prisms to tinkle.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL in a fur coat and cap stands at the door on the right
and is about to go out.
AUNT CLARA (with a heavy gray cloth wrapped about her head, speaks down
from the chair). Yes, just go and see, Zindel, whether they are coming;
see whether you can hear anything.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Just so, Miss. I shall be back right off. (He opens
the door and runs into LENE, who is about to enter with a tray full of
dishes for the morning coffee.) Whoa! Look out! Don't knock anything
over! (Partly to himself.) Or the old man will play us the trick and
wake up again. (He goes out, and closes the door behind him.)
AUNT CLARA (speaking down from the chair). Is it you, Lene?
LENE (has come forward with the dishes, shrinks so that the tray and
dishes clatter). Heavens and all the saints! Why, I didn't see you at
all, Miss! Why, I was so frightened! (She draws several deep breaths,
places the tray beside the candle on the white cloth of the sofa table,
and begins to arrange the cups.)
AUNT CLARA (as before). Why in the world are you frightened? You see,
don't you, that I am attending to the chandelier, am doing your work
again?
LENE (busy at the table). Expect a person not to get scared, when all
of a sudden a voice like that comes out of the dark, when, on top of it
all, a dead man's in the house. As a rule I'm not afraid, but I won't
dare to go to the back part of the house alone any more, it's just as
if Mr. Warkentin would turn up right before you.
AUNT CLARA. Stuff and nonsense, I suppose you kept the candle burning
the whole night in your room again? I am likely to come and get your
candle one of these days.
LENE. Why Miss Clara is afeared herself. She won't go a step without a
light. Ain't it true, Miss Clara, you're a little afeared too. You only
won't let on.
AUNT CLARA. I shall afear your back before long! I have closed the eyes
of many in my day. That's nothing new to me.
LENE (interested). But all of a sudden, like Mr. Warkentin?
AUNT CLARA. When they get to be about seventy, one knows how it goes,
old widower Fritz in Kobieken went that way too. Fell over and was
gone, it's the best kind of a death. That comes just as it comes....
Have you arranged the cups?
LENE. Everything in order. (Counting.) The young master, the lady
(correcting herself), no, the lady on the sofa and the young master
here (points to a chair), Miss Clara here and the fourth cup ... I
suppose some one else is coming with the young master?
AUNT CLARA. Yes, and don't ask so many questions! Come here and hold
the light, I want to light the chandelier.
LENE (comes with the candle). Light the chandelier? Why, it's almost
daytime.
AUNT CLARA. Do as I say. When the young master arrives, it will still
be dark.
LENE (hands the candle up to her). Wonder whether the young master'll
stay long?
AUNT CLARA (has lighted the lights of the chandelier, one after
another). Wait and see. (About to get down.)
LENE (extends her hand to her). Now don't you fall, Miss!
AUNT CLARA (gets down from the chair carefully). Now then!... One does
realize, after all, that the years are coming on! When I was of your
age, I jumped from the straw stack. You girls of today! you have no
sap, no vim! A girl as strong as a bear, and afraid of going to pieces.
LENE (admiring the chandelier). Oh my, but now it's beautiful, Miss
Clara! The young master will be pleased when he comes.
[AUNT CLARA stands before the chandelier with folded hands,
engrossed in thought. The hall is now brightly illumined. Only
the remotest corners remain in a shadow.]
INSPECTOR ZINDEL (comes in again from the right with a lighted lantern,
stops in astonishment). The deuce, Miss Clara! You're up to the
business. I do say, the world must come to an end, in grand style! (He
puts down the lantern beside the fireplace.)
LENE. Anything else to do, Miss?
AUNT CLARA (absent-minded). You may go now. If I need you I'll call.
LENE (departing). All right, Miss, the water's been put on for the
coffee. (Goes off to the right.)
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. I was out on the road. Miss. Not a sound yet.
AUNT CLARA (starts from her dreams and points to the chandelier). For
ten years it has not been lighted, Zindel! Ever since Paul has been
gone!
INSPECTOR ZINDEL (approaching from the fireplace, mysteriously). Do you
know, Miss Clara?
AUNT CLARA (with a start). Goodness!... What is it?
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. I say, Miss Clara? You'll put in a good word for me
with the young master? A fellow does want to know where he's at.
AUNT CLARA. Yes, yes. (Listens toward the outside.)
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Especially now that the old master is dead, and the
young master doesn't know about things, all of the work is on a
fellow's shoulders, you see.
AUNT CLARA (still listening). Don't you hear something, Zindel? It
seems to me?
INSPECTOR ZINDEL (is startled and listens also). Where, pray tell?...
[Brief silence.]
AUNT CLARA (taking her hand from her ear). No, nothing. It only seemed
to me....
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Heavens, Miss Clara!... Where was it--? (He walks up
and down restlessly.)
AUNT CLARA (has sat down in a chair at the table before the sofa). Now
they may be here at any time. What time is it, Zindel?
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Almost seven. Miss. The Berlin train arrives at ten
minutes after six.
AUNT CLARA. You were outside, Zindel, weren't you; didn't you hear a
carriage on the road?
INSPECTOR ZINDEL (warms his hands at the fireplace). The wind's from
the other way, Miss. One can hear nothing. And it's cold as the deuce!
They'll be nice and cold on the way.
AUNT CLARA. I do not know how it comes, but the day seems unwilling to
break this morning. How does it look outside?
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Dark, pitch dark. Not a star, nothing. Only over
toward the Sobbowitz woods, it's beginning to dawn a bit.
AUNT CLARA (yawning). Of course, that's where the sun must rise.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL (also yawning). We'll not get much of a peep at it
today. It's going to be a gloomy day.
AUNT CLARA. Possibly it will snow.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. May be, why it's time. Christmas without snow, I
can't remember such a thing for the last few years.
AUNT CLARA. No night has ever turned out as long as the present one for
me. I haven't closed an eye. I heard the clock strike every time. And
all the things that I saw and heard!
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. (approaching again). Don't tell it, Miss!
AUNT CLARA. I continually saw the dead man, but he was alive and opened
the door and came toward me. And yet I knew he was dead. And when I was
about to scream, the clock struck and all was gone.
[Outside a clock strikes. It has the silvery sound of old chimes.
Both are startled.]
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Thunderation! You can put it over a fellow. (He goes
back to the fireplace.)
AUNT CLARA (counts the strokes, first in an undertone, then louder, and
meanwhile rises). Five ... six ... seven ... It has struck seven,
Zindel. They will surely be here any moment. (She listens again.) I
believe I hear something now.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL (at the fireplace, seizes the lantern). Here they are.
You can hear the carriage on the road.
AUNT CLARA (busily). After all they came sooner than we expected!
Hurry, Zindel, they are driving up now.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL (already at the door on the right, swinging the
lantern). This minute, Miss Clara ...!
[Goes off.]
AUNT CLARA (also on the way to the door, stops a moment and folds her
hands). If he really _is_ here, praise and thanks to God!
LENE (appears in the door at the right). They are coming, Miss Clara,
they are coming!
AUNT CLARA (busy again). Why are you still there? Out with you and help
the guests take off their wraps!
LENE. Why, I'm doing that very thing, Miss!
[Goes off.]
AUNT CLARA (calling after her). And keep the coffee in readiness, when
I ring.
[She also goes out at the right, leaves the door slightly open behind
her. Voices are heard outside. Brief silence. Then the door is opened
wide. PAUL, HELLA, VON GLYSZINSKI, AUNT CLARA appear in the door. PAUL
has taken off his coat and hat outside. HELLA wears a fur coat and
toque. GLYSZINSKI wears a hat and heavy winter overcoat, turned up over
his ears.]
GLYSZINSKI Well, if it's all right with you, I prefer to go to my room
for the present.
PAUL. As you please. Aunt Clara will show you the way upstairs. Won't
you, Auntie?
AUNT CLARA. Yes, I'll be glad to show the gentleman up.
PAUL (smiling). Or aren't the guest-rooms upstairs any more?
AUNT CLARA (reproachfully). Why, my boy, we should certainly not think
of changing the rooms around. They are very satisfactory and then
they've been there so long.
PAUL (as before). Why, of course. They have been there so long!
GLYSZINSKI. Shall we go?
AUNT CLARA (places her hand on PAUL'S shoulder). You will find, Paul,
everything here is pretty much as of old. Just make yourself
comfortable! I shall be back directly. (To GLYSZINSKI.) Please, will
you come this way? (She points toward the outside. The two go out. The
door is closed behind them.)
PAUL (who, until now, has not faced the hall, remains standing in
astonishment). Well, the chandelier in full splendor. (Meditating.) The
old chandelier. Heavens, how sacred it was to me when I was a boy. It
was fine of Aunt Clara to light the chandelier.
HELLA (meanwhile has slowly walked through the hall, scrutinizing
various things, sits down on the arm of a chair near the sofa, still
wearing her cloak and toque and keeping her muff in her hand as if she
were on the point of departing again at once. She smiles a trifle
sarcastically). Yes, for a bright morning, the chandelier suggests
this, that and what not.
PAUL (fixing his eyes upon her calmly). To me the morning seemed pretty
dark, as we were riding along. Didn't it to you?
HELLA. Oh yes, you are right. It was even disagreeably dark. I kept on
fearing we should fall into the ditch. I don't like to ride in a
strange region by night.
[Brief silence.]
PAUL (facing HELLA, shaking his head). I do not see what objections
you can have to the chandelier.
HELLA (meeting his eye calmly). None whatever, Paul.
PAUL. Aunt Clara's intentions were certainly good. One does realize
that one was expected. (He turns away and takes several steps through
the hall.)
HELLA. But you know that I do not like such occasions. That is simply
my disposition. I cannot make myself over.
PAUL. I certainly do not demand that. (Turns on his heel and approaches
again.) Or have I not always allowed you to have your own way!
HELLA (also compromising). Certainly, certainly, up to the present we
_have_ agreed on this point.
PAUL. And shall continue in the future. (He extends his right hand to
HELLA.)
HELLA (grasps his hand and looks into his face squarely). I am true to
my old self, Paul, remain so too.
PAUL. Simply because each one of us has freely gone his own way,
nothing has been able to separate us. That is the reason why we have
kept together so firmly, all of these years. Don't you think so too?
HELLA. It seems to me that I held that point of view long before we
were acquainted.
PAUL (seriously) Rather say, with that point of view, we found each
other. For this point of view, I sacrificed my home, Hella!
HELLA. Yes, therefore it surprises me all the more, that you suddenly
seem to be forgetting all about that ...
PAUL. In what respect?
HELLA (continuing). That you behave like a school boy who is coining
home for his vacation.
PAUL (is silent for a moment, then continues). Hella!... My father is
lying there on his bier. (He points toward the right.) I did not see
him again!
HELLA. Was it your fault? He forbade you his house! This house!
PAUL (without listening to her). I have not been able to come to an
understanding with him. I shall never come to an understanding with
him! Do you realize what that means? (He turns away.)
[HELLA shrugs her shoulders and remains silent. Pause.]
PAUL (has walked through the hall with heavy steps, then becomes
composed and speaks in a more unconcerned manner). Will you take off
your things, Hella? (rises, wavering). I don't know, I am cold.
PAUL (near her). But how can you be cold. The fire is roaring in the
fireplace. Our good aunt has made such perfect preparations. Who knows
when she got up in order that we might be comfortable. (He goes to the
fireplace and throws wood into it.) (leaning on the chair,
taciturnly). It is probably due to the night ride.
PAUL (approaches her). Well, come along! I'll help you!... You will
surely not remain in your furs. (He helps her. She takes off her hat
and cloak and goes to the fireplace not without hesitation.)
PAUL (following her with his eyes, gloomily). You are acting as if you
preferred to leave again at once? (turning fully toward him). Frankly,
Paul, that is what I should like to do.
PAUL (flaring up). Hella! (Calm again, coldly.) I simply do not
understand you! (has sat down at the fireplace, holds her feet up to
the fire). I do not understand you, and you do not understand me! That
is as broad as it is long.
PAUL (shrugging his shoulders). I don't know how you can think of going
away under the present circumstances.
HELLA. Quite simple. I do not demand that you shall go with me. You can
remain here as long as you are needed, order your affairs, look about
for a purchaser of the estate, and when good luck favors you in finding
him, you can come on. For the present I may as well precede you to
Berlin. You know that editing cannot be put off, the next number must
be out in a week. Both of us can not be absent. At least I am
indispensable.
PAUL. And for this purpose you made a trip of eight hours from Berlin
to this place? Hella! (He places his hand on her shoulder.)
HELLA. Yes, this unfortunate trip!
PAUL (with a deep breath). Unfortunate trip, yes indeed!
HELLA. For I must tell you, Paul ...
PAUL. Yes?
HELLA. I have a feeling that I am not quite suited to this place.
PAUL (bitterly). Aha! That is at the bottom of this insistence about
the new number of _Women's Rights_, which is all but complete even now.
HELLA (unswervingly). I have a feeling that I am not adapted to this
environment, and my feelings have rarely deceived me.
PAUL. Oh, your feelings, Hella! Your feelings! If you had only followed
them solely, many matters would stand better today! Believe me.
HELLA. I follow my feelings entirely too much, or I should have
remained in Berlin and should not sit here in the presence of peasants
where I have nothing at stake.
PAUL. But I have, Hella! I have very much at stake here. After all a
man does not abandon his inheritance point blank. Do not forget that.
HELLA (straightening up). Of what concern is that to me! Sell it, why
don't you! It's nothing but a dead weight to you anyhow.
PAUL. Why, I agree with you, Hella. And I am in favor of selling the
estate. But not today nor tomorrow. Such things call for deliberation.
HELLA. But I simply cannot wait that long. Just confess it, Paul, my
place is in the world. You surely don't expect me to desert my post.
Our whole cause is hazarded, if I throw up the game now. Particularly
at this moment. You are demanding too much!... Do you expect me to give
up my life work, simply because you cannot break away from your clod,
on account of a stupid loyalty?
PAUL (controlling himself). It seems to me, Hella, that we have a
career in common. You are acting as if you alone had a career.
HELLA. We have had, up to this day. You are the one who is retreating!
Not I!
PAUL (becoming excited). Hella! You have been my friend! My comrade in
stress and tribulation, I may say. We have builded our life on our own
resources, our new life, when the old life had renounced us. We have
stood together in the combat, for ten years! Are you willing to forget
that now? (Has stepped up to her and seized both of her hands.)
HELLA (tries to disengage herself). Goodness, Paul ...
PAUL (fixing his eyes upon her). For years you have come to me with
your wishes. Now I am coming to you! Now your friendship is to assert
itself. Answer me!
HELLA (convinced against her will, is forced to smile). Do not fall
into tragedy, Paul!
PAUL (unswervingly). You are to tell me whether you can leave me alone
at this time, whether you can bring yourself to that point. Only a
word!
HELLA. Am I not here? What else do you expect? And I shall remain here.
At least for the immediate present.
PAUL (shaking her hands vigorously). Oh, then all will turn out well!
You will remain here! Thank you for that! (Breaking out in joy.) Now
everything may turn out well after all. (He walks to and fro in
suppressed excitement.) Mad as it may sound, Hella, under these
circumstances. (He stops, facing her.) I am almost merry! (He continues
to pace up and down.)
HELLA (scrutinizes him and shakes her head). Paul! Paul! Childishness!
From one extreme to the other! When will you come to reason. Take an
example in me!
PAUL (stopping in the centre of the hall, sweeping his hand around).
Hella!... This is the soil which nurtured my youth. Do you expect me
not be happy?
AUNT CLARA (enters again from the right. She has taken off her
head-cloth and wears a black dress). Now then, Paul, here I am again.
Have you made yourself at home? Is it warm enough in the hall for both
of you? You probably got good and cold on the way. You had the wind to
face, didn't you?
PAUL (reflecting). Yes, pretty much! I think it was from the east.
AUNT CLARA. It did take me rather a long while, didn't it, Paul?
PAUL. You probably had some other matters that required attention? (Now
that she stands directly before him he looks at her more closely.) And
how Aunt Clara has dressed up! (He shakes his finger at her.) Well,
well, Auntie. Still so vain, in your years?
AUNT CLARA. Why, Paul, this old dress! (She strokes her skirt with her
hands.) I have worn it so many years. Don't you remember at all?
PAUL. Yes, yes, now ... (Meditates a moment.)
AUNT CLARA. I was wearing it when your mother died. That is the time I
had it made.
PAUL (abruptly). Oh yes. That has been a long time, to be sure!
AUNT CLARA. In waiting for you, I had quite forgotten that I still had
on my morning dress. So I quickly put on something else.
HELLA. That is exactly what I intend to do, dear Miss Clara. (She
approaches the two.)
PAUL. Yes, Auntie, you see, I don't even know where you have quartered
us? Possibly you would show Hella ...?
AUNT CLARA. Right next door, dear Mrs. ... Mrs. ---- Doctor!
HELLA (nodding to her to desist). Well then, please do not go to any
trouble.
PAUL (to HELLA, who has picked up her things). May I relieve you of
something? Or can I help you in any other way? Unlock the trunk, for
instance?
HELLA (refusing). Do drop these courtesies, Paul! That kind of thing is
certainly not in vogue with us.
PAUL (curtly). As you please!
[HELLA goes out with her things through the open door on the
left, closing it behind her.]
PAUL (to AUNT CLARA, who has been listening in amazement). So you have
lodged us next door? (Hesitating as he points to the right.) Over
there, I suppose ...?
AUNT CLARA (nodding). Yes, over there, Paul, there ... the body lies.
PAUL (gloomily). Shall we not go in. Aunt Clara?
AUNT CLARA. Why, not at once, my boy! You certainly must have something
to eat first! Refresh yourself a little. I'll just call Lene, and have
her bring the coffee! (Starts for the bell-pull.)
PAUL (restraining her). I think we had better wait until Hella and the
gentleman are ready.
AUNT CLARA (looking at him tenderly). Now you're not _cold_ at all,
Paul?
PAUL (significantly). No, Auntie, I am not cold here. (With less
constraint.) Just look at the fine fire in the fireplace, how it
flickers and crackles! I believe it too is glad that I am here again.
But who is gladdest of all, well, Auntie, just guess who that may be?
AUNT CLARA (shaking her head). Why, I can't know that. I can't guess
any more with this old head of mine.
PAUL (slyly). _That_ she doesn't know! Oh Auntie, Auntie! Why, you
yourself, you good old soul!
AUNT CLARA (unaffectedly). I did light the chandelier for you, Paul.
PAUL. Of course, the chandelier! Do you suppose I did not notice that
you were at the bottom of that, Auntie? Come give me your hand; thank
you very much, Auntie!
AUNT CLARA (putting her arms around him). I'm going to give you a kiss,
my boy. Your wife will take no offense at that. (She kisses him.)
PAUL. Oh my wife! That needn't ... (He gently disengages himself from
his aunt's embrace and goes to and fro meditating.)
AUNT CLARA (following him with her eyes). Do you still remember, Paul,
how I would hold you on my knees and rock you when you were a little
fellow?
PAUL (paces to and fro again). Yes, yes, how all of that comes back
again! How it is resurrected from its sleep!... (He sits down before
the fireplace in deep thought and stares into the fire.)
AUNT CLARA (also goes to the fireplace). Right there, where you are
sitting now, my boy, you often read fairy tales to me, about Snow-White
and Cinderella and about the wolf and the old grandmother ...
PAUL (dreaming). Fairy tales, yes indeed!
AUNT CLARA. You sat here, and I here, and you held up your fairy tale
book and acted as if you were grown up ...
PAUL (smiling). I suppose that's the way one felt too!
AUNT CLARA. And papa and mamma were out in society or in the city ...
PAUL. Yes, quite so, that's it. For, on the whole, as I remember, I was
not in this hall frequently. There was always a little fear mixed up
with it. Quite natural! The pictures, the spaciousness, the emptiness
and all that! Later that did disappear. The last time that I was in
this room, when may it have been ...? (He leans his head on his hand in
meditation.)
AUNT CLARA. It was Christmas Eve, ten years ago, Paul.
PAUL. Christmas Eve ten years ago! You may be right. I remember it was
a short time before I had ... the crash with father. I had come home at
Christmas just because I imagined that that was the best time to come
to an understanding with father about all of those matters, my future
and other affairs, and I also recall that I wanted to allow the
holidays to pass before I dared to come out with my projects, the
founding of my journal and my marriage and all the beautiful surprises!
Oh it was postponed as long as possible. One did have an inkling of
what it would lead to. Of course no one had an idea how it would
_really_ turn out!
AUNT CLARA. No, Paul, no one had an idea that that would be the last
Christmas Eve that we should celebrate together. Your father least of
all. All of us were as merry as ever. There stood the tree and the
chandelier was lighted ...
PAUL. Correct, correct! And Antoinette ... wasn't Antoinette present
too? Why of course? That's what complicated the matter so terribly for
me. There she sits, my father has invited her, I know that he intends
her for me, I am to marry her, I'm to become engaged to her right under
the Christmas-tree, as nearly as I can tell. The word is expected from
me. All of you are waiting, and I ... why I simply can't. I simply
_cannot_, because I have forged quite different plans for my future,
because I too have obligations, in short, simply because it is
impossible. (He gets up in excitement.) Because it _was_ impossible,
Aunt Clara! Because I imagined I could not stand it in the country, was
destined for something better than a sturdy estate owner and family
father, simply because Hella was putting such bees in my bonnet and
because, in my stupidity, I believed it all! Just as if the world had
been waiting for me to come and set it right! Ridiculous! But at that
time I was convinced of it. At that time I had to make a clean breast
of it or it would have cost me my life. But, oh, how I _did_ suffer in
those days!
AUNT CLARA. If you had only told me about it, Paul! But I didn't know a
thing about it. Not until it was too late ...
PAUL (breathing deeply). Yes, then it came quickly. I could not conceal
it any longer. It simply burst forth. It can have been only a few days
later ...
AUNT CLARA. Three days, my boy ...
PAUL. Three days, yes, very likely. To me, to be sure, they seemed like
eternity. And strangely enough: terrible as the clash with father was,
when he found out what intentions I had and that I did not want to
remain with him and marry Antoinette and take over the estate some day.
Believe me.
AUNT CLARA, it was a relief in a sense, after all, when it had been
said, and father had forbidden me the house and I sat in the carriage
and drove away and was free for good. Yes for good! That is what I made
myself believe at the time and I fairly breathed with relief and
imbibed the crisp air! That must have been approximately this time of
the year. Why, certainly! Just about. It was at Christmas.
AUNT CLARA. Third holiday is when it was, Paul. I can still see you get
into the carriage. It gave me such a shock. I thought I'd fall over.
PAUL (caressing her). Good soul that you are! Yes you always took my
part ... (Interrupting himself.) Third holiday, you say, it took place?
(Striking his forehead.) Why that is today. Ten years ago today!
AUNT CLARA. This very day!
PAUL (goes back and forth excitedly). I say ... I say ... Ten years!
Horrible!
AUNT CLARA. And you see, my boy, all this time these candles have not
been lighted! (She points to the chandelier.) Just as they were put out
on Christmas Eve, they are in their places today.
PAUL (gloomily). So that is why you lighted the chandelier, Auntie?
AUNT CLARA. Yes, now that you are here again, it occurred to me that
the candles ought to be lighted again.
PAUL. I think we shall let that suffice. Broad daylight is already
peering through the shutters. (He points to the background where broad
daylight comes in through the heart-shaped apertures of the shutters,
then slowly puts out the candles, one by one.) Now then, let us put
them out!
AUNT CLARA (goes to the background and unscrews the shutters, opens
them, letting the daylight stream in, and puts out the lamp on the
commode). Praise the Lord! After all it has become daylight once more.
PAUL (has put out the candles and looks over at her). What do you mean
by that. Aunt Clara?
AUNT CLARA (having opened the shutters, comes forward again and
whispers). I was forced to think so much, because it was the first
night that your father has been dead and has been lying there in the
corner room.
PAUL (with suppressed feeling, after a short struggle). Will you not
tell me how father died?
AUNT CLARA. Oh, Paul what is there to tell about that? Didn't I
telegraph to you? Heart failure, is what Doctor Bodenstein said. He
went to bed at ten o'clock that night, as always; it was night before
last, the first holiday.
PAUL. Didn't he call at all? Did he not succeed in making himself heard
at all?
AUNT CLARA. Not a word! From that time on, no mortal heard another
sound from him.
PAUL (covers his face with his hands, then hesitatingly). Do you think
he still thought of me?
AUNT CLARA. The departed thought of you very often especially lately
when thoughts of death were coming to him, I am certain of that.
PAUL. And did he not want to see me once more?
AUNT CLARA. He said nothing about that.
PAUL. Nothing, Aunt Clara? Nothing? Think!
AUNT CLARA. He _said_ nothing.
PAUL (excited). But he _thought_ it. And did not have time to do it!
Now he is taking it down into his grave with him. [Pause.]
AUNT CLARA. I was going to ask you, Paul ...?
PAUL. Well? (He stands before her at the fireplace.)
AUNT CLARA. What kind of a man can that be who came with you?
PAUL. Glyszinski?
AUNT CLARA. Why yes, the one I took up stairs, the young man?
PAUL. Heavens, he is a friend of ours. Particularly of Hella.
AUNT CLARA. Of your wife? Why, Paul!
PAUL (smiling). Oh, Auntie! There is no danger in him. You need not
have any scruples about that. Hella indeed crams her head with thoughts
quite distinct from love. She never did suffer from that.
AUNT CLARA. But to think that he just came along? Did you invite him?
PAUL (shrugging his shoulders). Well, what is a man to do? He lives
with us.
AUNT CLARA (more and more astonished). He lives with you?
PAUL. We keep house together, yes. And so he wanted to come with us,
and Hella was also of the opinion that we could not exactly desert him.
He is likely to do some fool thing. You know he is always doing fool
things ... It _wasn't_ very agreeable to me, I must confess. But it
_would_ not do to leave him at home. When Hella takes a thing like that
into her head ...
AUNT CLARA. Don't be offended, Paul, I can't get that through my head
... Aren't you the master of your house?
PAUL (smiling). Master of my house?... No, Auntie, Hella would never
put up with that and on that point I am forced to agree with her.
AUNT CLARA. The things that one does get to hear in one's old age! I'm
too dense for that.
PAUL. Well you see. Aunt Clara, these are views that are not exactly
understood in the country. One has to work up to that gradually.
AUNT CLARA. Are you really happy with them, Paul?
PAUL. Why I have fought almost fifteen years for these views! Surely a
man will not do a thing like that without serious consideration.
AUNT CLARA. So you held those very views at the time when you had your
quarrel with your father, who is now dead and gone?
PAUL. That's the very reason I went away, Auntie. Do you understand now
why it was impossible for me to remain?
AUNT CLARA. (after a short silence, significantly). And do you
sometimes still think of Antonie, Paul?
PAUL (meditating). Antoinette?... Oh yes, sometimes.
AUNT CLARA. Now do be frank, Paul! Has the thought never come to you
that you would really like to have Antonie?
PAUL (absent-minded). Who? I have her?
AUNT CLARA. Why Paul? _You_ have _her_ and _she_ have _you_! Didn't you
really care for each other a bit?
[Illustration: MAX HALBE]
PAUL (as before, supporting his head on his hand). Do you think so?
That is so long ago? Possibly. What do I know about it? (He sits up.)
AUNT CLARA. We were always in the habit of saying they'll make a fine
couple when they are big, you and Antonie.
PAUL (almost painfully). You see, Auntie, what mistakes one can make.
Nothing can be determined beforehand. But I almost think you are right.
I liked her quite well, once upon a time. Something like that begins to
dawn on me. A big, stupid, love-sick lubber. That's _me_. And _she_ ...
What was _she_? (With the suggestion of a smile.) A remarkably
beautiful, sweet young thing with ashy-blond braids. Yes, yes,
something like that dawns upon me. She did have splendid ashy-blond
hair and dark eyes. (He leans his head on his hand.)
AUNT CLARA. How well you still remember that.
PAUL (collects himself again). Yes, strange, as it comes to me now. But
at that time, you know, when I came back as a student, the aforesaid
Christmas, it was all gone, as if obliterated, not a trace of it left.
Then my head was filled with things of quite another nature. My home
had become strange to me, that is it, Auntie. Hella was in my mind. For
that reason nothing could come of it, the match between Antoinette and
me. (GLYSZINSKI enters from the right, followed by LENE.)
LENE (remaining at the door). Shall I bring the coffee. Miss Clara?
AUNT CLARA (has also stepped to the door). Yes, and don't forget the
pound-cake!... But no, wait, I'll get it myself. Just a moment, Paul!
(She motions to him and goes out at the right with LENE.)
GLYSZINSKI (has stepped to the center of the room. He is faultlessly
clad in a black suit, spick and span from top to toe). Here I am! (He
looks about.)
PAUL (approaches GLYSZINSKI). Yes, here you are!... You have spent much
time on your toilet.
GLYSZINSKI. Why, not more than usual.
PAUL. To be sure! That's correct. (Looking at him with a bitter
senile.) Well it _did_ pay for the trouble. You are fit for a ball.
GLYSZINSKI (looks around again). Where is your wife?
PAUL. Also busy with her toilet. But will surely be here directly. It
doesn't take her half as long as it does you. Meanwhile, sit down! (He
invites him to sit down on a chair by the sofa.)
GLYSZINSKI (sits down on the chair at the right of the sofa, keeping
his eye on the door at the left.) Ah, here comes madam! (He gets up to
meet HELLA, who is just entering the door on the left, clad in a
pleated blouse and a plain skirt.) May I conduct you to the table,
madam? (He offers her his arm.)
HELLA (places her arm on his and looks over at the table). Why, is it
time?
GLYSZINSKI (leads HELLA to the sofa). Please, here in the place of
honor.
HELLA. Is it absolutely required that I should occupy the sofa? Will
you not sit here, Paul? (She stands at the sofa hesitating.)
GLYSZINSKI (with the tips of his fingers placed together). Please,
please, madam. You are to preside!
PAUL (walks through the hall with his hands on his back and speaks over
his shoulder). Don't be embarrassed!
HELLA. I am not particularly in love with this old uncomfortable
furniture. I distinctly prefer a pretty modern fauteuil. (She sits
down).
LENE (comes in at the right with the coffee service, places the tray
containing the coffee-pot, cream-pitcher and cake on the table between
the cups. Addresses HELLA). Miss Clara will bring the pound-cake
directly. Shall I fill the cups?
HELLA. You may go. We shall attend to that.
[LENE casts a curious glance at the two, then at PAUL, and goes
out at the right.]
HELLA (in an undertone to GLYSZINSKI). Seems to be a regular country
hussy. Did you notice the stupid expression?
GLYSZINSKI (quoting with dignity). Upon her brow the Lord did nail a
brazen slab!
HELLA (to PAUL, who is still walking about). Paul, can't you stop that
everlasting marching?
PAUL. I find it agreeable after the night's travel. Have you any
objections?
HELLA. Yes, it makes me nervous, especially here in this awful hall,
where every step reverberates ten times over, because you do not even
have the proper carpets. Isn't there another room, where one can sit
with some comfort. (See pours out her coffee.)
PAUL (with restrained asperity). No, not at present!
HELLA. Then at least do me the favor to sit down, your coffee is
getting cold, anyhow. (She pours out PAUL'S coffee.)
PAUL (approaching). Very well! I shall sit down then.
GLYSZINSKI (raising his cup). And I, madam? Am I to have none?
HELLA (decisively). Have you forgotten our household regulations, dear
sir?
GLYSZINSKI (grumbling). But he got some, didn't he?
HELLA. I have allowed an exception in Paul's case today. Just take the
pot and help yourself.
GLYSZINSKI (shaking his head). Too bad! Too bad! (He pours out his
coffee.)
AUNT CLARA (has entered from the right carrying a platter with a large
pound-cake). Children, here comes the pound-cake! Fresh from the oven.
It's fairly steaming still. (She cuts the cake.) You surely haven't
taken your coffee already?
HELLA (very courteously). You are really going to too much trouble,
dear Miss Clara.
AUNT CLARA. Trouble, well, well. But now do help yourself! (She puts a
large piece of cake on each plate.)
PAUL, (smiling). Do you know, Hella, I do almost feel as I did as a
schoolboy, when I came home for the Christmas vacation. In those days
we would also sit in the hall and over there the fire would burn and
the pound-cake would stand on the table exactly as today. Only that my
mother had done the baking.
AUNT CLARA (in the chair opposite the fireplace). Now you must imagine:
_I_ am your mother, Paul. (She has also poured out her coffee and
begins to drink it.) How do you like it?
PAUL. Just as much as in the old days. It seems to me as if it were
today.
AUNT CLARA. Then eat away, my boy!
HELLA. You have really had very good luck with this pound-cake, my dear
Miss Clara. Accept my compliments.
GLYSZINSKI (consumes his piece with great satisfaction). Delicious! A
work of art!
PAUL. You may well feel set up about that, Auntie. Glyszinski knows all
about cake.
GLYSZINSKI. Yes in such matters we Poles are connoisseurs.
HELLA. Their whole nourishment is made up of desserts.
GLYSZINSKI. I consider sweets a thousand times more elegant than that
brutal alcohol, which deadens all finer instincts.
AUNT CLARA. I suppose the gentleman was also born in this region.
GLYSZINSKI. Yes, mademoiselle, I am a Pole.
PAUL. A Pole, and attended the gymnasium in Berlin!
GLYSZINSKI. Unfortunately I got away too early. Nevertheless I shall
remain what I always was.
AUNT CLARA. Do you remember Laskowski, Paul?
PAUL. From Klonowken?
AUNT CLARA. Yes, quite nearby! He owns the neighboring estate.
PAUL. Why, of course! He is even a relative in a sense. What makes you
think of him. Aunt Clara?
AUNT CLARA. It just occurred to me, simply because he is also a
Polander and gets along with his German so well.
PAUL. Why, I even attended school with him for a while. He _was_ a fox
if there ever was one.
AUNT CLARA (in a searching manner). Aren't you glad, Paul, that your
father held on to Ellernhof for you?
PAUL. How so? Why?
AUNT CLARA. He might have sold the estate to Laskowski or some one
else.
HELLA (who has been leaning back and playing the part of the silent but
attentive listener, takes a hand). I cannot see in what sense that
would have been a misfortune.
PAUL. If Ellernhof had gone over into the hands of strangers? You are
simply judging from your point of view. Then I should never have seen
my childhood home again.
HELLA (forcibly). But what are we to do with it. We have it on our
hands and can't help but be glad to get rid of it at any price.
AUNT CLARA (with growing uneasiness, to PAUL). What is your wife
saying? You intend to go away, intend to sell?
HELLA. Why, certainly! As soon as possible! What else is there for us
to do?
AUNT CLARA. You intend to sell the estate that has been in the family
over two hundred years?
HELLA. That can be of no possible advantage to us. Do you expect us to
settle down here? Do you suppose I have the least inclination to
degenerate out here in the country?
AUNT CLARA. And you, Paul, what have you to say to that?
HELLA. Paul fully agrees with me.
PAUL (gets up, distressed). Don't torment me with that now, good
people, I beg of you. I am really not in the proper mood. There is
certainly no hurry about that matter.
AUNT CLARA. Don't you realize that you will commit a sin, if you sell
the fine estate that your father maintained for you?
HELLA. Oh sin! Sin! Do you not, from your point of view, consider the
manner in which Paul's father behaved toward us a sin? I am unable to
see any difference. There was no compunction about locking the door
upon us. I was treated as a nondescript, bringing disgrace to the
family! As if my family could not match up with the Warkentins any day!
After all, I am the daughter of a university professor, my dear Miss
Clara. You possibly fail to appreciate that a bit. Therefore I repeat
to you, Paul hasn't the slightest reason to be ashamed of me! And he
hasn't been. But Paul's father _was_. He forced us to earn our daily
bread! And now that we have been successful, now that we have won a
place for ourselves, now they begin to think of us, simply because they
need us. Now they are becoming sentimental. No, dearest! You did not
concern yourselves about us! Now we shall not concern ourselves about
you! Now we shall simply pay it all back! That's the sin that you were
talking about. Ellernhof has no claims upon us, (She breathes deeply
and leans back on the sofa.)
GLYSZINSKI (has hung upon her lips, enthusiastically). Madam, your
hand! (He extends his hand.)
HELLA (curtly). Oh do let us dispense with that for the present,
doctor!
PAUL (has been listening from the fireplace and now approaches). That
is quite correct, Hella, but there is one thing that you must not
forget. I really did provoke my father at the time. I was young and
inexperienced. I felt compelled to tell him at the outset, even before
I went to the university, that I did not believe that I should be able
to endure life in the country later on.
HELLA. And the fact that he expected you to marry any woman that suited
_him_; you don't seem to think of that at all.
PAUL. Yes, yes, you are right ...
AUNT CLARA. Tell me, Paul?
PAUL. Yes, Auntie.
AUNT CLARA. What in the world have you to do in Berlin that prevents
you from staying here?
PAUL. Oh, Aunt Clara, that is a difficult matter! I publish a journal.
AUNT CLARA. A journal? Hm!
HELLA. We publish a feminist journal which we ourselves have founded
and simply cannot desert.
AUNT CLARA (naively). Well is that so very necessary, Paul?
HELLA. _Is_ it necessary?
PAUL (dubiously). Oh Hella! (Shrugs his shoulders.)
HELLA. Yes it is necessary. If _you_ are able to forget it, _I_ am
_not_!
PAUL. I shall not quarrel now, the hour does not seem fitting to me. I
want to go in. (He makes a significant gesture to the right.) Would you
care to go with me?
HELLA. You want to see him?
PAUL. Yes, I want to see him.
HELLA (gets up and steps up to PAUL). Excuse me, Paul! I am really not
in the frame of mind.
PAUL. As you think best.
HELLA. You know very well that I spare myself the sight of the dead,
whenever I can. I did not even see _my_ father.
AUNT CLARA (has risen). I'll go with you, my boy, brace up!
PAUL (nods to her, choking down his words). I'm all right. (The two
slowly go out at the right.) [Short silence.]
HELLA (stands at the chair, clenches her fist, stamps her foot, in a
burst of passion). I cannot look at the man who has forbidden me his
house! Never!
GLYSZINSKI (has also risen, steps up to HELLA). How I admired you,
madam!
HELLA (still struggling). I cannot bring myself to _that_!
GLYSZINSKI (sentimentally). How you sat there! How you spoke! Every
word a blow! No evasion! No retreat! Mind triumphing over matter! The
first time I ever had this impression of you, Hella, do you recall, the
large meeting when you stood on the stage and your eye controlled
thousands? Then and there my soul rushed out to you! Now you possess
it.
HELLA (stands erect, resolutely and deliberately). If I really possess
your soul, dear doctor, listen to my request.
GLYSZINSKI. I am your slave, command me!
HELLA. It concerns Paul. You see how matters stand with him.
GLYSZINSKI (gloomily). Paul is not a modern man. I knew that long ago.
HELLA. Let us avoid all digressions now! (With unflinching emphasis.)
Paul _must_ ... _not_ ... _remain here_! Do you understand?
GLYSZINSKI. What can I do in the matter?
HELLA (taps her finger on his chest). You must help me get him away
from here as soon as possible!
GLYSZINSKI. And you would ask _me_ to do _that_?
HELLA. Why shouldn't I?
GLYSZINSKI. Expect me to help reestablish the bond between you? Don't
be inhuman, Hella!
HELLA. But you surely realize the relations that obtain between you and
me, doctor. You are my co-worker, my friend!
GLYSZINSKI. Is that all, Hella?
HELLA. Why, do you demand more? Beyond friendship I can give you
nothing! No, it will be better for you to help me plan how we can get
him away most readily. Rather today than tomorrow.
GLYSZINSKI. Even if I were willing; why he pays no attention to me.
Sometimes he strikes the pose of the man of thirty and treats me like a
schoolboy. If it were not for you, Hella!
HELLA (goes back and forth in intense excitement). I see it coming! I
see it coming! Irresistible! I have been watching it for a year.
Something is working on him. The old spirits have been revived in him.
They are restless to assert themselves. That calls for prompt action.
He must not remain here. He must absolutely not remain in this
atmosphere, which unsettles the mind, this funereal atmosphere. Oh! I
can't stand it! Come on, doctor, I must have some fresh air! Get my
things!
GLYSZINSKI. I am on the wing! (About to start in some direction or
other.)
HELLA (restrains him). But no, wait a moment! We can go right through
our rooms. A door leads to the garden from there. (She listens.) Isn't
that Paul, now? Do you hear?
GLYSZINSKI. It seems to be.
HELLA (hurriedly). Quickly! I do not care to see him now! I don't want
to hear about the dead man. I can't endure it. Do hurry! (She draws him
along out toward the left.)
[PAUL and AUNT CLARA come in again from the right. PAUL walks
slowly through the hall with his head bowed. For a moment he
remains standing before the chair near the sofa, then suddenly
sits down and presses his face into his hands. AUNT CLARA has
slowly followed him, stands before him, and looks at him lovingly
and sadly. Brief silence.]
AUNT CLARA (puts her hand on his head). Compose yourself, Paul! What's
the good of it! Your father is past all trouble.
PAUL (without raising his head). Yes, he's beyond it all.
AUNT CLARA. All of us may be glad when we are that far along.
PAUL (between his teeth). When we are that far along, yes, yes, Aunt
Clara! When we are all through with it, this incomprehensible,
senseless force! (He leans back in the chair and folds his hands over
his head.)
AUNT CLARA. Your dead father enjoys the best lot after all. It's not at
all an occasion for weeping, Paul.
PAUL (nods his head mechanically). You caught the meaning, Auntie.
AUNT CLARA. I am old, my boy. I know what is back of life. Nothing.
PAUL. You have caught the meaning.
AUNT CLARA. When you are as far along as I am, you will think so too.
PAUL (throws his head back on his chair, yielding to his pain). I am
tired, Aunt Clara! Tired enough to die!
AUNT CLARA. That is due to the journey, Paul.
PAUL (repeats mechanically). That is due to the journey. (Waking up.)
You are right, Aunt Clara. To the long journey and the long, long way.
AUNT CLARA. Now you will take a rest, my boy.
PAUL. That's what I should like to do, Aunt Clara. Take a real rest
after all of the wild years! And they do say the best rest is to be
found at home.
AUNT CLARA. Do you see how good it is for you to be at home again.
PAUL (absorbed). How calmly he lay there. How great and serene! Not the
vestige of a doubt left! Everything overcome. All the questions
solved!... (Lamenting.) Father, father, if I were only in your place!
(He presses his head in his hands.)
AUNT CLARA (worried). Paul, what's the matter!
PAUL. Nothing, Aunt Clara, it's over now.
AUNT CLARA. No, no, my boy, there's something wrong with you. You
needn't tell me. I know well enough.
PAUL (controlling himself). You know nothing at all.
AUNT CLARA. And you can't talk me out of it. It's your wife. What I
know, I know. Your wife is to blame! And if you _do_ say no ten times
over!
PAUL (gets up, with a firm voice). I repeat, Aunt Clara, you know
nothing about it! I do not want to hear one word about that, please
remember. (With marked emphasis.) I do not want to hear of it! (Walks
up and down in excitement.)
AUNT CLARA. Paul, Paul, if you had only taken Antonie!
PAUL (sits down in the chair at the fireplace, restraining his pain).
Be quiet, Aunt Clara!... Do you want to make me even more miserable
than I am?
AUNT CLARA (gets up, steps up to him and lays her hand on his head). My
poor, poor boy!
ACT II
The forenoon of the following day. The gloomy light of a winter day
comes in through the wide windows at the background of the hall, as on
the day before. Outside, white bushes and trees loom up vaguely. A dark
velvet cover is spread over the sofa table now. A fire again biases in
the fireplace. In front of it on the left sits GLYSZINSKI with his feet
toward the fire and a book in his hand. He is again faultlessly clad in
a black suit; looks pale. At his right, in the center chair HELLA
reposes comfortably. She likewise holds a book and looks as if she had
been reading. As on the previous day, her dress is dark, but not black.
HELLA. These awful visits of condolence all day yesterday! If calls of
that kind continue today, I'll simply lock myself in and fail to
appear. Let Paul settle it as he may.
GLYSZINSKI. And yet! How easily and graciously you can dispose of the
good people. I can't get over my astonishment.
HELLA. Yes and then to feign a sadness that one does not remotely feel,
cannot feel! What an idea!
GLYSZINSKI (after a moment of reflection, whispering). Do you know what
makes me glad?
HELLA (curtly). No, possibly you will tell me.
GLYSZINSKI (halts a bit). That the dead man is out of the house!... I
suppose they took him to the church?
HELLA. Yes, quite early this morning. The coffin is to be there till
tomorrow. I suppose you were afraid?
GLYSZINSKI, Why you know that I sometimes see things.
HELLA. You modern creature, you! Look at me! I _try_ to see _things_ by
daylight. I can battle with _them_! Not with the other kind.
GLYSZINSKI. Oh you don't realize how I have envied you for that.
HELLA. Why don't you follow my example then? Do not lose yourself
deeper and deeper in your riddles. Enter the conflict! Just as I do!
GLYSZINSKI. You, Hella ...! I cannot vie with you.
HELLA. Don't be a weakling! Try it! You are old enough.
GLYSZINSKI (grumbling). _Too_ old.
HELLA (more and more impassioned). Too old! Ridiculous. When Paul was
of your age he was already in the fray, founding our _Women's Rights_.
And I, I helped him.
GLYSZINSKI. You must have been of firmer fiber than we of the younger
generation.
HELLA (gets up, stands up straight, folds her hands over her head).
Possibly! I was scarcely twenty at the time, but I felt strong enough
to throw down the gauntlet to the whole world, when it was a question
of my rights. I had an uncontrollable thirst for freedom, and it is not
too much to assert that I gave Paul the incentive for all that
followed.
GLYSZINSKI. That's just like you, Hella! I suppose he would simply have
remained in his old trot if it had not been for you.
HELLA (supporting herself on the chair). I should not go that far. He
had already freed himself, but did not know in what direction to move.
He was still groping. He might have followed an utterly wrong course,
might have fooled away his time with literature and impractical things
like that. His rescue from all that was my work. I guided him! You know
he was a pupil of my father. When we became acquainted, I had no
difficulty in showering things upon him. You see I had spent my whole
childhood in this intellectual atmosphere. And he ... well, you can see
from where he had come. (She sweeps her hand around.) That is just why
I was ahead of him.
GLYSZINSKI (lamenting). Why was I not born ten years earlier? Then I
should have found what he now has and fails to value!
HELLA (walks through the hall slowly, engrossed in memories). Yes it
was a joyous time! All of us young, vigorous and certain of victory!
(Her manner becomes gloomy.)
GLYSZINSKI (has followed her with his eyes). Are you so no longer,
Hella?
HELLA (morosely). I?... (Collects herself.) More than ever ... But I
have become tired, Doctor!
GLYSZINSKI (subdued). I do suppose it requires more than mortal
strength to hold out, in this fashion, a whole life long.
HELLA (straightening up). Yes, if one did not know that he is going to
prevail, that he will carry out his demands; one can rest assured only
when he has the better arguments in his favor. Not until then. (She
steps to the background in great excitement.)
GLYSZINSKI (jumps up). Hella! Hella!...
HELLA (comes back again). Not an hour before that, I tell you. Do you
understand the terrible aspect of my present position now? My nails
fairly tingle. Whenever I hear the clock strike out there, something
seems to drive me away. Another hour gone, and life is so short. It
cries within me, go to your post, and I am forced to remain! I must
remain on account of Paul!
GLYSZINSKI (strikes his fist on the chair). Oh he doesn't deserve to
have you sacrifice yourself for him! If you called me in this manner
... I should follow you to the scaffold!
HELLA (approaches him, in a changed manner). What was your impression
of Paul today, Doctor? Be frank!
GLYSZINSKI (gloomily). Why do you ask _me_ about that? I scarcely
caught sight of him before he rode away.
HELLA. It seemed to me that he was more cheerful, freer. (To herself.)
Possibly because the body was out of the house. (She turns away again.)
[GLYSZINSKI steps to the background, shaking his head, seems in a
quandary.]
HELLA (has paid no attention to him, since her thoughts completely
dominate her, speaks as if to herself). May be all will turn out for
the best after all. (She gains control of herself and looks up.) Where
in the world are you, Doctor? (She approaches him.)
GLYSZINSKI (stands at the window and looks into the garden). I am
watching the snow.
HELLA. I suppose you are surprised that I am hopeful again?
GLYSZINSKI. Since I have been in your company nothing surprises me!
HELLA (continues). But Paul must listen to reason. My position is
clearly correct. You do not know him as I do. Paul is tender-hearted;
all that is necessary is to know how to deal with him. (She reflects a
moment and concludes.) Possibly I did not always know how to do that.
GLYSZINSKI (deprecatingly). Don't belittle yourself, Hella!
HELLA. And there shall be a change. But first of all he must get away
from here. Of course we shall have to wait till after the funeral. But
then I shall not allow myself to be kept here any longer. I'll get in
and ride away and Paul will be forced to come along. When I once have
him in Berlin again ...
GLYSZINSKI. And the estate?
HELLA. I'll simply sell that.
GLYSZINSKI (rushes up to her with flaming eyes). Hella!
HELLA (coldly). Well?
GLYSZINSKI. Are you going to leave Paul?
HELLA. How so? What is the matter with you?
GLYSZINSKI (seizes her hand). Can't you leave Paul! My life is at
stake.
HELLA. Dear friend, don't stake your life so foolishly! And release my
hand. I do not want to leave Paul! I haven't the slightest reason to do
so. We agree very well.
GLYSZINSKI (drops his head). Then I was mistaken, after all.
HELLA. Yes, it seems so to me also. You simply do not know what Paul
has been to me. [Pause.] I want to go to work, I still have much to do.
The editorial work is crowding. (Takes several steps.)
PAUL (enters from the right, clad in a riding suit and riding boots,
shakes of the snow and waves his hat vigorously as he speaks). Good
morning, you stay-at-homes! Just see how I look.
HELLA (has turned around at his approach and looks at him). You are
bringing winter in with you, Paul.
PAUL (with dash). That's what I'm doing. I'm bringing winter in with
me. Regular country winter, with ice and snow, such as the city knows
only by hearsay. Don't you envy me?
HELLA (surprised). How so? For what?
PAUL. For what, she asks! Why for all the snow in which I have been
stamping about! For this honest winter mood, that I have not had for so
many years!
HELLA. Where in the world have you been!
PAUL (sits down, facing the fire, and crosses his legs). Far, far away,
I can tell you.
[GLYSZINSKI has risen from his chair and has slowly walked over
toward the left, where he sits down on the sofa and pretends to
become interested in a book.]
HELLA. One can tell that. You are in a beautiful condition.
PAUL (stares into the fire, spinning away at his thoughts). I rode a
great, great distance!... To the border of our possessions!
HELLA. Is that so very far?
PAUL. Very far!... At least it seemed so to me when I was a child.
HELLA. Yes, of course, to a child everything seems larger.
PAUL. But this time it was no delusion! It was really quite a distance.
And I did remain away long enough too.
HELLA (sarcastically). Are you not boasting, Paul? I believe you were
riding around in a circle.
PAUL (waking up). And so I did. Criss cross over the fields, taking
ditches, helter skelter as it were, right through the dense snow.
HELLA (as before). Can you really ride, Paul?
PAUL. I? Well, I should say! I supposed I had forgotten how, during all
of these empty years, but when I had mounted, for a moment I was
unsteady, but only for a moment, then I felt my old power. The bay
realized that I still know how, and off we were like destruction
itself.
GLYSZINSKI (from the sofa). I should like to try it myself sometime.
PAUL (without heeding him). And curiously enough Hella, strange as the
way had naturally become to me, I nevertheless got along easily. After
all, one does not forget the things with which one has once been
familiar, and, you see, my father took me with him often enough in my
boyhood. (Smiling.) Possibly in order that, some day in the future, I
might get my bearings in the old fields! At last I got into the forest
and when I was out of that, I saw the houses of Klonowken, all covered
with snow ...
HELLA (has listened very attentively, interrupts). Klonowken, you say!
Isn't that the estate where--what is his name?--your relative lives?
PAUL. LASKOWSKI, you mean?
HELLA. Quite right, LASKOWSKI ... But you did not call on him, did you?
PAUL. No, then I came back.
HELLA. The ride has certainly agreed with you. Your color is much
better than yesterday.
PAUL (joyously). _Is_ it?... Well that is just the way I feel.
HELLA. Then you can see more clearly today, what you wish to do and
what is necessary?
PAUL. Much more clearly, Hella! As I trotted along in the snowstorm,
many things dawned upon me. My head has became clear, Hella.
HELLA. I am glad for you and both of us!
PAUL (seizes her hand). Yes, for both of us. We must come to an
agreement, Hella!
HELLA (cautiously). I hope we are agreed. And, moreover, you know how
we can remain so!
PAUL (thoughtful again). Well, as I rode along, strange! So many years
of desk work, I thought to myself, and nothing but desk work. My bones
have almost become stiff as a result and, after all, what has come of
it? Little enough! You surely must admit that.
HELLA (seriously). I can _not_ admit that, Paul.
PAUL. But we do live in a continual turmoil, Hella, in an everlasting
struggle the outcome of which we can not foresee and from which we
shall reap no rewards. We are working for strangers, are sacrificing
our best years and have forgotten to consider ourselves. Do you suppose
they will thank us some day when we are down and out? Not a soul!
HELLA. Nor do I demand gratitude and recognition. I do what I have
recognized to be correct; that constitutes my happiness.
PAUL. But not mine. I want more, Hella! I am at an age when fine words
no longer avail me. And see, here is a world in which I have what I
need, what I am seeking, here at last I can follow myself up, can see
what is really in me and not what has merely been imposed upon me. I am
on the crest of my life, Hella. Possibly past it. Do not take it amiss!
I need rest, composure ...
HELLA (reserved). And for that you are going to the end of the world?
PAUL. I had got to the end of the world! Now I shall begin all over
again. Would the attempt not be worth while? Tell me, comrade! (He
seizes both of HELLA'S hands and looks squarely into her eyes.)
HELLA (reserved). I can't answer you now, Paul.
PAUL (visibly relieved). Very well! If you can not at present ... There
is plenty of time.
HELLA. Isn't there? You will give me time. I should like to put it off
only a few days longer.
PAUL (joyously). Why as long as you please. Till then I shall be
assured of you and meanwhile you will get acclimated?
HELLA. Only a few days, Paul. Possibly I can make a definite
proposition to you by that time.
PAUL (shakes her hands again, happy). Hella, my clever, unusual Hella!
(He puts his arms around her waist, about to kiss her.)
HELLA (with quick resistance). What are you doing, Paul! Don't you see
how wet you are?
PAUL. Snow-water! Clear snow-water. What harm will that do! Give me a
kiss, Hella!
HELLA (reluctantly). You _do_ have notions at times!... So here is your
kiss! (Extends her cheek to him.)
PAUL (embraces her.) Oh, no! Today I must have something unusual! (He
tries to kiss her mouth.)
HELLA (warding him off). Do stop that, Paul! I beg you urgently!
PAUL (looks into her eyes). But why not, Hella! Just for today ...!
(His voice is soft and pleading.)
HELLA (with her face toward the sofa). Why Glyszinski is sitting there.
PAUL (impatiently). What is Glyszinski to me? It's surely all right for
a husband and wife to kiss each other.
HELLA. But not before strangers! I can't bear that, Paul!
PAUL (bitterly). Calm down! It never happens anyhow! (He releases her
and walks through the hall with great strides).
HELLA (shrugging her shoulders). Because it is really not proper for
two people who are as old as we have become. People should become
sensible sometime.
PAUL (with increasing excitement). You always were! Why, I don't know
you any other way.
HELLA. You must have liked it well enough.
PAUL (bursting out). Yes I probably did ...! At that time! Because I
was a fool!
HELLA (picks up her book again, turns as if to go away). Now you are
becoming abusive! Good-by, I have work to do!
PAUL (intercepts her). Hella! I am coming to you with an overflowing
heart! I have a yearning to be alone with you, once, only once; I am
almost desperate for a heart to heart talk ...
GLYSZINSKI (who has silently followed the scene from the sofa,
presumably engrossed in his book, but at times has cast over a furtive
glance, makes a motion as if to rise). If I'm disturbing you, you only
need to say so ...
HELLA. Do not be funny, doctor. You do know that I wanted to go to my
room some time ago. Please let me pass, Paul!
PAUL (has retreated, with an angry bow). You have plenty of room!
(Across to GLYSZINSKI) Hella is quite right. There is no longer any
occasion for you to go. (He goes to the fireplace and sits down facing
the fire.)
HELLA (remains in the centre of the hall a few moments longer, then
takes a step in the direction of PAUL, and speaks in a changed, gentler
voice). Paul! (PAUL does not stir).
HELLA (urgently). Paul!
PAUL. That's all right!
HELLA. Oh, is it! Very well! (She turns away abruptly, goes over toward
the right, opens the door and turns around, saying curtly). I wish to
work, so please do not disturb me. (She goes out.)
PAUL (has become restless, gets up and calls). Hella! (One can hear how
the door is being locked on the other side.) As you please, then! (He
sits down again).
GLYSZINSKI (looking up from his book). Hella has locked the door.
[PAUL sets his teeth and is silent. Pause.]
GLYSZINSKI. Am I disturbing you?
PAUL (without turning around). I have already told you,
_no_! Not any longer, now!
GLYSZINSKI. So I _have_ been disturbing you?
PAUL. I'll leave that to _you_.
GLYSZINSKI. You would like to have me go away?
PAUL. Dear Glyszinski, _don't_ ask such stupid questions!
GLYSZINSKI. Well, I _should_ have gone long ago ...
PAUL (cutting). Indeed?
GLYSZINSKI. I can see very well how irksome I am to you.
PAUL. You are not at all irksome, dear Glyszinski, neither now nor
formerly. You are only funny.
GLYSZINSKI. You two admitted me to your household.
PAUL. Excuse me! _Hella_ admitted you.
GLYSZINSKI. That is what I was going to say. Upon Hella's express
invitation ...
PAUL. Correct.
GLYSZINSKI. Indeed I may say upon her wish ...
PAUL. Also correct.
GLYSZINSKI. I came into your house.
PAUL. That was very kind of you.
GLYSZINSKI. And so I can leave it only upon her invitation. Not before!
I should be offending Hella, and that I cannot take upon myself. I
revere her too much for that.
PAUL (cutting). Sensitive soul that you are!
GLYSZINSKI. Of course my views may not agree with all the conventional
rules of society, but there are still other, higher duties.
PAUL (amused). And _you_ honor them?
GLYSZINSKI (casting a piercing look at PAUL). Yes, it is my duty to
protect Hella.
PAUL. Protect Hella?... (He gets up.) Do you know! One is impelled to
feel sorry for you! (He turns away and walks through the hall.)
GLYSZINSKI. Well!
PAUL. Yes, you have no idea how far you are off the track. That's the
reason.
GLYSZINSKI. Thanks for your sympathy!
PAUL. You are badly off the track, and will hardly get on again, unless
you are warned in time. Whether or not that will do you any good, is
your affair.
GLYSZINSKI (agitated). But what does all of this mean? I don't
understand you.
PAUL (very seriously). In a word, that means: look out for women who
are like Hella! Look out for that ilk! That tells the whole story! The
whole story!
GLYSZINSKI (jumps up). And you expect me to follow that advice?
PAUL. Do not follow it, but don't be surprised later on if you find
yourself in the position in which I am today. It has taken me ten to
twelve years to arrive at it. Half of that time will suffice for you.
GLYSZINSKI. Why that is sheer nonsense! Your position is estimable
enough.
PAUL. I am a bankrupt! That's all!
GLYSZINSKI (greatly excited). Imagination, pure imagination! You have
your position! You have a name in the movement!
PAUL (bitterly). Oh yes! This movement!
GLYSZINSKI. I wish I were that far along!
PAUL. Possibly you are, without knowing it. But as for myself, when I
was of your age and began to fly the track, the aforesaid _track_, I
was quite another fellow! Today as I rode through the snow knee-deep,
that became quite clear to me! I saw myself as I had been once upon a
time and then realized what had later become of me! All the strength!
All the life! All the color! All lost! All gone!... Colorless and
commonplace! That is the outcome! (He sinks down in complete collapse.)
GLYSZINSKI (very uncomfortably). And you blame Hella for all that?
HELLA (a pen behind her ear, puts in her head and calls). Glyszinski!
Doctor! Why don't you come in! I want you to help me write a number of
letters. I shall dictate to you. (Withdraws again.)
GLYSZINSKI (with precipitation). Immediately, madam. (He runs to the
right.)
PAUL (raising his finger). You have been warned!
GLYSZINSKI (already at the door on the right). Some other time! I have
no time now!
[Goes off, the door closes again and is bolted on the other
side.]
PAUL (looks after him, then, after a pause). He is going the same
course! (Takes a few steps through the hall, remains standing before
the portraits on the wall, looks up at them for a long while, breathes
deeply and says, only just audibly): The Warkentins bring no luck!...
And they _have_ no luck!...
[He steps across to the spinet which is open, sits down, and
softly strikes a number of chords. AUNT CLARA comes in quickly
from the right, looks around.]
PAUL (sitting at the spinet). Well, Aunt Clara? (He lowers his hands
from the keys.)
AUNT CLARA (cautiously). It is well that you are here, my boy! (She
approaches.)
PAUL (absent-minded). Is there anything?...
AUNT CLARA (shaking her head). Why a person can't talk to your wife.
And that young man ... There's something about him too. Where in the
world are the two now?
PAUL (feigning indifference). There, in the other room, Aunt Clara.
AUNT CLARA. Do you suppose she will hear us?
PAUL. Oh no, Auntie! They are in the green room. The sun-parlor lies
between. And then ... when Hella is working, she doesn't hear anyhow.
AUNT CLARA. Those two! I do say! They just have to stay together the
whole day! But I was going to say ... Laskowskis ...
PAUL. What about Laskowski?
AUNT CLARA. Wonder whether we ought to send them an announcement?
PAUL. I don't care! Although I do not exactly consider it necessary.
AUNT CLARA. Just on account of the wife.
PAUL. Whose wife?
AUNT CLARA. Well, Mrs. Laskowski. Why, don't you know?
PAUL (turns around). Not a thing! Is Laskowski married?
AUNT CLARA. Why, Paul! Didn't he marry Antonie?
PAUL (recoils). Antoinette ...? Our Antoinette? And I am just finding
out about that!
AUNT CLARA. Well, I didn't know whether you cared to hear anything
about Antonie.
PAUL (approaches her and speaks to her in an interested manner). Why,
Auntie, one _is_ interested in the people who were once near and dear.
AUNT CLARA. Then, you didn't ask about her yesterday!
PAUL. Goodness, Aunt Clara! I didn't _want_ to ask!... After all, I'm
finding out soon enough!... Poor Antoinette!... Wasn't she able to find
any one else?...
AUNT CLARA. You had been gone a year and a half, Paul, and then they
got married.
PAUL (depressed). Well, well ...! That long ago? Then it has really
ceased to be news! How _does_ she look? (Bitterly.) I suppose quite...?
(He makes a significant derogatory gesture.)
AUNT CLARA. Don't say that, Paul! She can vie with the youngest and
most beautiful of them! She is in her very prime now! Just set her over
against your wife!
PAUL (embarrassed). Well, well! Hella is not exactly obliged to conceal
herself, it seems to me.
AUNT CLARA (eagerly). But oh, you should see Mrs. Laskowski!
PAUL (crabbed). Well, then old Laskowski may thank his stars. How in
all the world did Antoinette run into that fellow? I could never
_bear_ him!
AUNT CLARA. Have you forgotten _every_ thing Paul? Why, he was forever
after her, even when you were still here.
PAUL. Why, he is the greatest crook on God's green earth!
AUNT CLARA. At first Antonie didn't care a thing in the world for him,
but later she took him just the same, when it was all over with you.
PAUL (disdainfully). Of course he had his eye on her estate, the sly
rogue! I'd vouch for that.
AUNT CLARA (gleefully). Her estate, Grosz-Rukkoschin, went to him right
at her marriage. You know that belongs to her from her father's side.
_You_ might have that now, Paul.
PAUL (interested). Well, and how do the two get along? He and
Antoinette?
AUNT CLARA (shrugging her shoulders). Oh, Paul, what do I know about
it? They have no children.
PAUL (relieved). They haven't any children either? Well!
AUNT CLARA. They did have one, a girl! But they lost her.
PAUL. Lost her ... Well, well!... Hm! Antoinette!... Antoinette
Rousselle as Mrs. von Laskowski!... Could I have dreamed such a thing
when I was a sophomore with old Heliodor! (He shakes his head, burdened
with memories, then with a sudden change.) Well, of course, we shall
send the Laskowskis an announcement. We'll attend to that at once!
(Starts to go.)
AUNT CLARA (holds him by the arm). Never mind, Paul! I _have_ sent it.
Yesterday. I was certain it would be all right with you.
PAUL (forced to smile). Well, what do you think of Aunt Clara!...
AUNT CLARA. It's only on account of the neighbors. Now that you are
here and they live right next to us, if we should not even invite them
to the funeral....
PAUL (absent-minded). Yes, yes, quite right!
AUNT CLARA (searchingly). For you'll have to observe a bit of
neighborliness with the estate-owners around here, my boy ...
PAUL (warding off). Oh, Aunt Clara, here's the same old question again!
AUNT CLARA. Now really, Paul, don't you know yet what you are going to
do, whether you intend to remain?
PAUL (very seriously). Aunt Clara! I shall _never_ be able to induce
Hella. That is becoming clearer and clearer to me!
AUNT CLARA (bolt upright). If Ellernhof is sold, I shall not survive
it! I have been here thirty-three years! I have carried you all in my
arms, you and your brothers and sisters. All of the rest are dead. You
are still here, Paul. I closed your mother's eyes for her. I witnessed
the death of your father. In all of my days I have known only
Ellernhof. At the cemetery I've selected a place for myself where all
of them are lying. Shall I go away now at the very end? At least, wait
until I am dead!
PAUL (passionately). Don't make it so desperately hard for me, Aunt
Clara!
AUNT CLARA (looking at the walls). Here they all hang on the walls,
those who were once active here ...
PAUL, (follows her eyes). Do you hear? The door-bell. (The door-hell
rings.)
AUNT CLARA. Callers.
PAUL. Callers! Again!
AUNT CLARA. Probably to express their condolences.
PAUL (impatiently). Just at the most inopportune moment!
AUNT CLARA (listening). I shouldn't be surprised if the Laskowskis were
coming!
PAUL (giving a start). Antoinette ...? Why, that ...! And I in my
riding boots! Do see who it is!
AUNT CLARA. Why, of course it is! I can hear him from here ... Shall I
bring them in, Paul?
PAUL, Can't we take them somewhere else?
AUNT CLARA. Where, pray tell? (She goes to the door on the right.)
PAUL (goes to the door on the left, knocks). Hella, open the door! I
want to change my clothes. There are callers.
AUNT CLARA. Why, never mind, you are all right!
PAUL (turns away, resigned to his fate). It wouldn't do any good
anyhow. Hella does not hear me. Go ahead then! Bring them right along.
[AUNT CLARA opens the door at the right and goes out.
Conversation outside becomes audible.]
PAUL (also comes over to the right, seems to be in great agitation,
controls himself nervously, steps upon the threshold at the right and
addresses those about to enter). _This way, if you please._ (He steps
aside for ANTOINETTE and LASKOWSKI, and makes a short bow). We are very
glad to see you!
LASKOWSKI (seizes both of his hands and shakes them a number of times).
Glad to see you, old chap! Think of seeing you again. (He and
ANTOINETTE have taken off their wraps outside. He wears a black morning
coat and black gloves.)
PAUL (reserved). Unfortunately on a sad occasion!
ANTOINETTE (in a black gown, simple but elegant). Be assured of our
heartfelt sympathy, doctor! (She extends the tips of her fingers to
him.)
PAUL (somewhat formally). Thank you very much, madam! (His eyes are
fastened upon her.)
AUNT CLARA (is the last to enter. She closes the door behind her). Will
you not be seated? Antonie, please take the sofa!
PAUL. Yes indeed, madam, please! Or would you prefer to sit at the
fire? You have been riding.
ANTOINETTE. Thank you! I am quite warm. I'll sit down here. (She sits
down on the sofa and lets her eyes roam about.)
LASKOWSKI. Think of my wife sitting at the fire! It would have to come
to a pretty pass! One who knocks about in the open all day long, like
her! (He sits down on the chair to the left of the sofa.)
PAUL (under a spell). Do you do that, madam?
ANTOINETTE. Just as it comes! A little horseback, skating ... Whatever
winter pastimes there may be!
PAUL (who is still standing at his chair). And in summer?
LASKOWSKI.
Oh, in summer something else is doing again! Then there is rowing,
fishing and swimming to beat the band!
ANTOINETTE. Fortunately we have the lake right near our place.
PAUL (has been speaking privately to AUNT CLARA). Very well, Auntie,
bring us that!
ANTOINETTE. Don't go to any trouble, Miss Clara. We can't stay long.
LASKOWSKI (winks). Well, well, we'll remain a bit longer. I'll still
have to go to the inn to take a look at that gelding.
PAUL (beckons to his aunt). So bring it along!
AUNT CLARA. Very well, boysie, I'm going. (Goes off at the right.)
PAUL (sits down in the chair opposite the sofa and becomes
absent-minded again). So you have a lake? Where is it? Surely not
at Klonowken?
ANTOINETTE. If we only did have that at Klonowken! We have nothing at
all there.
LASKOWSKI (joining in with laughter). Heaven knows! The fox and the
wolf do the social stunt there!
ANTOINETTE. The lake is at Rukkoschin.
LASKOWSKI (informing him). That is the estate that my dearie brought to
me.
PAUL (abruptly). Yes, yes.
LASKOWSKI (laughing). That's a different layout from the sandy blowouts
of Klonowken! Prime soil! And a forest, I tell you, cousin! Over two
thousand acres! One trunk as fine as another! Each one fit for a ship's
mast! If I ever have them cut down! That will put grease into the pan!
Yes, yes, Rukkoschin is a catch that's worth while. We did a good job
of that, didn't we, dearie? (He laughs at ANTOINETTE slyly.)
PAUL. I suppose, dear Laskowski, that no one has ever doubted your
slyness.
LASKOWSKI (strikes his shoulder). Do you see, Doc, now you say so
yourself, and at school you gave me the laugh. That fool Laskowski, so
you thought, he'll never get beyond pounding sand in a rat-hole. Have I
come up a bit in your eyes? How's that, old boy? Shake hands. Pretty
damned long since we have met! (He extends his hand to PAUL, who does
not seem to notice it.)
ANTOINETTE (who has been biting her lips and looking into space during
the words of her husband, suddenly interrupts). We received the
announcement this morning, Mr. Warkentin. We thank you very much.
PAUL (reserved). It was no more than our duty, madam.
LASKOWSKI. Yes, we were very glad, my wife and I ...
ANTOINETTE (quickly). Not to be forgotten!...
LASKOWSKI. You hit the nail on the head, that's what you did, dearie!
_You_ go on and talk. A fellow like myself isn't so handy with his
tongue! But he feels it just the same!
PAUL (grimly). Rather sudden, was it not, madam?
ANTOINETTE. The best thing that one can wish for!
PAUL. Do you think so? I don't know.
LASKOWSKI. Of course. Heart failure's the thing to have!
ANTOINETTE. It grieved me very much.
PAUL. Yes, madam.
ANTOINETTE. You see, he was my guardian.
PAUL. I know it.
ANTOINETTE. Of course we had not seen each other for some time ...
LASKOWSKI. Goodness, dearie, that's the way it goes sometimes! This
fellow's busy and then that fellow's busy ... It's not like in the
city. But everybody knows how you feel about it, just the same. And
then if you do meet in the city, or at the stockyards, or somewhere
else, the jollification is twice as big. Just lately I met your father
in just that way. It's not been four weeks. Met him at the station just
as I was going to town. And the old gent crossed my path and acted as
if he didn't see me. It was right at the ticket window. Of course, I
called him! Good morning, major, says I! Howdy? Chipper, and up and
coming as ever? Oh, says he, not particularly! Those very words! I can
still see him as he stood there!
ANTOINETTE (incredulously). Why you didn't tell me a thing about that.
LASKOWSKI. Guess I forgot to. Who'd think it would be the last time.
When I heard that he was dead, day before yesterday, it came to me
again. Then we rode in the same compartment and he kept telling me a
lot about you, Doc.
PAUL, (sarcastically). Really?
LASKOWSKI. He was pretty much bothered, what would become of the place,
when he'd be dead and gone ...
PAUL. You don't say!
LASKOWSKI. On my honor, Doc.! Expect me to fib to you. Of course I
talked him out of it, and told him not to bother about it. First of all
that it wasn't up to him yet, and if it was, _I_ was still in the ring.
PAUL. Very kind of you.
LASKOWSKI. With all my heart! You and me, Doc., h'm? We understand each
other! We'll come to terms all right. Old chap! Old crony! How tickled
I am to see you right here before me again! How often I have said if
Paul was only here now. Didn't I, dearie!
ANTOINETTE (gesture of impatience). Yes, yes.
LASKOWSKI. Well, what have you been doing all this time, Doc.?
PAUL. All kinds of things.
LASKOWSKI. Regular old Socrates. It makes a fellow's wheels buzz to
think of what he's got in his head all the time! Do you remember, old
chap, how you used to help me out when we were juniors?
PAUL. Sophomores, dear Laskowski! You failed to make junior standing.
LASKOWSKI (strikes his fist on the table, in great glee). Damn it all!
Did you remember that? I see, old chap, that a fellow has to be on his
guard with you.
PAUL (with a determined look). If you think ...
[Illustration: MOTHER EARTH]
LASKOWSKI. These fellows from Berlin. They are up to snuff! That's the
place! If they ever come out into the country, look out, boys. They'll
not leave a shirt on your back! Guess you made a good deal of
spondulics in Berlin, didn't you, Doc.? (He goes through with the
gesture of counting money.)
PAUL (cutting). Why?
LASKOWSKI. Goodness, a fellow will ask about that. You don't need it,
of course. Ellernhof is worth sixty, seventy thousand dollars any day,
and a fellow can live off of that. If you can only find a buyer ...
PAUL. I haven't the least desire, dear Laskowski.
LASKOWSKI. It's a hard thing too, now-a-days. Buyers are scarce and
times are hard for the farmer.
[AUNT CLARA comes from the right, carrying a tray with a bottle
of wine and glasses.]
ANTOINETTE. You have gone to all this trouble, after all, Miss Clara.
AUNT CLARA. Not at all worth mentioning! (Sets the things on the
table.)
LASKOWSKI (examines the wine-bottle). Why, what have you brought here,
Miss?
PAUL. You drink port, don't you, madam?
LASKOWSKI (affectionately). If you don't care for it, dearie, I drink
for you.
ANTOINETTE. You _may_ pour me one glass. (She holds out her glass,
which PAUL fills.)
LASKOWSKI You're sure it won't hurt you, dearie?
ANTOINETTE. Why should it? I drink on other occasions.
LASKOWSKI. Because you are always getting a headache.
ANTOINETTE (looks at him). I?
LASKOWSKI. Now don't get mad right off! Can't a fellow crack a joke?
Don't you see that it's a joke? Drink ahead, dearie! I'm drinking too.
And then I must be going too.
PAUL (who has filled all the glasses). Must you; where?
LASKOWSKI (raises his glass and empties it). Of a forenoon, there's
nothing up to a glass of port.
PAUL. Why don't you drink, Aunt Clara! (He also drinks.)
AUNT CLARA. Oh, I don't care much for wine, my boy, as you may
remember. (She sips a little.)
LASKOWSKI (to ANTOINETTE). Well, did you like it, dearie?
PAUL. May I give you some more, madam?
ANTOINETTE. No, thank you. It would go to my head.
LASKOWSKI (pushes his glass over). I'll take another glass. Then I must
be going. (Looks at his watch.) It's a quarter of eleven.
PAUL (fills it). What else have you in mind?
LASKOWSKI. Well, since it just fits in, we being here today, I just
want to go over to the inn. They've advertised a gelding there. Take a
look at him. If he can be had cheap ... Haven't put one over on anybody
for some time! (He laughs, empties the glass and holds it up before
him.) Your old gent did invest in a cellar! There ain't a thing, Doc.,
that I envy you as much as that cellar! (He gets up.)
ANTOINETTE. I shall wait till you return. Come back soon!
LASKOWSKI. On the spot, dearie. I'll only take a vertical whisky over
at the inn! Good-by, dearie! Good-by, Doc.! (He goes out at the right.)
AUNT CLARA (has also risen, with a sly look). Mercy, my dinner! You
can't depend upon these girls! First thing, it'll be burned. (She
hastens out at the right.)
ANTOINETTE. Did you not bring Mrs. Warkentin with you, Doctor?
PAUL (nervously). Yes, Auntie, please tell Lene to go around and tell
my wife we have callers. This door is locked. She cannot get through
here. (He has risen and walked over to the right.)
AUNT CLARA (going out). Very well, Paul, I shall see to it.
[Goes off. Pause. PAUL stands at the fireplace and stares into
the fire. Antoinette has leaned back on the sofa and is gazing
into space.]
PAUL (with an effort). You are not cold, are you, madam? Or I will put
on some more wood.
ANTOINETTE (without stirring). Not on my account! I am accustomed to
the cold.
PAUL (forced). Strange! As _hardened_ as all that.
ANTOINETTE. Completely!
PAUL, (takes a step toward her). Antoinette ...?
ANTOINETTE (motionless). Doctor?
PAUL, (painfully). Once my name was Paul. Don't you remember?
ANTOINETTE. I have forgotten it!
PAUL (controls himself). Well then, madam, may I speak to you?
ANTOINETTE. Will you not call your wife?
PAUL. May I not speak to you?
ANTOINETTE. I don't know what you could have to say.
PAUL. Something that concerns only you and me and not another soul!
ANTOINETTE (gets up). I do not _care_ to hear it. (Takes a few steps
into the hall.)
PAUL (seizes her hand). Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE (frees herself). Don't!
PAUL. Then why have you come?
ANTOINETTE. Don't, I tell you!
PAUL. Then why have you come, I ask of you?
ANTOINETTE (stands with her back to him, blurts out). They fairly
dragged me here!
PAUL. So you did not come of your own accord?
ANTOINETTE. No!... I should never have come!
PAUL. Antoinette ... Is that the truth?
[Antoinette presses her hand to her face and is silent.]
PAUL (with bowed head). Then to be sure ...!
ANTOINETTE. Why in the world doesn't your wife come in? (She walks
toward the window.)
PAUL. Very well! Let her come! (He bites his lips and turns away.)
LENE (appears in the door at the left). Mr. Warkentin ...?
PAUL (startled). What is it?
LENE. Mrs. Warkentin says that she has no time now, she'll come
directly.
PAUL. Very well!... You may go!
LENE. Thank you, Mr. Warkentin! (She casts a glance at the two and goes
out. Short pause.)
PAUL (with grim humor). As you see, it is not to be, madam!
ANTOINETTE (stands at the window with her back toward the hall). It
would seem so. (Presses her face against the panes.)
PAUL (walks to and fro, then approaches her). I have had to endure
much, Antoinette, very much!
ANTOINETTE (suppressed). Possibly I have too.
PAUL. Why, Antoinette, you are weeping? (He stands behind her and tries
to look into her face.)
ANTOINETTE (wards him off). I? Not at all!
PAUL (heavily). You are weeping, Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE (sinks down). I can't help it. (She surrenders to her pain,
but quietly and softly, making her appear all the more touching.)
PAUL (kindly). Come, madam! Let me conduct you to the sofa. (About to
take her arm.)
ANTOINETTE (refusing). I can go alone. Why do you concern yourself
about me at all?
PAUL. Antoinette! Don't be stubborn at this moment! Our time is short.
Who knows whether we shall ever speak to each other again as we now
do. (He leads her forward a short distance.)
ANTOINETTE. All the better!
PAUL. Our time is awfully short. _I cannot_ let you go away so! We must
make use of the moment! (Bitterly.) The moment that will possibly never
return. (He has slowly led her to the front of the stage.)
ANTOINETTE (frees herself violently). Do permit me to go by myself! I
do not need you! I need no one!
PAUL (bitterly). Very well! I shall not molest you! As you please!
ANTOINETTE (sits down in the chair at the left of the sofa, seems
composed again). You see I am quite calm. It was only a temporary
indisposition.
PAUL (coaxing). May I sit down near you, Antoinette?
ANTOINETTE. What have you to say to me?
PAUL, (sits down in the chair before her, looks at her squarely, then,
after a moment of devoted contemplation). I am forced to look at you,
Antoinette! Pardon me! I am forced to look at you again and again!
ANTOINETTE. Do save up these compliments for your wife, doctor!
PAUL (with growing excitement). No compliments, Antoinette! The moment
is too precious!
ANTOINETTE. Then why don't you spare yourself the trouble?
PAUL. Didn't you feel it, the very moment you came in, Antoinette; I
could not keep away from you.
ANTOINETTE. Quite flattering!
PAUL. Antoinette! Now you must listen to me to the very end.
ANTOINETTE. Goodness! What do you expect of me?
PAUL. Or you should not have come!
ANTOINETTE. Why in the world _did_ I do it?
PAUL (fervently, but in an undertone). Antoinette! You are so
wonderful! More wonderful than I have ever seen you before!
ANTOINETTE (sarcastically). Oh, indeed ...! Possibly you are even
sorry.
PAUL (straightens up, harshly). For shame, madam. Such expressions are
not suited to you! Leave them to others!
ANTOINETTE (passionately). Your own fault! You have brought mo to this!
PAUL (painfully). You have become unfeeling, Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE. I am simply no longer that stupid little creature that you
can wind around your finger as once upon a time. Do you still remember
that Christmas Eve, Doctor Warkentin?
PAUL. I remember it all, Antoinette. Why on that evening my life was
decided.
ANTOINETTE. So was mine. In this very hall. I sat at this very place
and you before me as now. There is such a thing as providence. I have
always believed in that! But now I see it with my own eyes. God in
heaven will not be mocked! On my knees I have prayed to him ...!
PAUL (frightened). Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE (furiously). On my knees I prayed for him to punish you.
PAUL. Toinette, you are mad! What awful injury did I inflict upon you?
ANTOINETTE (Scornfully). You upon me? Oh, none at all! Did you know
about me at all? You scorned me! What, that stupid little thing wants
me, the great man! Who am I and what is she! Off with her.
PAUL. Toinette!
ANTOINETTE (filled with hatred). Yes, off with her. And I did throw
myself away! I knew all the time it would spell misfortune for me if I
married this ... this man.
PAUL (starts up). Is that the way matters stand?
ANTOINETTE. Yes, indeed, that's the way they stand. I don't think of
making a secret of it. The whole world knows it. It is shouted from the
house-tops!
PAUL (clenches his fists). The dog!
ANTOINETTE. It's easy for you to use strong terms now. You hounded me
into it! I owe it all to you. But one consolation has remained for me.
I have become unhappy. But so are you! And that is why I have come.
PAUL (straightens up). What does this mean, Antoinette?
ANTOINETTE. Heavens! Simple enough! You do take an interest in the
woman that has been preferred to you. You would like to make the
acquaintance of such a marvel.
PAUL (offended). You are malicious, madam!
ANTOINETTE. Not at all. I only wanted to see, with my own eyes, how
happy you are. But I am quite sufficiently informed. One only needs to
take a look at you.
PAUL (painfully). Are you satisfied now?
ANTOINETTE (from the bottom of her heart). Yes.
PAUL. Are you compelled to detest me?
ANTOINETTE.
Do you expect me to thank you?
PAUL (fervently). Does it really make you happy to talk to me in this
manner, Antoinette?
ANTOINETTE. Happy or not, what I have vowed before the altar, I shall
not fail to keep.
PAUL (earnestly and sadly). I am the last person to hinder you,
Toinette! But I surely may look at you? Will you forbid that?
ANTOINETTE (struggling with herself). Don't talk to me in this manner!
PAUL (excited). Just look into your face, Antoinette, the few moments
that remain! Stamp upon my mind how much I have lost! Look into your
eyes, just once more! Into your wonderful eyes!
ANTOINETTE (jumps up). Don't talk to me in this manner, I say. I
haven't deserved it!
PAUL (has also risen, seizes her hand). Antoinette, I have found none
of the things that I was seeking. I have been miserably deceived! Are
you satisfied now?
[ANTOINETTE sinks back into her chair, begins to sob
spasmodically.]
PAUL (wildly). Why aren't you glad? (He strides through the hall.)
[ANTOINETTE chokes down her sobs.]
PAUL (comes back again, bows down to her). Weep, Antoinette! Weep! I
wish I could. (He softly presses a kiss upon her hair). [Silence.]
ANTOINETTE (jumps up). I must go! Where is my husband? I must have
fresh air! My head! (She looks crazed.)
PAUL (takes her arm). Yes, fresh air, Toinette, there we shall feel
less constraint. It is fine outside, the snow is falling. Everything is
white. Everything is old. Just as both of us have become, Toinette.
ANTOINETTE (leaning on him). I am so afraid! So terribly afraid!
PAUL (leading her to the door). You will feel better. Snow is soothing.
Come and I will tell you about my life. Possibly you will forgive me
then, Antoinette? (He looks at her imploringly and extends his hand to
her).
ANTOINETTE (hesitates a moment, then opening her eyes widely she lays
her hand in his). Possibly!...
PAUL (happy). Thank you, Toinette! Thank you!... And now come.
ANTOINETTE (on his arm, sadly). Where shall we go?
PAUL. To the park, Toinette, to the brook, do you remember, to the
alders?
ANTOINETTE (nods). To the alders, I remember.
PAUL. Out into the snow, to seek our childhood.
[He slowly leads her out at the right.]
ACT III
The same hall as on the preceding days. The two corners in the
foreground, on the right the fireplace with its chairs, on the left the
sofa and other furniture are both separated from the centre and
background of the hall by means of a rectangular arrangement of
oleanders in pots, thus affording two separate cozy corners, between
whose high borders of oleander a somewhat narrow passage leads to the
background. A banquet board in the form of a horseshoe, the sides of
which run to the rear and are hidden by the oleanders. The centre,
forming the head of the board, is plainly visible from the passage. It
is almost noon. Dim light, reflected from the snow outside, comes in
through the middle window of the back wall, a view of which is afforded
through the opening in the centre. The snowflakes flutter down drearily
as on the previous day. The fire now and then casts a red light upon
the oleanders, which separate the space surrounding the fireplace from
the background. AUNT CLARA, in mourning as before, and LENE, also
dressed in black, are busy at the table, which has been set. They move
to and fro arranging plates, glasses and bottles. After a moment.
AUNT CLARA (comes forward in the direction of the passage, inspects the
whole arrangement and speaks to LENE who is occupied in the background,
where she cannot be seen). Are all of the knives and forks properly
arranged back there?
LENE (not visible). Everything's in order, Miss Clara.
AUNT CLARA. Why, then we are through.
LENE. They can come right along now.
AUNT CLARA. I can't help but think that it's time for the bell. (The
old clock in the corridor outside begins to strike.)
LENE (has come forward). It's striking twelve.
AUNT CLARA. You're certain, are you, that the roast is being basted
properly?
LENE. Oh, Lizzie's looking after things.
AUNT CLARA. The sermon seems to be pretty long.
LENE. Oh, he can never find his finish. Miss Clara.
AUNT CLARA. Let him talk, for all I care! Only I might have put off the
dinner.
LENE (listens). Now the bell is ringing. (Distant, indistinct tones of
a church bell are heard.)
AUNT CLARA (also listens). Yes, they are ringing. Then it is over. (She
folds her hands as if in prayer.)
LENE (timidly). Now the coffin's in the ground, ain't it, Miss Clara?
AUNT CLARA (murmurs). God grant him eternal peace!
LENE (also with hands folded). Amen!
AUNT CLARA (continues murmuring). And light everlasting shine for him!
LENE (as before). Amen!
AUNT CLARA (partly to herself). I _should_ have been glad to pay him
the last honor, but it _was_ impossible. What would have become of the
roast? We shall see each other in the next world anyhow. It will not be
_very_ long!
LENE (comforting her). Oh, Miss Clara.
AUNT CLARA (seizes her arm). Don't stand there! Do your work! They will
surely be here directly, (Counts the places.) Six ... eight ... twelve
... sixteen ... eighteen ... twenty ... twenty-two ...
LENE. That's the number. There are eight sleighs.
AUNT CLARA. Go and open the door of the green room!
LENE (goes off to the left). What _will_ Mrs. Warkentin say to that?
AUNT CLARA. _I_ will attend to that. It can't be helped today. We shall
have to use the rooms for our coffee later.
LENE (returns). She'll make a nice fuss!
AUNT CLARA. Off with you now. They are coming. Take the ladies and
gentlemen into the front rooms until we have the dinner on the table.
Then you can go and call them.
LENE. Very well, Miss Clara. (Quickly off to the right.)
[Short pause, during which AUNT CLARA stands listening. Then
HELLA enters from the right, dressed in black.]
HELLA (with a quick glance to the left, then to AUNT CLARA who has
retreated to the background). What is the matter with my room? Why are
the doors open?
AUNT CLARA. The guests certainly must have some place where they can
relax a bit, later on.
HELLA (nonplussed). In my rooms?
AUNT CLARA. They surely can't sit around in this one place the whole
afternoon. They must take their coffee _some_where.
HELLA (from the left). Why I _do_ say ...! Really! All of my books are
gone!
AUNT CLARA (indifferently). I put things to rights a bit, madam. Why I
_couldn't_ leave them as they were. I took the books upstairs.
HELLA. Upstairs! Very well, then that's where _I_ will go. (Starts out
toward the right.)
PAUL (enters and runs into HELLA). Where are you going?
HELLA. I am going upstairs.
PAUL. _Where_ are you going!
HELLA. Upstairs. I _can't_ find a nook down _here_ today where I might
rest.
PAUL. So you really refuse to dine with us?
HELLA (places her hand on his arm). Spare me the agony, Paul! You know
I can't endure so many strangers. It will give me a headache.
PAUL. Stay a short time at least! Show that much consideration!
HELLA (retreats a step). Consideration ... No one shows _me_ any
consideration!
PAUL (pacing up and down). Nice mess, when not even the nearest
relatives ...
HELLA. Why, you are to be present.
PAUL. But you must be present! I desire it, Hella!
HELLA. And what if I simply _cannot_?
PAUL (plants himself before her). Why not?
HELLA. Because I cannot. Because I hate these feeds!
PAUL (more calmly). That is correct. So do I! But what can we do about
it? It _is_ the custom.
HELLA. Custom, Paul, custom!... Have we founded our life upon old
customs?
PAUL (embittered). If we only had!
HELLA (looks at him sharply). Do you think so?
PAUL. Yes, possibly we should have fared better.
HELLA (very emphatically). And then, my dear, I will tell you one thing
more. You are compelling me to do so.
PAUL. And that is?
HELLA. I don't care to lie.
PAUL. What do you mean by that?
HELLA. I don't care to feign, to these people, feelings that are
entirely absent. That is why I am going upstairs.
PAUL (very calmly). Does that refer to ... the dead?
HELLA. Yes, it does! I did not know _him_ and he did not know _me_!
Did not care to know me. What obligations remain for me? None at all.
PAUL. Are you serious?
HELLA (bolt upright). In all seriousness. Now it is out.
PAUL (quite calm). Very well, then go!
HELLA. I'll see you later. (She goes toward the right.)
PAUL (struggles for composure, then suddenly). Hella! For _my_ sake ...
Do _not_ go. Stay here!
HELLA (turns to him). No, Paul, one should not force himself to do such
things. Put the responsibility upon your father! I am not to blame. I
am only acting as I must. You would do the same. [Off at the right.]
PAUL (beside himself). It's well that you are reminding me of that.
AUNT CLARA (approaches). Shall I remove your wife's plate?
PAUL. Yes, take the plate away.
AUNT CLARA. Have you seen the Laskowskis?
PAUL. Yes, at the cemetery, Auntie. I shall go now and call the guests.
(Goes off.)
[AUNT CLARA walks toward the right, shaking her head, then pulls
the bell.]
LENE (comes in from the right, behind the scene). What is it. Miss
Clara?
AUNT CLARA. Have the soup brought in! It will take me some time to fill
all of the plates, anyhow.
LENE. Very well!
AUNT CLARA. Now where are you to serve? And where is the coachman to
serve? You haven't forgotten?
LENE. I am to serve on the right and the coachman on the left. Is that
right?
AUNT CLARA. Yes, you may go! And don't forget, all serving is to be
done by way of the green room! Be sure not to come in from this side!
[LENE goes off.]
[AUNT CLARA retires to the background, where she is occupied for
some time, without being very much in evidence. The door at the
right is opened.]
PAUL (still hidden to view). Come in, ladies and gentlemen! In this
way! (VON TIEDEMANN, MRS. VON TIEDEMANN, DR. BODENSTEIN, RAABE, father
and son, MERTENS, KUNZE, MRS. BOROWSKI, SCHNAASE, MRS. SCHNAASE,
JOSUPEIT, LICENTIATE SCHROCK and others enter and dispose themselves in
groups before and behind the Oleanders.)
RAABE, SR. (puts his hand up to his side). I don't know, but that
cemetery put a stitch into my side.
SCHNAASE. Yes, that was a nasty, cold snow. If we only get something to
eat soon!... So we can warm up!
VON TIEDEMANN. Ought to be a bit careful of yourself at your age, Mr.
Raabe!
RAABE. Why, how old _am_ I? Seventy!
VON TIEDEMANN. Not worth mentioning, eh? Prime of life!... How old
_was_ Warkentin?
SCHNAASE. Why we just heard about that in the sermon, sixty-two!
VON TIEDEMANN. Not very old!
RAABE. Yes, that's the way they go ...
SCHNAASE. To the grand army, eh Raabe, old boy? Who knows when we will
get our orders.
RAABE. It will be our turn next.
VON TIEDEMANN. Don't say that! It is not a matter of age! Look at
Warkentin, did he give evidence of his end?
SCHNAASE. The affair with his son put him over, or he would be here
today.
VON TIEDEMANN (looks around). Why, where is the young man?
SCHNAASE. Pretty nice fellow in other respects!
VON TIEDEMANN. He will have a deuce of a time if he intends to farm
here. You can't pick that up helter skelter. Has any one heard? Does he
intend to take it on? Or is he going to sell?
[He turns toward the rear. Meanwhile ANTOINETTE, PAUL, AND
GLYSZINSKI have entered from the right and have joined a group of
guests in the background.]
RAABE. In the old days the son always followed in the footsteps of his
father. The son of a land-owner became a land-owner. That's all out of
style now. Everybody goes to school.
SCHNAASE. Well, your son is doing that very thing, Raabe.
RAABE, JR. (has come forward). Good morning, Mr. Schnaase!
SCHNAASE. Good morning, brother student!
RAABE, JR. Well, pa?
RAABE. Well, my son?
SCHNAASE. Keeping right after beerology, young man?
RAABE, JR. Purty well, thanks! A fellow guzzles his way through.
SCHNAASE. How many semesters does this make, Mr. Raabe?
RAABE, JR. Mebbie you'd better not ask about that.
RAABE. How many semesters? Twelve! Isn't that it, my son?
RAABE, JR. Astoundingly correct!
SCHNAASE. Then I suppose you'll tackle the examinations one of these
days, Mr. Raabe?
RAABE, JR. There's plenty of time.
RAABE. Just let him study his fill! I'm not at all in favor of too much
hurry! He'll get office and emoluments soon enough.
SCHNAASE. I know one thing, _my_ boy will not get into a gymnasium! The
agricultural school for him, till he can qualify for the one year's
service and off with him. No big notions for him!
RAABE (holds his side). Outch, there's my stitch again!
RAABE, JR. Take a whisky, pa! Shall I get us a couple?
RAABE. A few fingers might not do any harm.
SCHNAASE. _Have_ the girl before you kiss her, according to Lehmann.[A]
[Footnote A: Nickname of Emperor William I, who according to
popular report took an interest in girls.]
RAABE, JR. What'll you bet? I can get some! (He hastens to the rear.)
RAABE. Divvel of a fellow!
SCHNAASE. Well now, I'd just like to see. (Both of them follow RAABE,
JR. to the rear.)
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN and MRS. SCHNAASE come from the left arm in arm.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (with a glance at the arrangements). That is not
exactly extraordinary.
MRS. SCHNAASE. Oh, I don't know, Elizabeth, I find it quite pretty.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. And the wife does not seem to be much in evidence.
MRS. SCHNAASE. Yes, she seems a bit high toned.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. _Quite a bit._ I wonder what kind of notions _she_
has about the society that she has encountered here!
MRS. SCHNAASE. Do you think they will stay here?
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Such creatures blow in from Berlin, puff up like a
turkey gobbler. I'd hate to know about her past!
MRS. SCHNAASE. Mrs. Laskowski looks pretty interesting today.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Do you think so? Well, perhaps she has her reasons.
MRS. SCHNAASE. You don't say! Do tell.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Don't you know about it at all?
MRS. SCHNAASE. Why no, what? I don't get out very much, you know.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. It was before your day. You were not here then. I
have a dim recollection, when I was quite a young girl.
MRS. SCHNAASE (all ear, seizes her arm). Is it possible? What was it?
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (subdued). She had an affair with him ...
MRS. SCHNAASE. With whom, pray tell?
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. The man with whom she is standing there.
MRS. SCHNAASE. Why that is young Mr. Warkentin.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Pst. They are coming. (Quite subdued.) Later she
married her husband out of spite, because she did not get him!
MRS. SCHNAASE (squints curiously at ANTOINETTE). To think that she
would still talk to him!
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Heavens, what does she care! (To DR. BODENSTEIN,
who is quietly conversing with MERTENS at the fireplace.) Doctor, just
a word!
DR. BODENSTEIN. At your service, madam! (He straightens up promptly and
hastens to her.)
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. I only wanted to ask about a trifling matter,
Doctor.
DR. BODENSTEIN. I shall be _delighted_, madam.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. But no one must hear us. (Both disappear to the
rear.)
MERTENS (has also stepped out from the recess of the fireplace, to
MRS. SCHNAASE). If you are willing to put up with me for the present,
madam?
MRS. SCHNAASE. Oh, thank you very much! But I might ...
MERTENS. Please, please, madam! May I offer you my arm? (He takes her
arm.)
JOSUPEIT (has rushed up to the two from the background). Too late! Just
my luck! _I_ was about to report!
MERTENS. You will have to get up a bit earlier the next time, my dear
fellow; _I_ shall take you to the table, madam.
JOSUPEIT (from the other side). Take me to the table dear, good madam!
I'll tell you something quite interesting too.
PAUL (has come forward with ANTOINETTE). We shall eat immediately, Mr.
Mertens.
MERTENS. Please, please, as concerns
me! (He escorts MRS. SCHNAASE.)
JOSUPEIT (catches sight of PAUL, suddenly assumes a funereal air). My
heartfelt sympathy, Mr. Warkentin! (He seizes his hand and shakes it.)
PAUL, (reserved). I thank you!
JOSUPEIT (is silent for a moment, then continues). Another man of honor
gone. (PAUL nods silently. JOSUPEIT again after a brief silence.)
Terribly sudden!
PAUL (nods again and says). But I must not detain you, Mr. Josupeit!
JOSUPEIT. Once more, my heartfelt sympathy!
[JOSUPEIT and the rest go off to the rear.]
PAUL (to ANTOINETTE who has stepped forward to the right near the
fireplace). You see, madam, that's the way of it! Just back from the
cemetery. One buried forever, and the next moment all of their thoughts
somewhere else. Joyous and of good cheer.
ANTOINETTE (stares into the fire, bitterly). Yes, that's the way of it!
PAUL. Life rolls on merrily. The dead are dead. We shall have the same
fate some day, madam.
ANTOINETTE. Of course we shall. It is immaterial to me.
PAUL (looks at her). Really?
ANTOINETTE. It does not matter to me, whether it comes today or
tomorrow. Sometime I shall have to go! So the quicker the better. It is
all over with me!
PAUL. Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE. You may believe me, I am quite serious!
PAUL (completely absorbed, as he looks at her). How calmly you
say that! In the very bloom of life! I cannot think of you thus.
ANTOINETTE. How?
PAUL. Cold and dead.
ANTOINETTE. But I can. Very well indeed. I am so now!
PAUL. That isn't true, Antoinette. Your eyes tell a different story!
ANTOINETTE (shrugging her shoulders). Never mind my eyes!
PAUL. But I can't help it. I must look into them! I feel as if I must
find something there.
ANTOINETTE (turning away). Don't go to any trouble!
PAUL. Indeed, indeed, Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE. What in the world could you find?
PAUL. ... Possibly my lost life?
ANTOINETTE (excited). Why do you speak so to me, Paul?
PAUL. Do I hear it from your lips, Paul, Paul, as of old?
ANTOINETTE (frightened). Paul! Paul! Desist!
PAUL. It has been a long time since I have heard that sound!
ANTOINETTE. Desist, at least for today, I beg of you! It seems like a
sin to me!
PAUL. Why like a sin?
ANTOINETTE. You were just remarking about the rest, and now you are
doing the same thing, forgetting the dead.
PAUL. I--forget him? I am thinking of him incessantly! And of his last
words, before we parted forever! Do you know what they were, Toinette?
ANTOINETTE (subdued). Tell me!
PAUL. "Go! Some day you will be sorry!" ... Possibly he was right, the
dear old man! Today it kept resounding from his open grave, as the
clods and lumps of snow rumbled down on his coffin. "Are you sorry now?
Are you sorry now?" ... I have tried to get rid of it, but it refuses
to go. It keeps pursuing me and cries into my ears!
LASKOWSKI (has approached the two). Well, dearie, how are you? What are
you doing?
ANTOINETTE (turns around, as if recoiling from something poisonous).
Oh, it's you!
LASKOWSKI. Who would it be? Ain't it up to me to look after my dearie
now and then. Shan't we eat? They are all sitting down.
PAUL (has become composed). Your husband is quite right, madam. We are
the last. Unfortunately Mrs. Warkentin is not very well. May I request
you to play the part of the hostess a bit?
ANTOINETTE (distressed). If it must be, Doctor ...
PAUL (looks at her). Yes, there is no help for it, madam. (Escorts her
through the passage to the table.)
LASKOWSKI (following them). And I, old boy. Where am I to go?
PAUL (grimly). Wherever you please! The world is wide and there is room
for all. (He leads Antoinette around the table to her place.)
LASKOWSKI. I guess the shortest way is the best! I'm going to sit right
here. (He sits down beside MRS. VON TIEDEMANN, all the rest have also
gradually taken their places. The order at the visible central portion
of the table is as follows, from left to right: Outside, KUNZE,
LASKOWSKI, MRS. VON TIEDEMANN, DIRECTOR MERTENS, MRS. SCHNAASE;
opposite these inside, MRS. BOROWSKI, PAUL, ANTOINETTE, MR. VON
TIEDEMANN, DR. BODENSTEIN. During the whole of the following scene they
are eating and drinking. LENE and FRITZ, in livery, move to and fro,
serving. AUNT CLARA comes in and goes out as the occasion demands. She
has her seat with those who are hidden and whose voices are only heard
at times. At first the conversation remains subdued.)
KUNZE (rises). Ladies and gentlemen! Before sitting down at the board,
to regale ourselves with food and drink, does it not involve upon us to
devote a few words to the memory of the beloved deceased, whose mortal
remains we have today conducted to the last resting place. And how can
we do that more fittingly, ladies and gentlemen, than by recalling the
words recorded in holy writ. Ladies and gentlemen, what are the words
of the psalmist? The days of our years are three-score years and ten;
and if, by reason of strength, they be four-score years, yet is their
strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off and we fly away!
Ladies and gentlemen! He who no longer dwells in our midst in the body,
but whose spirit is looking down upon all of us, the beloved deceased,
may he rest in peace.
[Silence. Short pause as they continue to eat.]
LASKOWSKI (the first to finish his soup, leans back). A soup like that
does warm a fellow up.
VON TIEDEMANN. Especially when you have been out in your sleigh for
nearly two hours.
LASKOWSKI. And then a full hour at the cemetery on top of it.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (quickly). But the sermon was really touching. From
the very heart. Any one who had known the dead man ...
LASKOWSKI. Not a soul kept from crying!
VON TIEDEMANN. Yes, remarkably beautiful!
LASKOWSKI. A fellow forgot all about being hungry.
MRS. BOROWSKI (leans over to PAUL). Are they talking about the sermon?
PAUL (aloud). Yes, Mrs. Borowski.
MRS. BOROWSKI. I didn't understand very much.
PAUL (courteously). At your age, Mrs. Borowski!
MERTENS (in an undertone to MRS. VON TIEDEMANN). Who is she?
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. It's the widow of the former teacher at the estate
here.
MERTENS. She seems to hail from the days of the French occupation!
VON TIEDEMANN. _Does_ she? She has at least eighty years on her back.
MERTENS. But is well preserved.
MRS. BOROWSKI (to PAUL). I say, Mr. Warkentin, I knew your father when
he was no bigger than ... (Holding her hand not far from the ground.)
PAUL (subdued). Fifty years ago?
MRS. BOROWSKI. Oh, it's longer than that. Almost sixty. I saw them all
grow up. Now I'm almost the only one left from those times.
LASKOWSKI (leans over toward her with his glass). Well, here's to you
Auntie!... You don't drink very much any more I suppose? (He drinks.)
MRS. BOROWSKI. Oh, indeed! I am still able to take a glass.
PAUL. Come, Mrs. Borowski, let me help you. (He fills her glass.)
MRS. BOROWSKI. When I was young I never caught sight of wine. Now that
I'm old I have more than I can drink.
LASKOWSKI. Drink ahead, Auntie! Drink ahead! Wine makes you young!
MRS. BOROWSKI. You know, your good wife is always sending me some.
LASKOWSKI (nonplussed). I do say, dearie, why, I don't know a thing
about that.
[ANTOINETTE silently shrugs her shoulders and casts a quick
glance at him.]
LASKOWSKI (friendly again). Makes no difference, dearie, no difference
at all! Just send ahead! We do have a lot of it.
ANTOINETTE. There is surely enough for us to spare a little for an old
lady.
LASKOWSKI. Sure, dearie!
MRS. BOROWSKI (leans over to ANTOINETTE). Do you remember, pet, how you
used to come and call with your parents, now dead and gone? A little
bit of a thing you were, Paul would lift you on the horse and you
didn't cry at all, you sat there just like a grown-up ... I remember it
very well.
ANTOINETTE. I don't. Such things _are_ forgotten.
PAUL (looks at her). Have you really forgotten that, madam?
ANTOINETTE. Heavens, I haven't thought of it again.
MRS. BOROWSKI. Just wait and see, pet, when you are old you will think
of it again.
ANTOINETTE. Not all people grow to be as old as you, dear Mrs.
Borowski.
LASKOWSKI (has partaken freely of the wine). Dearie, you'll grow as old
as the hills! I can prophesy that much. Haven't you the finest kind of
a time!
ANTOINETTE. I?... Of course!
LASKOWSKI (garrulously). What do you lack!... Nuthin'!... Children's
what you lack!
ANTOINETTE (looks at him sharply). Never mind, please!
LASKOWSKI (abashed). Well, well, don't put on so, dearie!
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (to PAUL). Have you any children, Doctor?
PAUL. No, I'm sorry to say, madam.
MR. VON TIEDEMANN (to his wife). We're better off in that respect,
Bess, aren't we? Three lusty bairns!
MRS. SCHNAASE. And _we_, with our five!
LASKOWSKI (touched). Do you see, dearie! What am I always tellin' you!
An agriculturalist without children ...
KUNZE. Abraham scored one hundred when the Lord bestowed his son Isaac
upon him.
LASKOWSKI. But a fellow like me can't wait that long--stuff and
nonsense. What if I die and ...
PAUL. You will take care not to do that.
LASKOWSKI. Don't say that, brother! I'm going to die young! I'm sure of
it. An old woman once told my fortune, and she said I wouldn't see more
than fifty. But, do you know what, dearie?
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (to ANTOINETTE). I suppose you frequently came to
Ellernhof in the old days, Madam von Laskowski?
ANTOINETTE. Why, the departed was my guardian, you know, Mrs.
Von Tiedemann.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Oh yes. I had forgotten that.
VON TIEDEMANN. Do you ride horseback as much as ever, madam?
ANTOINETTE. Now and then, for pastime!
LASKOWSKI. Now don't you say a word, dearie! Why, you're pasted on a
horse all day long, and then from horseback right into the cold, cold
water. Did anybody ever hear the like of it?
PAUL (to ANTOINETTE). Yesterday I had a horseback ride again too,
madam. Have I told you about it? The first time in years. And, what is
more, I got quite near your place. I was even able to see the houses of
Klonowken.
ANTOINETTE. Did you ride through the forest?
PAUL. Of course, through the pine forest of Klonowken, yesterday
morning. Right through the snow.
ANTOINETTE. Why, I was out at the same time.
PAUL (looks at her). You were, madam? Too bad! Why did we not chance to
meet?
ANTOINETTE. I suppose it was not ordained so.
LASKOWSKI (after drinking again). I say, dearie, one of these days when
I die, do you know what I'll do?
MERTENS. If one of us dies, I'll go to Karlsbad, eh, Laskowski?
LASKOWSKI. Listen, dearie! You'll inherit all I have an' marry another
fellow!
PAUL (sternly). Control yourself a bit, Laskowski.
LASKOWSKI (undaunted). Ain't that true, dearie? Tell me that you'll
come to my grave! Promise me that much, dearie! Then I'll die easy.
You'll come along and sit down and cry a few tearies on my grave. (He
chokes down his tears and drinks again.)
VON TIEDEMANN (has also been drinking freely). Well, here's to our
friend, departed in his prime. (He raises his glass to LASKOWSKI.)
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (disapprovingly). Why, Fritz!
VON TIEDEMANN (collecting himself). H'm! Well ... Didn't think of
_that_. One forgets. Pardon me!
ANTOINETTE. Will you not help yourselves, ladies and gentlemen? (To
LENE, who is just passing with dishes in her hands.) Serve around
once more!
VON TIEDEMANN (helps himself). My favorite dish, veal-roast!... (To
BODENSTEIN.) What do you say, Doctor, you are so quiet?
DR. BODENSTEIN. Do whatever you do, with a will! I am now devoting
myself to culinary delights!
MERTENS. I regard this sauce a phenomenal achievement.
MRS. SCHNAASE. There are tomatoes in it, I think.
MERTENS. I must ask for the recipe.
RAABE, JUNIOR'S (voice in the background). Here's to you!
VOICES (in confusion, in the background). Here's to you! Your health!
LASKOWSKI (gets up, raises his glass toward the background). Here's to
everybody!
VOICES (from behind). Here's to you, Laskowski!
SCHROCK'S (voice). Here's to you, old rough-neck!
PAUL. Don't drink so much, Laskowski! (ANTOINETTE bites her lips and
looks away.)
LASKOWSKI (whispering). Let me drink, brother! Drink and forget your
pain, says Schiller. Ain't that it, old chap, ain't it, now? You're a
kind of a poet yourself, ain't you?
VON TIEDEMANN (in an undertone, to MERTENS). He's tanking up again!
ANTOINETTE (to PAUL, through her teeth). Awful!
PAUL (in an undertone). Oh, don't mind him.
LASKOWSKI. Let me drink, old fellow. I'm not going to live long anyhow.
It's on my chest ... Do you hear it rattle, old boy? Listen! Just
listen! Listen to _me_, not to my dearie. When we're dead, we're out of
it! We'll not get another drop! An' then we'll sleep till judgment day
in the pitch-dark grave. Then you'll be rid of me, dearie!
ANTOINETTE (gets up). Excuse me, Doctor!
PAUL (also jumps up). Are you ill, madam?
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (moves aside). Now it is getting a bit uncanny.
MRS. BOROWSKI (her hand at her ear). Are they talking about the
judgment day?
KUNZE (who eats away lustily, partly to himself). On the judgment day
when the Lord will return to judge the quick and the dead.
PAUL (to ANTOINETTE, who partly leans upon him). How are you,
Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE (has become composed again). I am all right again.
MRS. SCHNAASE. Would you like a glass of water?
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Yes, water!
ANTOINETTE. No, thank you! This awful heat!... Don't let me disturb
you.
[The conversation which had become very loud is carried on in a
more subdued manner. All are whispering to each other.]
PAUL, Shall I take you out, madam?
ANTOINETTE (with a supreme effort). No, thank you, I shall remain!
(Sits down again.)
LASKOWSKI (with a stupid stare). Just stay here, dearie! Just stay
here!
PAUL. Now do be quiet, Laskowski. (Also sits down again.)
LASKOWSKI Ain't I quiet, brother? Quiet!... Quiet!... Quiet!... Quiet
as the grave! Damn it all. I wonder how your father feels now.
KUNZE. We are happy, but he is happier.
ANTOINETTE (frantically controlling herself). Help yourselves, ladies
and gentlemen! Mr. von Tiedemann, don't be backward!
VON TIEDEMANN. I'm getting my share.
MERTENS. So am I. I don't let things affect my appetite.
LASKOWSKI (singing half audibly). Jinks, do you have to die, young as
you are ... young as ...
MRS. BOROWSKI (to PAUL). Now it has come, just as the departed always
wished.
PAUL. How so, Mrs. Borowski?
MRS. BOROWSKI. That you would be back, Paul, and that everything about
the estate would go right on as before! If he could only look down upon
that.
PAUL (nervously). Yes!
VON TIEDEMANN (leans over to PAUL). Settled fact is it, Mr. Warkentin?
Really going to get into the harness?
LASKOWSKI (pricking up his ears). Can't do it, old chap! Come on!...
Can't begin to do it!
PAUL. I do intend to, Mr. von Tiedemann.
VON TIEDEMANN. Well, you'd better think that over! Not every one can
match your father as an agriculturalist.
PAUL. With a little honest effort ...
VON TIEDEMANN. If _that_ were all! To begin with, you can't match your
father physically. You have to be accustomed to such things. In all
kinds of weather! And then ... No child's play to farm now-a-days!
Starvation prices for grain! Simply a shame! If that continues I'll
vouch that all this blooming farming will go to the devil within twenty
years!
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (shaking her head). To think of having you speak
that way, Fritz!
VON TIEDEMANN. Of course, if a fellow has a few pennies to fall back
on, it's not so bad. But how many are there who have. The rest will
go broke!
LASKOWSKI (hums again). The Count of Luxemburg has squandered all his
cash ... cash ... cash ...
VON TIEDEMANN (eagerly). And who will have the advantage? The few who
have money. They will buy for a song and some day, when times are
better again, they will sell for twice as much. Some day they are
likely to roll in wealth!
LASKOWSKI (as before). Has squandered all his cash ... In one old merry
night ... ha, ha!
ANTOINETTE (leans back in her chair). My husband is no longer conscious
of what he is saying!
LASKOWSKI. Me? Not conscious?... Don't I know. Word for word! Shall I
tell you, dearie? What you said and what I said and what Paul said to
you ... Antoinette, how are you?... How are you Antoinette? (Short
laugh.) Well, do I know, dearie? Did I hold on to it?
PAUL. One must excuse you in your condition.
VON TIEDEMANN. Don't worry about _him_, madam. He's one of these
fellows with a big purse. He may chuckle! I can foresee that he will
buy up the whole county some day!
LASKOWSKI. Just what I'll do. What's the price of the world! Five bits
a fling!... We can still raise that much. The more foolish the farmer,
the bigger his spuds!
MERTENS. His sugar-beets!
LASKOWSKI. I say, boys!... Do you know how many tons of sugar-beets I
raised to the acre! Last round?
VON TIEDEMANN. Now, don't Spread it on!
LASKOWSKI (jumps up). Fellows! My word of honor! I'm not lying!
Thirty-five tons an acre! Who can match that? Nobody can! I can! I'm a
devil of a fellow, I've always said so, ain't I, dearie? You know! (He
strikes his chest and sits down.)
VON TIEDEMANN. Thirty-five ton per acre! Ridiculous!
MERTENS. I can honestly swear to the contrary!
LASKOWSKI. And your dad, I tell you he was mad! He just couldn't look
at me! But I don't bear him any grudge! I'm a man of honor! Shake
hands, old chap! You say so, ain't I a man of honor? Put 'er there! Man
of honor face to face with man of honor. But you must look at me, man
alive! Or I won't believe you! (He extends his hand over to PAUL.)
PAUL (negative gesture). Never mind! Just believe me.
LASKOWSKI (looks at ANTOINETTE). Dearie, don't make such a face! Eat!
Eat!... So you can get strong, so you can survive your poor Heliodor!
(All except PAUL and ANTOINETTE laugh.)
DR. BODENSTEIN (to MERTENS). Incipient delirium!
[MRS. VON TIEDEMANN whispers something into MERTENS' ear.]
PAUL (to ANTOINETTE). You really haven't taken a thing, madam!
ANTOINETTE. I am not hungry. But will the ladies and gentlemen not take
something more? A little more of the dessert, perhaps.
VON TIEDEMANN. No, thanks, madam! I can't eat another thing! Not if I
try! Or I'll burst!
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN (reproachfully). Fritz!
DR. BODENSTEIN. Albumen! Fat! Carbo-hydrates! _In hoc signo vinces._
MERTENS. And now a little cup of coffee!
VON TIEDEMANN. And a cock-tail!
DR. BODENSTEIN. To retard metabolism!
PAUL. The coffee will be here directly!
[AUNT CLARA appears upon the scene and talks to ANTOINETTE in an
undertone.]
LASKOWSKI (who has been dozing, wakes up again, takes his glass and
addresses PAUL). You know what I'de done, Paul, if I'd been your dad?
ANTOINETTE (nodding to AUNT CLARA). Miss Clara tells me that the
coffee is in the next room. Whenever the ladies and gentlemen are so
disposed ...
LASKOWSKI (interrupts). If I'de been your father, old chap, I'd drunk
all of my claret before my wind-up! I wouldn't 'a left a drop!
SCHROCK'S (voice). Greedy gut!
[All get up and are about to exchange formalities.]
RAABE JUNIOR'S (voice in the background). Here's to you!
DR. BODENSTEIN (knocks on his glass, with a loud voice). Ladies and
gentlemen! Let us dedicate a glass to the memory of the departed,
according to the beautiful tradition of our fathers; that we must not
mourn the dead, that we should envy them! Our slumbering friend lives
on in the memory of those who were near to him! To immortality, in this
sense, all of us may, after all, agree in a manner! (He raises his
glass and clinks with those beside him. All the rest do the same.
Silence prevails. Only the clinking of glasses is heard.)
PAUL (raising his glass, to ANTOINETTE). The doctor is right! Let us
drink to his memory, madam! May the earth rest lightly on him!
(ANTOINETTE lowers her head and stifles her tears.)
PAUL (looking at her fervently). Aren't yon going to respond?
ANTOINETTE (musters her strength, raises her head, and with tears in
her eyes clinks glasses with him).
PAUL (drinks). To the memory of my father.
ANTOINETTE (nods). Your father!
PAUL. To that of our parents, madam! A silent glass! (He empties his
glass.)
[ANTOINETTE puts down her glass, after she has drunk.]
LASKOWSKI (has noticed ANTOINETTE). Just cry ahead, dearie! Cry your
fill! That's the way they'll drink to your Heliodor some day!
DR. BODENSTEIN. And so they will drink to all of us some day!
KUNZE. For man's life on earth is like unto the grass of the field, on
which the wind bloweth. It flourisheth for a season and withereth and
no one remembereth it. So also the children of men.
DR. BODENSTEIN. This goblet to the departed, one and all! (He drinks
again.)
PAUL. The departed on these walls! I drink to you! (He raises his glass
to the portraits on the walls. All have risen meanwhile, and broken up
into new groups. Confusion of voices in the background.)
SCHROCK and RAABE (have intonated the Gaudeamus. At first softly, then
more distinctly the following stanza is sung):
Ubi sunt qui ante nos
In mundo fuere?
Vadite ad superos,
Transite ad inferos,
Ubi jam fuere.
[Illustration: FORDING THE WATER]
GLYSZINSKI (has joined in lustily at the end, and repeats alone). Ubi
jam fuere!
[MERTENS, VON TIEDEMANN, MRS. SCHNAASE, MRS. VON TIEDEMANN stand
in the foreground where they have been conversing in an
undertone.]
MERTENS (in an undertone). Now the pot is boiling!
VON TIEDEMANN (a bit mellow). That's the way a funeral should be! No
airs! The dead won't become alive again anyhow!
MERTENS. Many a man might object to that anyhow!
VON TIEDEMANN. The devil take it. A fellow doesn't want to give up what
he once has!
MERTENS. Wasn't Laskowski superb again!
VON TIEDEMANN. Always is, of late! Never see him any other way!
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. And then Mrs. Laskowski? Did you watch, Gretchen?
MRS. SCHNAASE. I don't exactly see, Elizabeth!
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. You _didn't_, how they kept on whispering together?
She hasn't a bit of modesty!
VON TIEDEMANN. I'll bet my head Laskowski will plant himself here some
day. The young man surely can't make it go in the long run. Why he
can't hold on to the estate.
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Didn't she bat her eyes again!
MERTENS. She _does_ have eyes!
VON TIEDEMANN. _Does_ she!
MRS. VON TIEDEMANN. Just go ahead and propose to her, the togged-out
thing!... Come on Gretchen!
[Both go off to the left.]
VON TIEDEMANN. Bang!
MERTENS. What do you think of _that_?
VON TIEDEMANN. Let's see if we can find a cocktail! Come on Mertens!
(They go out at the left.)
[PAUL, ANTOINETTE, GLYSZINSKI come over from the right.]
[Illustration: FORDING THE WATER]
GLYSZINSKI (quite intoxicated, to ANTOINETTE). Without a doubt, madam,
a beautiful, sensitive soul will, above all, find expression in the
hand. So would you, perhaps, let me have your hand for a moment....
ANTOINETTE (chilly). For what purpose?
GLYSZINSKI (has seized her hand, impassioned). Only to imprint a kiss
upon these beautiful, soft, delicate, distinguished, aristocratic
finger-tips! (He kisses her finger-tips.)
ANTOINETTE (withdraws her hand). I beg your pardon, sir!
LASKOWSKI (is detained in a group consisting of SCHROCK, RAABE JR., and
others. He has seen GLYSZINSKI kiss ANTOINETTE'S hand). Boys, let me
go!
SCHROCK, RAABE, and OTHERS. Stay right here, old boy.
LASKOWSKI. Let me go, I say ... I want to get to my dearie! (He tries
to disengage himself.)
SCHROCK (very unsteady on his feet). Dear old chap! I'll ... not ...
let you!... Let's have another drink first!
LASKOWSKI. I want to get to my dearie! (They restrain him.)
GLYSZINSKI (follows ANTOINETTE with his eyes. She has retreated behind
the oleanders in the foreground on the left). Ravishing creature! I
must follow her! (About to follow her.)
PAUL. That you will not do! (Intercepts him.)
GLYSZINSKI. Let me pass!
PAUL. That way, please! (He points to the left.)
GLYSZINSKI (with clenched fists). Brutal fellow! (He struts toward the
left and runs into LASKOWSKI, who is still standing in the group with
SCHROCK and the rest, and who immediately fraternizes with him.)
PAUL (looking at him as he goes). A rare team!
LASKOWSKI (approaches GLYSZINSKI, trying to embrace him). Old chap!...
Are you a Pole?
GLYSZINSKI. A Pole! Yes, indeed! von Glyszinski!
LASKOWSKI. Your name is Glyszinski! Mine is Laskowski! Come to my
heart, fellow countryman!
RAABE. Boys, such a thing as that calls for a drink. (He goes over
toward the left.)
LASKOWSKI. Drink, fellow countryman! Drink and kiss my wife. Do you
want to kiss my wife?
GLYSZINSKI (pompously). Sir!
LASKOWSKI. _You_ may. Nobody else. A Pole may. Ain't she beautiful,
that dearie of mine?
GLYSZINSKI. Beautiful as the starry sky!
LASKOWSKI (embracing his neck). Brother! Come along!
SCHROCK (stands near them, swaying). Your health, you ... jolly ...
brothers!
LASKOWSKI. Brotherhood? Yes, we'll drink to our brotherhood, my fellow
countryman.
RAABE (comes in from the left). There's lots of good stuff in there.
Come, be quick about it. Too bad to waste your time here!
LASKOWSKI (leading GLYSZINSKI, who resists a trifle, out at the left,
singing as he goes). Poland is not lost forever!
[RAABE and SCHROCK follow arm in arm. The rest have gradually
withdrawn toward the left in the course of the preceding scene.
LENE and FRITZ clear the table and carry out the dishes. AUNT
CLARA directs the work and assists now and then. PAUL stands near
the table in the foreground, lost in thought.]
AUNT CLARA. Won't you go and have some coffee, Paul?
PAUL. No, not now, Auntie! Later! I need a little rest! Will you soon
be through?
AUNT CLARA. Directly, my boy!... (To LENE.) Hurry now! There is plenty
of work ahead!
PAUL (subdued). Leave me alone for a little while, Auntie!
AUNT CLARA (understanding him). I'll be going, Paul!
[LENE and FRITZ have completed their work and go out at the
right.]
AUNT CLARA (in an undertone, as she goes toward the right). Have a good
chat, Paul!
PAUL (seriously). No occasion!
[AUNT CLARA goes off at the left. One can hear her, as she closes
the door on the left. Silence.]
PAUL (stands undecided for a moment, then he slowly walks over to the
row of oleanders, where ANTOINETTE sits leaning back in a chair at the
sofa table with her hands pressed to her face. He looks at her for a
long while, then softly says). Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE (moans to herself, without stirring). My God!... My God!
PAUL (places his hand on the crown of her head). You poor ... poor
child! (He sits down in the chair beside her, takes her hand which she
surrenders to him passively, presses it and tenderly kisses it,
saying). Sweet ... sweet Toinette!
[ANTOINETTE covers her face with her left hand while PAUL
continues to hold her right hand. She is breathing convulsively.]
PAUL (looks at her with devotion, closes his hands nervously). I fairly
worship you! (Continues to look at her, then says.) Won't you look at
me, Antoinette? (He gently removes her hand from her face.) Please,
please, Toinette! Let me see your eyes! Just let me see your eyes! (He
stoops down over her.)
ANTOINETTE (sinks upon his breast, putting her arms around his neck).
Dearest!... Dearest Paul!
PAUL (embraces her impetuously). Sweetheart!... Now you are mine!...
Sweetheart! (Continuing in a silent, fervent embrace. Pause.)
ANTOINETTE (startled, and tries to withdraw from him). God! Great
God!... What have I done?
PAUL (holds her and embraces her again). No retreat, Antoinette. No
retreat is possible!
ANTOINETTE (beside herself). Let me go, Paul!
PAUL. I shall not let you go, Toinette. And if it is a matter of life
and death.
ANTOINETTE (with a slight outcry). Paul!
PAUL, (presses her to him firmer than ever). Do you want the people to
come in? Then call them! Let them find us!
ANTOINETTE (on his breast). I had an intimation of this.
PAUL. Did you? You too?
ANTOINETTE. Both of us, Paul! (In rapture.) Kiss me, my friend!... My
beloved!
PAUL. A thousand times over! (He kisses her.)
ANTOINETTE (returns his kisses). And _I_, _you_ a thousand times over!
PAUL. My dear, tell me that you love me!
ANTOINETTE (nestling up to him). You know I do, dear! ... Why have me
tell you?
PAUL (with folded hands). Please, please tell me!
ANTOINETTE. I do love you, Paul!
PAUL. Tell me again! I have never heard the word! Say it once more!
ANTOINETTE. I have always loved you, Paul!
PAUL. Always? Always? Always?
ANTOINETTE. Always!
PAUL. And I failed to realize it all!... Fool, fool, fool! (He moans
convulsively.)
ANTOINETTE (places her arms about him again). Don't think of it! Not
now!
PAUL. You are right, dear! Our time is short!
ANTOINETTE. Forget all! Forget! Forget!
PAUL. I _cannot_ forget! It was too long!
ANTOINETTE. Indeed it was long! But I knew that you would return.
PAUL. And you took the other man?
ANTOINETTE (sadly, but with a touch of roguishness). And _you_ the
other woman!
PAUL (startled). Do not remind me of it!
ANTOINETTE (endearingly). I took the other man while I was thinking of
you! I waited for you!
PAUL. Waited for me, and I was not conscious of it. Missed my
happiness. Staked my life for nothing! For a delusion! Some one had to
die before I could realize what I might have enjoyed! Too late, too
late, too late!
ANTOINETTE (endearingly). Forget, my love! Forget! Forget! Lay your
head upon my breast!
PAUL (places his head upon her bosom). A good resting place.
ANTOINETTE (rocks him in her arms). Sleep, beloved! Sleep!
PAUL, (straightens up, beside himself with longing). Antoinette!...
ANTOINETTE. Mine again, lover of my youth!
PAUL. Dearest!... Dearest!
ANTOINETTE. Cruel, cruel man!... Mine after tireless seeking.
PAUL. Idol of my heart!... Safe in my arms at last! (Pause. Rapturous
embrace.)
PAUL (straightens up and looks into her eyes). Is this still sinful,
sweetheart?
ANTOINETTE (nods gravely). Still! And will remain so.
PAUL (roguishly). Not to be forgiven?
ANTOINETTE (gravely). Not to be forgiven!
PAUL. And yet you consent, with all your piety?
ANTOINETTE. I do consent! I have no other choice! (She leans upon his
breast.)
PAUL (embraces her, then with a sad smile). _Never_ to be forgiven,
Antoinette?
ANTOINETTE (gently). Possibly! In heaven.
PAUL. Your God is inexorable, Antoinette.
ANTOINETTE (impassioned). You are my god! I have ceased to have
another!
PAUL. And would you follow me, even unto death?
ANTOINETTE. Unto death and beyond!
PAUL (is forced to smile). Even to damnation, I dare say?
ANTOINETTE. These terrors have lost their force for both of us!
PAUL. Do you think so? Have you already come to this?
ANTOINETTE. We have had our damnation here on earth!
PAUL (jumps up). Here on earth! But not one hour more! Now the end is
at hand!
ANTOINETTE. Come, dear, sit down with me.
PAUL. Yes, let us ponder what we are to do now. (He sits down beside
her again.)
ANTOINETTE (nestles up to him). Not now! Not today! Promise me!
PAUL. When, when, Toinette? It must come to an end.
ANTOINETTE. It shall! But let _me_ determine the hour, dearest!
PAUL. You?
ANTOINETTE, Yes, the day and the hour, do you hear?
PAUL. Antoinette, if you put the matter in this way ... I cannot
refuse, whatever you may ask!
ANTOINETTE. Only one more day! Then I will write or come and tell you.
Will you be ready?
PAUL. Then I shall be ready for anything! Then we shall have a
reckoning. Then life shall begin all over again.
ANTOINETTE. Yes, another life!
PAUL (sadly). Even though the sun is already sinking.... Possibly there
is still time.
ANTOINETTE. I shall do anything for you and you will do anything for
me.... We agree to that! (They look into each other's eyes.)
PAUL (gently). Do you remember, Toinette, on this very spot ...?
ANTOINETTE. Ten years ago? I do! I do!
PAUL. How strangely all has come about and how necessary nevertheless!
So predestined! So inexorable! Fate! Fate!
ANTOINETTE (brooding). I hung upon your lips and you ignored me! I had
ceased to exist for you!
PAUL. And so we lost each other.
ANTOINETTE. But today, today we have found each other once more, oh
lover of my youth!
PAUL. Late, Toinette, so late!
ANTOINETTE. Heavens, how stupid I was in those days!
PAUL. Stupid because you loved me, Toinette?
ANTOINETTE. No, because I did not tell you.
PAUL. And I did not suspect it! Now who was worse?
ANTOINETTE. Both of us, dear! We were too young!
PAUL. And today I am an old man!
ANTOINETTE. And what of _me_ ... An old woman!
PAUL. Beloved!... Young and beautiful as ever. How young you have
remained all of these years!
ANTOINETTE. For your sake, dear. I knew that I must remain young till
you would return! That is why I insisted upon riding like a Cossack ...
PAUL. That is why?
ANTOINETTE. And swimming like a trout in the stream! And rowing like a
sailor!
PAUL. And all in order to remain young and beautiful?... You vain, vain
creature!
ANTOINETTE (mysteriously). And in order to forget, you foolish, foolish
fellow!
PAUL (to himself, bitterly). In order to forget!
ANTOINETTE (taking his head in her hands). Don't think of it! Don't
think of it! Now we have found each other again. That too is past!
PAUL. Yes, all is past! I have you and shall never leave you!...
(Looking up at the walls). Yes, look down upon me out of your frames!
Father and mother, envy me! Venerable hall, rarely have you beheld such
happiness!...
ANTOINETTE. Happiness and death in one, lover!
PAUL. Possibly they are one and the same! (The door at the left is
opened, both get up.)
AUNT CLARA'S (voice from the left). Paul, are you here?
PAUL. We are here. Aunt Clara! (Noise from the left.)
AUNT CLARA (comes forward). Our guests are about to go, Paul.
ANTOINETTE. Very well! Then we'll go too. (The two walk erectly into
the center passage.)
HELLA (has opened the door at the right, enters and sees PAUL and
ANTOINETTE with AUNT CLARA). Paul!
PAUL (turning around very calmly). Is it you, Hella?
HELLA. As you see! (She stands immediately before them, looks at them
with a hostile expression; to ANTOINETTE.) I beg your pardon, madam!
ANTOINETTE (nods her head). Please!
PAUL (coldly). What do you wish?
HELLA (looks at him nonplussed, is silent a moment and then says
curtly). Where is Glyszinski? I need him!
PAUL (as before). There, if you please. If you will take the trouble to
step into the next room ... (LASKOWSKI and GLYSZINSKI, arm in arm,
enter from the left, followed by the other guests.)
LASKOWSKI (very tipsy, but not completely robbed of his senses).
Brother! Polish brother! Don't leave me in the lurch ... Help me find
my dearie!
ANTOINETTE (with head erect). Here I am.
LASKOWSKI (sobered at the sight of her). Why dearie, where have you
been? Have you had a long talk with Paul?
ANTOINETTE (extends her hand to PAUL). Good-by, Doctor!
PAUL. Good-by, madam! We shall see each other again! (He looks squarely
into her eye.)
ANTOINETTE (significantly). We _shall_ see each other again.
LASKOWSKI. Shan't we go, dearie? Why, it's almost evening.
ANTOINETTE. Yes, almost evening. I am ready. (She walks over to the
right calmly and goes out. The guests prepare to go.)
HELLA (has been standing silently witnessing the scene, and now
approaches PAUL). What does this mean, Paul?
PAUL (about to go, frigidly). A woman whom I knew in the old days!...
Good-by. (He leaves her and goes out at the right with the guests.)
HELLA (partly to herself, partly calling after him). Paul! What _does_
this mean?... Paul!
ACT IV
Afternoon, two days later. The banquet hoard and oleanders have been
removed, every trace of the funeral has been carefully obliterated.
Clear sunlight comes in from the garden windows in the background and
lights up the spacious, sombre hall. The bushes and trees of the garden
are coated with ice. The fire is burning as usual. Toward the end of
the act the sunlight gradually vanishes and a light, gray dusk fills
the hall. AUNT CLARA stands at the fireplace with her arms folded over
her waist, and looks into the fire.
PAUL (who has been pacing the floor, stops and passes his hand over his
hair nervously). So no letter has come, Aunt Clara?
AUNT CLARA (looking up). No, no, my boy.
PAUL (impatiently). And no messenger either?
AUNT CLARA. From where do you expect one?
PAUL (in agony). Great God, from where? From where? From anywhere? Some
tiding! Some word! A letter! (Paces the floor again excitedly.)
AUNT CLARA. Why I can't tell. Are you expecting anything from some
source or other?
PAUL (impetuously). Would I be _asking_, Aunt Clara?
[Silence.]
PAUL (violently agitated, partly to himself). Incomprehensible!
Incomprehensible! Two days without news! Two full days!
AUNT CLARA (sadly). I do not comprehend you either, my boy!
PAUL (takes a few steps without heeding her). This stillness! This
death-like stillness!
AUNT CLARA (sits down). Isn't it good, when peace prevails?
PAUL. As you look at it. Certainly it is good! But first of all one
must be at peace himself! Must have become calm and clear about the
matters that concern one. Know what one wants to do and is expected to
do and what one is here for in this world.
AUNT CLARA. But every one knows that, Paul.
PAUL (without listening to her, rather to himself). Uncanny, this
silence all around one. Doubly and three-fold one feels, how it seethes
and boils within, without one's getting anywhere. One can hear himself
_think_! (He stops, then in a changed voice, as he looks up.) No no,
Aunt Clara, people who have closed their account, belong in the
country. Others do not! (AUNT CLARA looks at him and is silent. After a
moment.) The rest need noise, diversion, human beings about them. One
_must_ have something in order _to be able to_ forget! Some narcotic to
put one to sleep! There _are_ people, who do that all of their lives
and are quite, happy, who never come to themselves, are continually
living in a kind of intoxication and leave this world without attaining
real consciousness. You see, Auntie, the city is the proper place for
that. There you can dull your feelings and forget.
AUNT CLARA. I could not stand the city.
PAUL. Yes, you, Aunt Clara! You are a child of the country.
AUNT CLARA. Well, aren't you, Paul?
PAUL. True! But you have never been alienated from the soil! I tell you
the man who has once partaken of that poison, can not give it up, he is
forced to go back to it again and again.
AUNT CLARA (impatiently). One simply can't understand you, Paul. When
you arrived, you said one thing and now you are saying another. The
very idea!
PAUL (is forced to smile). You fail to understand that, you good old
soul! Of course, you do not know what has come to pass since then. At
that time I was not at odds with myself ...
AUNT CLARA. At that time! When, pray tell? You came on the third
holiday and this is New Year's eve. You have been here for five days.
PAUL. Today it's quite a different matter. Quite different!
AUNT CLARA. What on earth has _happened_, pray tell!
PAUL. Much, much, Aunt Clara!
AUNT CLARA (probing). I suppose because they were a bit boisterous at
the funeral! That's the way of it, you know, when they get to drinking.
PAUL (negative gesture). Good heavens, no!... No!
AUNT CLARA. That's the way they _always_ act at funerals. I know of
funerals where there was dancing.
PAUL. Yes, yes, that may be!
AUNT CLARA. And then they all were so friendly with you.
PAUL. Oh, yes. With the friendliest kind of an air, they told me not to
take it into my head that I know how to farm.
AUNT CLARA. Why, Paul. You only imagine that!
PAUL. The good neighbors. At bottom they are right! How should an old
man be able to learn the things that call for the efforts of a whole
life, just as any other career does! Ridiculous! Why that simply must
have lurid consequences.
AUNT CLARA (impatiently). I should never have thought that you would
act this way, Paul!
PAUL. Act what way? I am only checking over the possibilities. Every
business man does that! And I tell you, the prospects are desperately
bad! I can fairly see Laskowski establish himself here after I have
lost the place! (He has slowly walked over to the garden window on the
right and looks out into the garden.)
[Silence.]
PAUL (after a time). What a beautiful day! The snow is glittering in
the sunlight. The trees stand so motionless.
AUNT CLARA. Awfully cold out-doors, my boy!
PAUL. I know it. Aunt Clara, but the light is refreshing after all of
the dark days. The old year is shining forth once more in its full
glory.
AUNT CLARA. The days are getting longer again.
PAUL (meditating). Didn't you tell me, once upon a time, Auntie, that
the time between Christmas and New Year is called the holy season?
AUNT CLARA. The time between Christmas and Epiphany, Paul. If anyone
dies then ... (She suddenly stops.)
PAUL (calmly). Finish it, Aunt Clara! If some one dies then, another
member of the family will follow him. Isn't that the purport?
AUNT CLARA. Why Paul, I don't know! Purport of what? Who would believe
in all of those things?
PAUL. Of course not! [Brief silence.]
AUNT CLARA (with her hand behind her ear). Do you hear the whips crack,
Paul?
PAUL (also listens). Faintly, yes. It seems to be out in front.
AUNT CLARA. The young folks are lashing the old year out. They always
do that on New Year's Eve when the sun goes down.
PAUL (reflecting). I know. I know. I have heard it many a New Year's
Eve. When the sun was setting.
AUNT CLARA. Another one gone!
PAUL (stares out). Just so it stood between the trees, and kept on
sinking and sinking, and I was a little fellow and watched it from the
window. And at last it was down and twilight came on.
AUNT CLARA. Thank God, Paul, this year is over.
PAUL. Who knows what the day may still have in store for us! Things are
taking their course.
AUNT CLARA. Tonight we shall surely all take punch together, Paul?
PAUL. If we have time and the desire to do so, yes.
AUNT CLARA (nervously). How you _are_ talking, Paul! Don't make a
person afraid!
PAUL (glancing at the sinking sun). Now it is directly over the
pavilion. Now we shall not enjoy it much longer. (With a wave of his
hand.) I greet thee, sun! Sinking sun!
AUNT CLARA. I was going to ask you, in regard to the pavilion ...
PAUL (turns around). Yes I'm glad that I've thought of it! (He comes
forward and pulls the bell.)
LENE (opens the door at the right and enters). Did you ring, sir?
PAUL. Yes. My trunks, books, all of my things are to be taken over to
the garden-house. Understand?
LENE (astonished). To the garden-house?
PAUL. Yes, to the pavilion. Put the rooms in proper order. Don't forget
to make a fire. I suppose there's a bed there for the night?
AUNT CLARA. Everything, my boy. Only it will have to be put to rights,
because no one has put up there this many a day.
LENE. Are the madam's things also to be ...?
PAUL. No they are _not_! They are to stay here!
[AUNT CLARA shakes her head and turns away.]
LENE. Shall I do so immediately ...?
PAUL. Is madam still asleep?
LENE. I think so.
PAUL. Then wait till madam is up, and go there afterward.
LENE. What if madam should ask ...?
PAUL. Then tell her that I requested you to do so.
LENE (confused). I'm to say that Mr. Warkentin has requested ...
PAUL (resolutely). And you are to do what I have requested. Do you
understand me?
LENE. Very well, sir!... And I was going to say, the inspector has been
here.
PAUL. Has he? Back from town already? (Struck by a sudden thought.) Did
he possibly have a letter for me?
LENE. I don't know. I think he only wanted to know about the work ...
PAUL. And there hasn't been a messenger? Say, from Klonowken?
LENE. No, nothing.
PAUL. Then you may go. Oh yes, when the inspector returns, you might
call me. (LENE goes off to the right.)
PAUL (walks through the hall, clenching his fists nervously). Nothing
yet? Nothing yet? And the day is almost gone!
AUNT CLARA (with growing anxiety). What's the matter with you, Paul?
Something is brewing here!
PAUL. That may be very true!
AUNT CLARA. And then, that you insist upon changing your quarters
today! It does seem to me ...!
PAUL. You can only take pleasure in that. You see by that, that I have
resolved to stay at Ellernhof. Or I should certainly not go to the
trouble.
AUNT CLARA. Yes, yes, but your wife?
PAUL. Who? Hella? All the better if the matter comes to a head. The
issue is dead ripe!
AUNT CLARA (approaches him anxiously). Paul, Paul! This will not come
to a good end.
PAUL. Quite possible. That is not at all necessary!
AUNT CLARA. And I am to blame for all.
PAUL. You? Why?
AUNT CLARA. I got you into it! No one else!
PAUL (is forced to smile). Innocent creature! Individuals quite apart
from you got me into it. It has taken a whole lifetime to bring it
about! You are as little to blame for that as you are for the fall of
Adam and the existence of the world and the fact that some day we shall
all have to die!
AUNT CLARA (with her apron before her face). I told you about
Antoinette! For she is at the bottom of it! I'll stake my head on that!
PAUL. Don't torture me, Aunt Clara!
AUNT CLARA. She is at the bottom of it! And I, in my stupidity, cap the
climax by leaving the two of you alone at the funeral day before
yesterday.
PAUL. I shall be grateful to you for that all of my life, Aunt Clara!
AUNT CLARA. My notion was for you to have a little talk together, and
then to think what it has led to! May God forgive what I have done.
PAUL (partly to himself). She promised me to come. And she is not
coming! She promised me to write. And she does not write. Not a word.
Not the remotest token! How do I know, but everything was a delusion?
Childish fancy and nothing more? The intoxication of a moment which
seized her and vanished again when she sat in her sleigh and rode away
in the winter night? Do I know? (He puts his hand to his head.)
AUNT CLARA (very uneasy). Paul, what are you talking about? _Tell_ me!
PAUL (jumps up without listening to her). No!... Then farewell
Ellernhof! Farewell my home and everything!
AUNT CLARA. Do be quiet! What in the world is the matter?
PAUL (walks up and down impatiently, stops again, speaks to himself in
an undertone). At that time I deceived her, deceived her without
knowing and wishing to. What if she deceives me now? What if she pays
me back? (He sinks down in the chair near the fireplace in violent
conflict with himself.)
AUNT CLARA (in despair). What a calamity! What a calamity!
PAUL (as if shaking something off). No! No! No!... it cannot but come
out right. (Heaves a sigh of relief.)
AUNT CLARA (joyful again). Do you see, my boy?
PAUL (gloomily). Don't rejoice prematurely, Auntie! It seems to me that
this house fosters misfortune! All that you need to do is to look at
those faces! They all have a suggestion of melancholy and gloom. (He
looks up at the portraits pensively.) Just as if the sun had never
shone into their hearts, you know. No air of hopefulness, no suggestion
of light and freedom! So chained to the earth! So savagely taciturn?
Can that be due to the air and soil? It will probably assert itself in
me too, after I have been here for some time. Possibly it would have
been better, Auntie, if I had never returned to this house! I should
have continued that life of mine, not cold, not warm, not happy, not
unhappy! I should never have found out what I have really missed and
yet can never find. Possibly it would have been better. [Short pause.]
LENE (opens the door at the right and stands in the door). The
inspector is here, sir. Shall he come in? He is lunching just now.
PAUL (gets up). No, never mind. One moment, Auntie! (He nods to her and
goes out with LENE.)
[AUNT CLARA shakes her head apprehensively as she follows him
with her eyes, heaves a deep sigh, occupies herself with this and
that in the room, then seems to be listening to a noise on the
left. She straightens up energetically. Presently the door on the
left is opened.]
HELLA (enters, dressed in black. She looks solemn and rather pale. She
slowly approaches AUNT CLARA. The two face each other and eye each
other for a moment). I thought Paul was here.
AUNT CLARA. Paul will surely be back any minute.
HELLA. Will he? Then I shall wait. (She turns around and starts for the
window.)
AUNT CLARA (hesitates a moment, then with a sudden effort). Madam ...
Doctor ...? (Takes a step in the direction of HELLA.)
HELLA (looks around surprised). Were you saying something?
AUNT CLARA (erect). Keep an eye on Paul, madam!... That's all I have to
say!
HELLA (approaches). How so?
AUNT CLARA. I am simply saying, keep an eye on Paul!
HELLA (steps up to her, with a searching look). _What_ is going
on?...
AUNT CLARA, Talk to him yourself. I can't fathom it.
HELLA. Then I will tell you. Do you think I am blind? Do you suppose
that I am unable to see through the situation here? I know Paul and I
know you, all of you who are turning Paul's head!
AUNT CLARA (angered). Mercy me! _I_, turn Paul's head!
HELLA. Yes, you, and all of you around here! I will tell you to your
face! You are trying to set Paul against me!
AUNT CLARA (with increasing excitement). I never set nobody against no
one! Nobody ever said such a thing about me! God knows! You are the
first person to do that! And on top of it all, I have the best
intentions! I even want to help you! Well, I do say ...! (Takes several
steps through the hall.)
HELLA (with contemptuous laughter). You help me?... H'm! You wanted to
get rid of me, and that is why you started all this about the estate,
and staying here, and who knows _what_ else. But I declare to you, once
and for all! Don't go to any trouble! You will not succeed in parting
Paul and me!
AUNT CLARA (in spite of herself). May be not I!
HELLA. _Not you_?... Oh indeed!... Not you!
AUNT CLARA (continuing in her anger). No! Not I! Of course not! Even if
you have deserved it, ten times over!
HELLA (also continues her lead). Not you?... Well, well! So it's some
other woman! (She steps up before AUNT CLARA.) Some other woman is
trying to separate us, Paul and me? Is that it? Yes or no?
AUNT CLARA (frightened). I haven't said a thing. I know nothing about
it.
HELLA (triumphantly). I thought so! And now I grasp the whole
situation!... That accounts for Paul's behavior, this strange behavior!
Well, well! (She walks to and fro excitedly, speaks partly to herself.)
But you shall not succeed! No, no! (Addressing AUNT CLARA again.) You
shall not succeed! We'll just see who knows Paul better, you or I!
AUNT CLARA (very seriously). Madam, I am an old woman, you may believe
me or not, I tell you, don't carry matters too far with Paul!
HELLA (reflecting again). So it was she?... The Polish woman, of
course! Didn't I know it?
AUNT CLARA (almost threatening). Don't carry matters too far! Remember
what I say.
HELLA (with a sudden change). Where is Paul?
AUNT CLARA (anxiously). What is the matter?
HELLA (very calmly and firmly). I must speak to Paul.
AUNT CLARA. Merciful God! Now I see it coming!
HELLA. Yes, I am going away and Paul is going with me. That is the end
of the whole matter. I suppose that is not just exactly what you had
expected.
AUNT CLARA (petrified). And you are going to desert Ellernhof!
HELLA. It will be a long time before the estate sees us again. Prepare
for that. As for the rest, we shall see later.
AUNT CLARA (turns away). Then I might as well order my grave at once,
the sooner the better.
HELLA (with an air of superiority). Don't worry! You will be cared for.
AUNT CLARA (straightening up). Not a soul needs to care for me
henceforth, madam! My way is quite clear to me. It will not be very
long. Look at the men and women on these walls, they all followed this
course. Now I shall emulate their example. What is coming now is no
longer suitable for me. (She slowly steps to the door with head bowed).
HELLA (partly to herself). No, what is coming now is the new world and
new men and women! (She stands and reflects for a moment, then
resolutely.) New men and women! Yes! Yes, we are ready to fight for
that! (She clasps her hands vigorously, suggesting inflexible
resolution.)
PAUL (enters from the right, comes upon AUNT CLARA, who is going out).
What ails you, Auntie? How you do look!
AUNT CLARA (shakes her head). Don't ask me, my boy. I have lived my
life! (She goes out slowly and closes the door.)
PAUL (steps to the fireplace pondering deeply and drops down in a
chair). What did she say?... Lived my life?... A soothing phrase! A
cradle-song! No more pain, no more care! All over!... Lived my life!
(Supports his head on his hand.)
[Short pause.]
HELLA (steps up to PAUL, lays her hand on his shoulder and says
kindly). Paul!
PAUL. And?
HELLA. Be a man, Paul! I beg of you.
PAUL (looks up, with a deep breath). That is just what I intend to do.
HELLA. For two days you have been walking around without saying a word.
That surely cannot continue.
PAUL. That _will_ not continue, I am sure.
HELLA. Why don't you speak? What have I done to you?
PAUL (bitterly). You to me?... Nothing.
HELLA. See here, Paul, I stayed here on your account, longer than I had
intended and than seems justifiable to me.
PAUL. Why did you? I did not ask you again.
HELLA. Quite right. I did it of my own accord. Now don't you think that
counts for more, Paul? (She closely draws up a chair and sits down
facing PAUL.)
PAUL. Up to the day before yesterday _anything_ would have counted with
me. Today no longer, Hella!
HELLA (eagerly). I remained because I kept in mind that it might be
agreeable to you to have me near you. I have given you time to come to
yourself again. I know very well what is going on in you.
PAUL. Hardly!
HELLA. Indeed, Paul, indeed! You have seen the soil of your boyhood
home again. You have buried your father. I understand your crisis
completely.
PAUL. Really! All at once!
HELLA. From the very beginning!
PAUL. I did not realize very much of it!
HELLA (interrupting him). Simply because I thought it would be best to
let you settle that for yourself. That is why I have not interfered;
allowed you to go your own way, these days. (PAUL shrugs his shoulders
and is silent.) Does all this fail to convince you?
PAUL (distressed). Drop that, Hella.
HELLA (excited). What does this mean, Paul! We must have an
understanding!
PAUL. That is no longer possible for us, Hella!
HELLA. It certainly has been, up to the present. How often we have
quarreled in these years, and sailed into each other, and we have
always found our way back to each other again for the simple reason
that we belong together! Why in the world should that be impossible
now?
PAUL (struggles with himself; jumps up). Because ... Because ...
(Groping for words.)
HELLA (has become calm). Well, because?... Possibly because I did not
care to stay down here, day before yesterday, did not dine with your
guests when you asked me to do so? Is that it?
PAUL. That and many other things.
HELLA (gets up). Paul, don't be petty! I really can't bear to hear you
talk in this manner. Are you so completely unable to enter into my
feelings? I could not share your sorrow. Your father did not give me
any occasion for that. I do not wish to speak ill of him, but I cannot
forget it. After all, that is only human!
PAUL. So the dead man stands between us. Why don't you say so frankly!
HELLA. If you insist, yes. At least, for the moment! I was not able to
stay with you. I _had_ to be alone.
PAUL. Then blame yourself for the consequences! You deserted me at a
moment when simply everything was unsettling me ...
HELLA (interrupts him). Oh, you suppose I don't know what you mean?
PAUL (excited). Well?
HELLA. Shall I tell you?
PAUL (controlling himself with difficulty). Please!
HELLA (triumphantly). Dear Paul! Just recall the lady with the
ashy-blonde hair, for a moment!
PAUL (embarrassed). What lady?
HELLA. Why, Paul? The one with whom I saw you after the banquet, day
before yesterday. Your aunt was there too, wasn't she?
PAUL (affecting surprise). You seem to refer to Madam von Laskowski.
HELLA (smiling). Quite right. The Polish beauty! Was it not that?
PAUL (beside himself). Hella?
HELLA (as before). Don't become furious, Paul! There's no occasion at
all for that! I am not reproaching you in the least! On the contrary, I
am of the opinion that you were quite right!
PAUL (comes nearer, plants himself
before her). What are you trying to say? What does all this mean?
HELLA (with a very superior air). We had quarreled, you were furious,
wanted to revenge yourself, looked about for a fitting object and
naturally hit upon ... whom?
PAUL (turns away). Why it's simply idiotic to continue answering such
questions! (He walks through the hall excitedly.)
HELLA. Hit upon whom?... With the kind of taste that you do seem to
have ...
PAUL. Hella, I object to that!
HELLA. Why, I am absolutely serious, Paul! You can't expect me to
question your taste! I should compromise my own position. No, no, I
really agree with you, of all those present she was decidedly the most
piquant. The typical beauty that appeals to men! Of course you hit upon
her, probably courted her, lavished compliments upon her, all the
things that you men do when you suppose that you are in the presence of
an inferior woman ...
PAUL. Hella, now restrain yourself! Or I may tell you something ...
HELLA. Very well, let us even suppose that you fell in love with her
for the time and she with you, that you went into ecstasy over each
other and turned each other's heads, then you parted and the next day
the intoxication passed off, and, if not on the next day, then on the
following one ... Am I not right? Do you expect me to be jealous of
such a thing as that? No, Paul!
PAUL (in supreme excitement, struggling with himself). You are a demon!
A demon!
HELLA (has become serious). I am your friend, Paul! Believe me! I
desire nothing but your own good, simply because I care for you and
because, I'll be frank with you, I should not want to lose you. You may
be convinced of it, Paul, conceited as it may sound, but you will never
find another woman like me! One with whom you can share everything! I
don't know what you may have said to the Polish woman or what she may
have said to you, but do you really suppose that she still knows about
that today, even though the most fervent vows were exchanged?
PAUL (jumps up). Hella, Hella, you do not know what you are saying.
HELLA. Would you teach me to know my own sex? They aren't all like me,
dear Paul. You have been spoiled by me. Very few, indeed, have attained
maturity as yet, or even know what they are doing. You can depend upon
very few of them. It seems to me that we are in the best possible
position to know that, Paul, after our years of work. And I am to fear
_such_ competition? Expect me to be jealous of a Polish country beauty?
Me,--Hella Bernhardy!... No, Paul, I have been beyond that type of
jealousy for some time! (She walks up and down slowly.)
PAUL (stands at the window, struggling with himself). Would it not be
better to say that you have _never_ had it?
HELLA. Possibly! There are some who consider that an advantage.
PAUL. Theorists, yes! The kind that _I_ was, once upon a time. But now
I know better! Now I know that the absence of jealousy was nothing but
an absence of love.
HELLA (energetically). That is not true, Paul. I always cared for you!
PAUL. Cared! Cared! A fine word!
HELLA, Why should you demand more than that? I respected you, Paul,
valued you as my best friend!
PAUL. All but a little word, a little word ...
HELLA. What is that?
PAUL. Imagine!
HELLA. I know what you are thinking of! I am not a friend of strong
words, but if you insist upon hearing it, I have _loved_ you too!
PAUL. You ... _me_!
HELLA. Yes, I have loved you, Paul, for what you were, the unselfish
idealist ...
PAUL (bitterly). Oh, indeed!
HELLA. Yes, Paul! Do not forget about one thing! I am not one of these
petty little women, to whom men are the alpha and omega! If you assumed
that, of course you have been mistaken.
PAUL. To be sure! And the mistake has cost me my life!
HELLA. You knew it beforehand, Paul!
PAUL. Because I was blinded!
HELLA, And yet I tell you, say what you please, leave me for instance,
but you will not find another woman who can satisfy you after you have
had me! I know it and will stake my life on it!
PAUL. Do you rate yourself so highly?
HELLA. I am rating _you_ highly, Paul!
PAUL (wavering). Do you mean to say I am ruined for happiness?...
Possibly you are right.
HELLA. Whoever has once become accustomed to the heights of life, will
never again descend.
PAUL (repeats to himself). Will never again descend.
HELLA. You are too good for a woman of the dead level! See here, Paul,
I _have_ at times made life a burden to you, I now and then refused to
enter upon many things just because my head was full of ideas, possibly
I have been too prone to disregard your emotional nature.
PAUL. Hella, do not remind me of that!
HELLA. We must come to an understanding, Paul! All of that may be true.
And there _shall_ be a change. There _will_ be a change, that much I
promise you today, but show me the kindness, pack your things and come
with me! Today rather than tomorrow! (She has stepped up to him and
places her hands on his shoulders.)
PAUL (in the most violent conflict). Hella! Hella!
HELLA. Look into my face, Paul! Are you happy here?
PAUL (lowers his head). Do not ask me, Hella!
HELLA (triumphantly). Then you are not! Didn't I know it? I am proud of
you for that, Paul!
PAUL (blurting out). Hella, do not exult! I _cannot_ go back again!
HELLA (undaunted). Yes you can! Are these people here meant for you? Do
you mean to say that you are suited to these peasants? You, with your
refined instincts? You would think of degrading yourself consciously!
Nobody can do that, you least of all! I tell you once more, you are too
good for these rubes!
PAUL, (frees himself from her). Give me time till this evening, Hella!
Then I will give you a full explanation!
HELLA (seizes his hand). Not thirty minutes, Paul! You are to decide at
once! As I have you at this moment, I shall possibly never have you
again. Pack your trunk and come with me! Have some one manage the
estate. We will go back tomorrow morning and begin the new life with
the new year. Thank your stars when you are once more out of this
stuffy air. It induces thoughts in you that can never make you happy.
Say _yes_, Paul, say that we are going!
PAUL (has not listened to the last words, listens to what is going on
outside). Do you hear, Hella? (He frees himself and goes to the
foreground. One can hear people singing outside, accompanied by a
deep-toned instrument.)
HELLA (impatiently). What in the world is that!
PAUL. I have an idea, the people of the estate, coming to proclaim
Saint Sylvester, (The door at the right is opened.)
GLYSZINSKI (enters, makes a sign suggesting silence, points toward the
outside). Do you hear that instrument, madam? That's what they call a
pot harp, very interesting!
HELLA (as before). Interesting or not. Why must you disturb us just
now?
GLYSZINSKI (offended). If I had known this, I should not have come!
(About to go out.)
PAUL (quite cold again). Stay right here, dear Glyszinski! You haven't
disturbed us up to the present! I do not see that you are disturbing us
now!
INSPECTOR (comes in through the open door). Sir, the people are outside
with the pot harp and want to sing their song.
HELLA (annoyed). Oh, tell them to go and be done with it!
PAUL (quickly). No, please, Hella, that won't do. That is an old custom
here on New Year's eve. Let them sing their song. Besides, I like to
hear it. I heard it many a time in my boyhood days.
INSPECTOR. Shall I leave the door open, sir?
PAUL. Please! (He sits down at the fireplace.)
HELLA (steps up to him, with a voice that betrays excitement). Paul, do
not listen to that nonsense out there! Don't let them muddle your head!
PAUL. My head is clearer than ever, Hella! Don't go to any further
trouble! I can see my way quite plainly now.
HELLA (retreats to the sofa, embittered). And now that old trumpery
must interfere too!
[INSPECTOR stands at the door with GLYSZINSKI, motions to those
outside. A brief silence, then singing to the accompaniment of
the pot harp. The lines run as follows:]
We wish our dear lord
At his board, a full dish,
And at all four corners
A brown roasted fish:
A crown for our dame;
When the year's course is run
The joy of all joys,
A lusty young son.
HELLA. Will that continue much longer, Paul?
[PAUL gets up, motions to the inspector and goes out with him.
The door is closed behind them. The muffled tones of the pot harp
and the singing can still be heard, but the text becomes
unintelligible. GLYSZINSKI, who also has been listening till now,
starts to go out.]
HELLA (from the sofa). One moment, Doctor!
GLYSZINSKI (absent-minded). Were you calling me?
HELLA. Why, yes, now that you are here, I might as well make use of the
occasion.
GLYSZINSKI (approaches, somewhat reserved). What can I do for you,
madam?
HELLA. Dear friend, do not be startled. We shall have to part.
GLYSZINSKI (staggering). Part? We?...
HELLA (calmly). Yes, Doctor, it must be!
GLYSZINSKI. Why, who compels us to? No one!
HELLA (frigidly). My _decision_ compels us, dear friend! Is that
sufficient for you?
GLYSZINSKI (whimpering). Your decision, Hella? You are cruel.
HELLA. Yes, I myself am sorry, of course. I shall probably miss you
quite frequently!
GLYSZINSKI (as before). Hella!
HELLA. Especially in connection with my correspondence. You have
certainly been a real help to me there. I shall have to carry that
burden alone again, now. But what is to be done about it? No other
course is possible. We must part.
GLYSZINSKI. But why? At least, give me a reason! Don't turn me out in
this fashion.
HELLA. It is necessary on account of my husband, dear friend! I must
make this sacrifice for him.
GLYSZINSKI (raging). The monster! (He paces through the hall wildly.)
HELLA (with clarity). You know, it cannot be denied that Paul can't
bear you, that he is always annoyed when he sees you ...
GLYSZINSKI. Do you suppose the reverse is not true?
HELLA. Yes, you men are exasperating. No one can eradicate your
jealousy! _That_ makes an unconstrained intercourse impossible! But
what is to be done? Paul is my husband, _not you_. And so I am
compelled to request you to yield.
GLYSZINSKI (with his hands raised). Kill me, Hella, but don't turn me
out.
HELLA (wards him off). A pleasant journey. _You_ will be able to find
comfort.
GLYSZINSKI. I shall be alone, Hella!
HELLA (straightening up). All of us are!
GLYSZINSKI. May I ever see you again, Hella?
HELLA. Possibly later! And now go! I do not care to have my husband
find you here when he comes. Why here he is now. (She pushes him over
toward the right, the door has been opened and the singing has ceased
in the meantime.)
PAUL (has entered, sees Glyszinski, frigidly). Are you still here? If
you wish to talk together, I'll go out.
HELLA (comes over to PAUL). Please stay, Paul!
GLYSZINSKI has just been telling me that he is going to take the night
train back to Berlin and he is asking you for a sleigh. Isn't that it,
Doctor? (GLYSZINSKI nods silently, passes by PAUL and goes out at the
right.)
PAUL (frigidly). What's the use of this farce?
HELLA (places her hand on his shoulder). Not a farce, Paul! It is
really true! When we get to Berlin tomorrow evening, you will no longer
find Glyszinski at our rooms! Are you satisfied now? Have I finally
succeeded in pleasing you, you grumbler!
PAUL (turns away, clenching his fists nervously). Oh, well!
HELLA. Look into my face, Paul, old comrade! Tell me if you are pleased
with your comrade. (PAUL is silent.)
HELLA (frowning). Now isn't that a proof to you of my fidelity and
sincerity?
PAUL. Do not torment me, Hella. My decision is final!
HELLA (worried). I don't know what you mean! Surely the matter is
settled. We are going, aren't we? (She looks at him anxiously.)
PAUL (frees himself from her). That is not settled! I shall _remain_!
[A moment of silence.]
HELLA (furiously). You are going to remain?
PAUL (curtly). I shall remain ... And no power on earth will swerve me
from my purpose! Not even you, Hella!
HELLA (plants herself before him). Are you trying to play the part of
the stronger sex? Eye to eye, Paul! No evasions now! Are you playing
the farce of the stronger sex?
PAUL. I do what I must do!
HELLA. What you must?... Well so must _I_.
PAUL (bows his head). I know that, and I am not hindering you!
HELLA (reflects a moment, then). And do you realize that that
practically means separation for us?
PAUL. I have already told you, Hella, I am prepared for anything.
HELLA (looks at him sharply; with quick decision). And what if I stay
also, Paul, what then?
PAUL. (is startled). If you also ...? You are not serious about that!
HELLA. Assume that I am!... If I should remain also, for your sake?
(She stands before him erectly.)
PAUL (furiously). Don't jest, Hella! It is not the proper moment!
HELLA. I am certainly not jesting! I am your wife! I shall keep you
company. _Aren't_ you pleased with that?
PAUL (straightens up). The dead man stands between us, as you have
said. Very well, let that be final! You have wished it so! The bond
between us is broken. We have come to the parting of our ways. (He goes
to the left, opens the door and walks out slowly. Deep twilight has set
in.)
HELLA (stands rigidly and whispers to herself). To the parting of our
ways? (Waking up, with a wild defiance.) If I _consent_, I say!... If I
consent!
[ILLUSTRATION: SHEEP]
ACT V
A room in the garden house. The door in the background leads out-doors.
There are windows at both sides of the door and also in the right wall.
They all look out upon the garden, but are draped with long, heavy
curtains. On the left a door leads into the bedroom. On the same side
farther back a tile stove. A divan, table and chair, very near the
stove. Bookshelves along the walls. The general impression is that of
simple comfort.
It is evening, a short time after the preceding act. A lamp is burning
on the table and lights up the no more than fair-sized cozy room.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL appears in the open door at the background.
Before him stands PAUL.
PAUL. As I was saying, have the bay saddled in case I should still want
to take a ride.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Very well, sir! Immediately?
PAUL. In about thirty minutes.
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Shall the coachman bring out the bay or will you come
to the stable?
PAUL. Have it brought out! Good-by. (He comes back into the room.)
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Good night, sir! (He withdraws and closes the door
behind him.)
[PAUL walks up and down excitedly several times. He seems to be
in a violent struggle with himself, sometimes listens for
something outside, shakes his head, groans deeply, finally throws
himself on the divan and crosses his arms under his head. Short
pause.]
HELLA (opens the door in the background, enters and looks around). Are
you here, Paul? (She has thrown a shawl around her.)
PAUL (jumps up, disappointed). Hella, you? (Sits down.)
HELLA (approaches). Yes, it is I, Hella! Who else? Were you expecting
some one else?
PAUL (painfully). Why do you still insist upon coming? Don't make it
unnecessarily hard for both of us.
HELLA (calmly). I am waiting for an explanation from you. Since you
will not give it to me of your own accord, I am compelled to get it. It
seems to me I have a right to claim it.
PAUL. You certainly have.
HELLA (with folded arms). Please, then!
PAUL. Hella, what is the purpose of this? You do know everything now!
HELLA. I know nothing. I should like to find out from you.
PAUL (gets up). Very well, then I will tell you.
HELLA. I assume that the Polish woman is mixed up in this affair.
PAUL. So you do know! Why in the world are you going to the trouble of
asking me?
HELLA. So it's really true? I am to stand aside for a little goose from
the country!
PAUL
(starts up). A little goose from the country?... Hella, control your
tongue!
HELLA (walks up and down). If it were not so ridiculous, it would be
exasperating!
PAUL. The woman under discussion is not a little goose from the
country, my dear, just as little as you are one from the city.
HELLA. Thank you for your flattering comparison.
PAUL. That woman has had her struggles and trials as much as you have,
and in spite of it has remained a woman, which _you_ have _not_!
HELLA (scornfully). Well, well. Are you now asserting your real nature?
Are you throwing off the mask? Go on! Go on!
PAUL (controls himself with an effort). That is all! I am only standing
up for one who is dear to me!
HELLA. Ha, ha! Dear! Today and tomorrow!
PAUL. You are mistaken, Hella! I believe in Antoinette, and I shall not
swerve from that.
HELLA (with a sudden inspiration). Antoinette ... Antoinette ... Why
that name ...
PAUL. Let me assist you, Hella. Antoinette is the friend of my youth
...
HELLA (nonplussed). The friend of your youth?
PAUL, Indeed, Hella, I have known her longer than I have known you.
HELLA. The one whom you were to marry once upon a time? Is it she?
PAUL (sadly). Whom I was to marry, whom I refused on your account,
Hella.
HELLA. You met _her_ again here?
PAUL. As Mrs. von Laskowski, yes, Hella!
HELLA (starts for him, with a savage expression). And you kept that
from me?
PAUL. Why you did not give me a chance to speak, when I tried to tell
you.
HELLA. So that was the confidence you had! Well, of course, then, of
course!
PAUL. Oh, my confidence, Hella! Don't mention that. That had died long
before!
HELLA. To be deceived so shamefully.
PAUL. Blame yourself! You have killed it systematically!
HELLA. I? What else, pray tell!
PAUL. Yes, by forever considering only yourself and never me! That
could not help but stifle all my feelings in time. I fought against it
as long as I could, Hella, but it had to come to an end some time.
HELLA. And I went about without misgivings, while behind my back a
conspiracy was forming ...
PAUL (shrugging his shoulders). Who conspired?
HELLA. All of you! This whole owl's nest of a house was in league
against me! You had conspired against me, you and your ilk, simply
because I was superior to you, that's the reason why you wanted to
shoulder me off! Do you suppose I don't realize that? Very well, let
baseness prevail! I am willing to retreat!
PAUL. It always has been your trick, Hella, to play the part of
offended innocence! It is well that you are reminding me of that in
this hour! You are making the step easier for me than I had hoped.
HELLA. This is the thanks!
PAUL. Thanks!... How in the world could you expect thanks?
HELLA (with infuriated hatred). Because I made a _human being_
of you!
PAUL (starting up). Hella, you are making use of _words_!
HELLA (beside herself). Yes, made a _human_ being of you. I will repeat
it ten times over!
PAUL. Won't you kindly call in the whole estate with your shrieking.
HELLA. The whole world, for all I care! What were you when you came
into my hands? A crude student, utterly helpless, whom I directed into
the proper channels, _I_, single handed! Without me you would have gone
to the dogs or you might have become one of those novelists whom no one
reads! I was the first one to put sound ideas in your head, roused your
talent and pointed out to you all that is really _demanded_. Through me
you attained a name and reputation, and now that you are fortunate
enough to be that far along, you go and throw yourself away upon a
Polish goose, you ... you?
PAUL (as if under a lash). There are limits to all things, Hella, even
to consideration for your sex! Do not assume that you still have me in
your power. It has lasted fifteen years. It is over today. Do you
suppose I ought to thank you for sapping everything from me, my
will-power, my strength, my real talents, all the faith in love and
beauty that was once in me, which you have systematically driven out
with your infernal leveling process? Where shall I ever find a trace of
all that again? I might seek for a hundred years and not strike that
path again! I might have become an artist, at life or art itself, who
cares! And you have made me a beggar, a machine, that reels off its
uniform sing-song day after day! You have cheated me out of my life,
you imp!... Give it back to me! (He stands before her, breathing
heavily, struggling for air.)
HELLA (has become quite calm). Why did you _allow_ yourself to be
cheated. It's your own fault!
PAUL (suddenly calm, but sad and resigned). That is a profound word,
Hella! Why have you ... _allowed_ ... yourself to be cheated!
HELLA. You had your will-power just as I had mine. Why did you not make
use of it?
PAUL. _You_, with your ideas, would say _that_, Hella?
HELLA. Yes, _one_ or the other is stronger, of course! Why should we
women not be stronger?
PAUL (turns away). That is sufficient, Hella. We are through with each
other. There is nothing more to say.
HELLA. As you may decide. So it is really all over between us?
PAUL (stands in deep thought and murmurs to himself). Why did you
_allow_ yourself to be cheated? Terrible! Terrible! Why must this
conviction come too late?
HELLA (in a lurking manner). I suppose you are going to the other woman
now?
PAUL (breathes a deep sigh of relief). We are going together!
HELLA (with a sudden inspiration). If I _release_ you, you mean!
PAUL (quite calmly). I suppose you will be _compelled_ to!
HELLA (triumphantly). Who can compel me?
PAUL (starts up). Hella, then ... Then ...
HELLA. Well? Then?
PAUL (controls himself, with a strange expression). Then we shall see
who is the stronger. (The door in the background has been opened.)
ANTOINETTE (has entered quickly, starts at seeing HELLA, stops
in the background and sags, in a subdued voice). Paul!
PAUL (turns around frightened, exclaims passionately). Antoinette! (He
rushes up to her, about to embrace her. She turns him aside gently and
looks at HELLA. The two press each other's hands firmly and look into
each other's eyes.)
ANTOINETTE (softly). I am here, Paul.
PAUL. Thank you, thank you, dear!
HELLA (has recovered from her astonishment and starts for Antoinette,
savagely). Who _are_ you, and what do you want here?
PAUL (steps between them, very seriously). Hella ... If you please ...
ANTOINETTE (restrains PAUL, with a quiet, distinguished bearing). I am
not afraid, Paul. Just continue, madam.
HELLA (furiously). Who has given you the right to intrude here?
[PAUL has retreated a little in response to ANTOINETTE'S
entreating glance.]
ANTOINETTE. Ask yourself, madam. Who was here earlier, you or I?
HELLA (turns away abruptly). I shall not quarrel with you, I shall
simply show you the door!
PAUL. Well, well. We are standing on _my_ soil now, Hella! Remember
that!
HELLA (infuriated). Oh, I suppose you are insisting upon your rights!
PAUL, Why I simply must. You are forcing me to do so!
HELLA. Very well. I am doing that very thing!
PAUL (clenches his fists). Really now! You will not change your mind?
HELLA. I will not change my mind. I shall not release you. Now do as
you please!
PAUL. You will not release me?
HELLA. No!
PAUL, (beside himself). You!... You!...
ANTOINETTE. Be quiet, dear! No mortal can interfere with us.
HELLA. How affectionate! You probably suppose that you have him
_already_? That I shall simply go and your happiness is complete! Don't
deceive yourself! You shall not enjoy happiness when I am compelled to
battle.
ANTOINETTE. Did I not battle?
HELLA. Your little battle. Simply because you did not happen to get the
man that you wanted! We have had battles of quite other dimensions!
ANTOINETTE. Do not believe for a moment that you have a right to look
down upon me! I shall pick up your gauntlet in the things that really
count.
HELLA. You? My gauntlet? Ha, ha!
ANTOINETTE. You _too_ are only a woman, just as I am, and although you
may rate yourself ever so much higher, you will remain a woman
nevertheless!
HELLA. Woman or not! I shall show you with whom you have to deal! I
shall not retreat and that settles it! Under the law, you shall never
get each other. Now show your courage.
ANTOINETTE. I shall show you my courage!
HELLA. Dare to do so without the law! Bear the consequences! Suffer
yourself to be cast out by all the world! Have them point their fingers
at you! That is the absconded wife who is living with a run-away
husband! Take that ban upon you! Do you see now? _I_ should. I should
scorn the whole world! Can you do the same?
[ANTOINETTE bows her head and is silent.]
HELLA (triumphantly). You can't do that! I knew it very well.
ANTOINETTE (composed). What I can and what I cannot do is in the hand
of God. That is all that I have to say to you.
HELLA. That is all I need to know! I wish you a happy life!
PAUL (has been restraining himself, steps up to HELLA). Hella, one last
word!
HELLA. It has been spoken!
PAUL. Do you remember what we agreed to do once upon a time?
HELLA. I don't remember anything now!
PAUL. Hella, remember! On our wedding day we agreed, if either one of
us, from an honest conviction, should demand his freedom, he should
have it, our compact should be ended. That occasion is here. Remember!
HELLA. I don't remember a thing now. _You_ certainly do not.
ANTOINETTE. Don't say another word, dear!
HELLA. It would certainly do no good! Good-by! As for the rest, we
shall see!
PAUL. We shall.
[HELLA goes out with head erect and closes the door behind her.
Pause. PAUL and Antoinette stand face to face for a moment and
look into each other's eyes.]
PAUL (morosely). Now the bridges are burned behind us!
ANTOINETTE. They are, dear. Do you realize it?
PAUL. What now? What now?
ANTOINETTE (sinks upon his breast). Paul! My Paul!
PAUL (embraces her, presses her to him fervently. They embrace in
silence, then he draws her down beside him on the divan, and looks at
her affectionately). It was a long time before you came, Toinette.
ANTOINETTE. But now I am here, and shall leave you no more.
PAUL. You will not leave me, beloved?
ANTOINETTE. I shall never leave you.
PAUL. And I shall not leave you.
ANTOINETTE. And you will not leave me. (They embrace each other.)
PAUL (straightens up). Why did you stay so long, Toinette?
ANTOINETTE. Much was to be set in order, dear.
PAUL. I was almost beginning to doubt you.
ANTOINETTE. You wicked man. Then I should have been forced to go alone.
PAUL. Alone? Where would you have gone, you poor, helpless, little soul
ANTOINETTE. Do not think that! I have the thing that will help me. That
is why I am so late!
PAUL (shrinking). Antoinette!
ANTOINETTE (smiling). Don't be frightened, dear! Two drops and all is
over.
PAUL (has risen). You would?
ANTOINETTE (gently). Yes, I will. Are you going with me?
PAUL. Toinette! Toinette! (Walks through the room excitedly.)
ANTOINETTE. Think of her words, she will not release you!
PAUL. Is Hella right? You _haven't_ the courage?
ANTOINETTE (passionately). Courage I have, Paul. To the very end!
PAUL. Very well, then we shall undertake it in spite of them all.
ANTOINETTE (excited). The absconded wife! The runaway husband! Did you
forget those words? Those terrible words! They keep on ringing in my
ears. Are we to live in the scorn of people. I cannot, Paul.
PAUL. You do not _want_ to.
ANTOINETTE. No, I _do_ not want to! I do not care to descend into the
mire! I have hated it all of my life. They shall not be able to
reproach us for anything.
PAUL (in passionate excitement). Is it to be? Is it to be? (ANTOINETTE
nods silently).
PAUL (suddenly overcome with emotion, falls upon his knees before
ANTOINETTE and presses his head to her bosom). Kiss me, kiss me,
beloved!
ANTOINETTE (puts her arms around him). Here on your brow, my lover! Are
you content? (She kisses his brow.)
PAUL. Content in life or death. (He gets up, sits down beside
ANTOINETTE and looks at her). Are you weeping, sweetheart?
ANTOINETTE (lowers her head, gently). Why, you are, too, Paul!
PAUL (passes his hand over his eyes). All over! Tell me what you think
now, dear!
ANTOINETTE (also controlling her tears). It is this, dear, our time is
short. I rode away from my husband! He was riding ahead of me in the
sleigh. I had told him that I would follow and I mounted my horse and
came to you.
PAUL (puts his arms around her). Courageous soul! Rode through the
forest?
ANTOINETTE. Right on through the forest. The sun was already going
down, when I set out.
PAUL. The sun of New Year's Eve ... Did _you_ see it too?
ANTOINETTE. When it was down, the gloaming afforded me light, and later
the snow.
PAUL (sadly with a touch of roguishness). Dearest, when the sun is
down, there is nothing left to give light.
ANTOINETTE. Indeed, my beloved, indeed! Then come the stars. They are
finer.
PAUL. Do you believe in the stars?
ANTOINETTE. You heretic, I believe!...
PAUL. Still believe in heaven and hell?
ANTOINETTE. No longer for us. For us, the stars.
PAUL. Do you think so? For us?
ANTOINETTE. For us and lovers such as we are!
PAUL. How do you know that?
ANTOINETTE. Since I have you!
PAUL. Then I believe it too!
ANTOINETTE. My friend! My beloved! My life! (She presses him to her.)
PAUL. My beloved! My wife! [Blissful silence.]
ANTOINETTE (straightens up). Don't you hear steps? (She listens.)
PAUL (also listens). Where, pray tell.
ANTOINETTE (has risen). Out in the garden. It seemed so to me.
PAUL. I hear nothing. All is still.
ANTOINETTE (leans upon him). I am afraid, Paul.
PAUL. Afraid? Of what?
ANTOINETTE. That he will come and get me. Our time is short.
PAUL. Then I will protect you.
ANTOINETTE. Paul, I don't want to see him again! I don't want to see
another soul!
PAUL (looks at her with glowing eyes). How beautiful you are now,
Toinette!
ANTOINETTE. Am I beautiful? Am I beautiful. For you, my Paul, for you!
PAUL. For me. (He puts his arms around her.)
ANTOINETTE (proudly). I am still beautiful and young and yet I shall
cast it away. I am not afraid.
PAUL (his arms about her). We are not afraid!
ANTOINETTE. Out into night and death together with you!
PAUL. It is not worth living! We have realized that!
ANTOINETTE (looks up at him, smiling). Haven't we, Paul, we two lost
creatures? (In each other's embrace, they are silent for a moment.)
ANTOINETTE (roguishly). Do you remember, dear, what you used to do when
you were a little boy?
PAUL. No, sweetheart, tell me!
ANTOINETTE. Try to recall, dear. What did you do when your mother gave
us bread and cake.
PAUL. I took the bread first, is that what you mean, and then finished
up with the cake.
ANTOINETTE (shakes her finger at him). Kept the cake for the end, you
crafty fellow!
PAUL (is forced to laugh). Kept the best part for the end! Yes that's
what I did.
ANTOINETTE (on his breast). Just wait, you rogue. Now I'll make you
answer. Tell me, what am _I_ now, bread or cake!
PAUL. My last, my best, my all, that's what you are to me!
ANTOINETTE. There can be no joy beyond this. Shall we become old and
gray and withered? Come, my dear, come!
PAUL (looks at her for a long time). Do you know of what you remind me
now?
ANTOINETTE. Of what, Paul?
PAUL. That is just the way you stood in our park when you were a girl,
out there under the alders, and beckoned to me when you wanted me to
come and play with you.
ANTOINETTE (beckoning roguishly). Come on, Paul. Come on. Isn't that
it?
PAUL. Just so! Just so!
ANTOINETTE. Catch me, Paulie!... Catch me! (She runs to the left, opens
the door and remains standing.)
PAUL (runs after her and seizes her). Now I have you, you rogue?
ANTOINETTE (in his arms). Have me and hold me fast!
PAUL. New Year's Eve! New Year's Eve!... Is it here?
ANTOINETTE. It's no longer necessary for us to cast lead to find out
how long we are to live. We know!
PAUL. Soon we shall know nothing!
ANTOINETTE. Soon we shall know all!
PAUL. On your stars, do you mean?
ANTOINETTE (nods). On our star, my lover, you and I shall meet again.
PAUL. There we shall meet again!
ANTOINETTE (starts, and listens). Do you hear?
[INSPECTOR ZINDEL opens the door in the background and stands in
the door. PAUL and ANTOINETTE let go of each other, keeping their
places.]
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. The bay is bridled, sir, and stands out here.
ANTOINETTE (has an inspiration). The bay bridled? Is my gray there,
too?
INSPECTOR ZINDEL. It is, madam!
ANTOINETTE. Very well. Stay with the horses. We shall be there
immediately!
[INSPECTOR ZINDEL withdraws.]
PAUL (astonished). What is it, dear? What do you intend to do?
ANTOINETTE (with frantic passion). To our horses, dearest! To our
horses!
PAUL (incredulously). Out into the world, after all?
ANTOINETTE (with a wild fervor). Out with you into the night ... the
night of Saint Sylvester!
PAUL (sadly). Stay here, Toinette! Why begin the farce anew! Let it end
upon this soil, that nurtured our childhood!
ANTOINETTE (imploring). Come, dearest, to our horses! Let us ride to my
home.
PAUL. To your home?
ANTOINETTE. To Rukkoschin, the house of my fathers.
PAUL. Do you wish to go there?
ANTOINETTE. I wish to see it once more!
PAUL. And then we shall be ready?
ANTOINETTE. The house lies secluded and empty and dead.
PAUL. Only the spirits of your fathers are stirring.
ANTOINETTE. But I know of one room where I played as a child, that has
suffered no change.
PAUL (overcome). To our horses! To our horses!
ANTOINETTE. The night is clear. Many thousands of stars will light the
way. We shall ride through the forest. Right across the lake. The ice
is firm.
[She draws him out.]
PAUL (with a gesture toward the outside). Farewell, Hella! Your reign
is over!... We are returning to Mother Earth! (They depart through the
door in the background.)
HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL
* * * * * *
THE MARRIAGE OF SOBEIDE
A DRAMATIC POEM
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
A WEALTHY MERCHANT
SOBEIDE, his young wife
BACHTJAR, the Jeweler, SOBEIDE'S father
SOBEIDE'S MOTHER
SHALNASSAR, the Carpet-dealer
GANEM, his son
GUeLISTANE, a ship-captain's widow
An Armenian Slave
An old Camel-driver
A Gardener
His wife
BAHRAM, Servant of the MERCHANT
A Debtor of SHALNASSAR
An old city in the Kingdom of Persia
The time is the evening and the night after the wedding-feast of the
wealthy merchant.
THE MARRIAGE OF SOBEIDE (1899)
TRANSLATED BY BAYARD QUINCY MORGAN, PH.D.
Assistant Professor of German, University of Wisconsin
Scene I
Sleeping chamber in the house of the wealthy MERCHANT. To the rear an
alcove with dark curtains. To the left a door, to the right a small
door leading into the garden, and a window. Candles.
Enter the MERCHANT and his old Servant, BAHRAM.
MERCHANT.
Speak, Bahram, gav'st thou heed unto my bride?
SERVANT.
Heed, in what sense!
MERCHANT.
She is not cheerful, Bahram.
SERVANT.
She is a serious girl. And 'tis a moment
That sobers e'en the flightiest, remember.
MERCHANT.
Not she alone: the more I bade them kindle
Lights upon lights, the heavier hung a cloud
About this wedding-feast. They smiled like masks,
And I could catch the dark or pitying glances
They flung to one another; and her father
Would oft subside into a dark reflection,
From which he roused himself with laughter forced,
Unnatural.
SERVANT.
My Lord, our common clay
Endureth none too well the quiet splendor
Of hours like these. We are but little used
To aught but dragging through our daily round
Of littleness. And on such high occasions
We feel the quiet opening of a portal
From which an unfamiliar, icy breath
Our spirit chills, and warns us of the grave.
As in a glass we then behold our own
Forgotten likeness come into our vision,
And easier 'twere to weep than to be merry.
MERCHANT.
She tasted not a morsel that thou placed
Before her.
SERVANT.
Lord, her modest maidenhood
Was like a noose about her throat; but yet
She ate some of the fruit.
MERCHANT.
Yes, one small seed,
I noticed that, 'twas a pomegranate seed.
SERVANT.
Then too she suddenly bethought herself
That wine, a blood-red flame in sparkling crystal,
Before her stood, and raised the splendid goblet
And drank as with a sudden firm resolve
The half of it, so that the color flooded
Her cheeks, and deep she sighed as with relief.
MERCHANT.
Methinks that was no happy resolution.
So acts the man who would deceive himself,
And veils his glance, because the road affrights him.
SERVAMT.
Vain torments these: this is but women's way.
MERCHANT.(looks about the room, smiles).
A mirror, too, I see thou hast provided.
SERVAMT.
Thine own command, the mirror is thy mother's,
Brought hither from her chamber with the rest.
And thou thyself didst bid me, just this one ...
MERCHANT.
What, did I so? It was a moment, then,
When I was shrewder than I am just now.
Yes, yes, a youthful bride must have a mirror.
SERVANT.
Now I will go to fetch your mother's goblet
And bring the cooling evening drink.
MERCHANT.
Ah yes.
Go, my good Bahram, fetch the evening drink.
[Exit BAHRAM.]
Thou mirror of my mother, dwells no glimmer
In thee of her sweet pallid smile, to rise
As from the dewy mirror of a well-spring?
Her smile, the faintest, loveliest I have known,
Was like the flutter of a tiny birdling,
That sleeps its last upon the hollowed hand.
[Stands before the mirror.]
No, naught but glass. Too long it empty stood.
Only a face that does not smile--my own.
My Self, beheld with my own eyes, so vacant
As if one glass but mirrored forth another,
Unconscious.--Oh for higher vision yet,
For but one moment infinitely brief,
To see how stands upon _her_ spirit's mirror
My image! Is't an old man she beholds?
Am I as young as oft I deem myself,
When in the silent night I lie and listen
To hear my blood surge through its winding course?
Is it not being young, to have so little
Of rigidness or hardness in my nature?
I feel as if my spirit, nursed and reared
On nourishment so dreamlike, bloodless, thin,
Were youthful still. How else should visit me
This faltering feeling, just as in my boyhood,
This strange uneasiness of happiness,
As if 'twould slip each moment from my hands
And fade like shadows? Can the old feel this?
No, old men take the world for something hard
And dreamless; what their fingers grasp and hold,
They hold. While _I_ am even now a-quiver
With all this moment brings; no youthful monarch
Were more intoxicated, when the breezes
Should waft to him that cryptic word "possession."
[He nears the window.]
Ah, lovely stars, are ye out there as ever?
From out of this unstable mortal body
To look upon your courses in your whirling
Eternal orbits--that has been the food
That bore with ease my years, until I thought
I scarcely felt my feet upon the earth.
And have I really withered, while my eyes
Clung to yon golden suns, that do not wither?
And have I learned of all the quiet plants,
And marked their parts and understood their lives,
And how they differ when upon the mountains,
Or when by running streams we find them growing,--
Almost a new creation, yet at bottom
A single species; and with confidence
Could say, this one does well, its food is pure,
And lightly bears the burden of its leaves,
But this through worthless soil and sultry vapors
Has thickened stems, and bloated, swollen leaves ...
And more ... and of myself I can know nothing,
And heavy scales are crusted on my eyes,
Impeding judgment ...
[He hastily steps before the mirror again.]
Soulless tool!
Not like some books and men caught unawares:
Thou never canst reveal the hidden truth
As in a lightning flash.
SERVANT (returning).
My master.
MERCHANT.
Well?
SERVANT.
The guests depart. The father of thy bride
And others have been asking after thee.
MERCHANT.
And what of her?
SERVANT.
She takes leave of her parents.
[MERCHANT stands a moment with staring
eyes, then goes out at the door to the left
with long strides. SERVANT follows him.
The stage remains empty for a short time.
Then the MERCHANT reenters, hearing a
candelabrum which he places on the table
beside the evening drink. SOBEIDE enters
behind him, led by her father and mother.
All stop in the centre of the room, somewhat
to the left, the MERCHANT slightly removed
from the rest. SOBEIDE gently releases
herself. Her veil hangs down behind her.
She wears a string of pearls in her hair,
a larger one about her neck.]
FATHER.
From much in life I have been forced to part.
This is the hardest. My beloved daughter,
This is the day which I began to dread
When still I saw thee smiling in thy cradle,
And which has been my nightmare o'er and o'er.
(To the MERCHANT.)
Forgive me. She is more to me than child.
I give thee that for which I have no name,
For every name comprises but a part--
But she was everything to me!
SOBEIDE.
Dear father,
My mother will be with thee.
MOTHER (gently).
Cross him not:
He is quite right to overlook his wife.
I have become a part of his own being,
What strikes me, strikes him too; but what I do
Affects him only as when right and left
Of his own body meet. Meanwhile, however,
The soul remains through all its days a nursling,
And reaches out for breasts more full of life,
Farewell. Be no worse helpmeet than I was,
And mayst thou be as happy too. This word
Embraces all.
SOBEIDE.
Embrace--that is the word;
Till now my fate was in your own embraced,
But now the life of this man standing here
Swings wide its gates, and in this single moment
I breathe for once the blessed air of freedom:
No longer yours, and still not his as yet.
I beg you, go; for this unwonted thing,
As new to me as wine, has greater power,
And makes me view my life and his and yours
With other eyes than were perhaps befitting.
(With a forced smile.)
I beg you, look not in such wonderment:
Such notions oft go flitting through my head,
Nor dream nor yet reality. Ye know,
As child I was much worse. And then the dance
Which I invented, is't not such a thing:
Wherein from torchlight and the black of night
I made myself a shifting, drifting palace,
From which I then emerged, as do the queens
Of fire and ocean in the fairy-tales.
[The MOTHER has meanwhile thrown the
FATHER a glance and has noiselessly gone
to the door. Noiselessly the FATHER has
followed her. Now they stand with clasped
hands in the doorway, to vanish the next
moment.]
Ye go so softly? What? And are ye gone?
[She turns and stands silent, her eyes cast
down.]
MERCHANT (caresses her with a long look, then goes to the
rear, but stops again irresolute).
Wilt thou not lay aside thy veil?
[SOBEIDE starts, looks about her absent-mindedly.]
MERCHANT (points to the glass).
'Tis yonder.
[SOBEIDE takes no step, loosens mechanically
the veil from her hair.]
[Illustration: LAKE IN THE GRUNEWALD]
MERCHANT.
Here--in thy house--and just at first perhaps
Thou mayst lack much. This house, since mother's death,
Has grown disused to serve a woman's needs.
And our utensils here do not display
The splendor and magnificence in which
I fain had seen thee framed, but yet for me
Scant beauty dwells in what all men may have:
So from the stuffy air of chests and caskets
That, like the sandal-wood in sanctuary,
Half took my breath, I had all these removed
And placed there in thy chamber for thy service,
Where something of my mother's presence still--
Forgive me--seems to cling. I thought in this
To show and teach thee something ... On some things
There are mute symbols deeply stamped, with which
The air grows laden in our quiet hours,
And fuses something with our consciousness
That could not well be said, nor was to be.
[Pause.]
It hurts me when I see thee thus, benumbed
By all these overladen moments, that
Scarce walk upright beneath their heavy burden.
But let me say, all good things enter in
Our souls in quiet unpretentious ways,
And not with show and noise. One keeps expecting
To see Life suddenly appear somewhere
On the horizon, like a new domain,
A country yet untrodden. Yet the distance
Remains unpeopled; slowly then our eyes
Perceive its traces ling'ring here and yonder,
And that it compasses, embraces us,
And bears us, is in us, and nowhere fails us.
The words I say can give thee little pleasure,
Too much renunciation rings in them.
But not to me, by Heaven! My sweet child,
Not like a beggar do I feel before thee,
(With a long look at her.)
However fair thy youth's consummate glory
Envelop thee from top to toe ... thou knowest
Not much about my life, thou hast but seen
A fragment of its shell, as dimly gleaming
In shadows through the op'nings of a hedge.
I wish thine eye might pierce the heart of it:
As fully as the earth beneath my feet
Have I put from me all things low and common.
Callst thou that easy, since I now am old?
'Tis true, I've lost some friends by death ere this--
And thou at most thy grandam--many friends,
And those that live, where are they scattered now?
To them was linked the long forgotten quiver
Of nights of youth, those evening hours in which
Vague fear with monstrous, sultry happiness
Was mingled, and the perfume of young locks
With darkling breezes wafted from the stars.
* * * * * *
The glamor of the motley towns and cities,
The distant purple haze--that now is gone,
Nor could be found, though I should go to seek it;
But here within me, when I call, there rises
A something, rules my spirit, and I feel
As if it might in thee as well--
[He changes his tone.]
Knowst thou the day, on which thou needst must dance
Before thy father's guests? A smile unfading
Dwelt on thy lips, than any string of pearls
More fair, and sadder than my mother's smile,
Which thou hast ne'er beheld. This is to blame:
That smile and dance were interlaced, like wondrous
Fingers of dreamlike possibilities.
Wouldst thou they ne'er had been, since they're to blame,
My wife, that thou art standing here with me?
SOBEIDE (in such a tone that her voice is heard
to strike her teeth).
Commandest thou that I should dance? If not,
Commandest thou some other thing?
MERCHANT.
My wife,
How wild thou speakest with me, and how strangely!
SOBEIDE.
Wild? Hard, perhaps: my fate is none too soft.
Thou speakest as a good man speaks, then be
So good as not to speak with me today.
I am thy chattel, take me as thy chattel,
And let me, like a chattel, keep my thoughts
Unspoken, only uttered to myself!
[She weeps silently with compressed lips, her
face turned toward the darkness.]
MERCHANT.
So many tears and in such silence. This
Is not the shudder that relieves the anguish
Of youth. Here there is deeper pain to quiet
Than inborn rigidness of timid spirits.
SOBEIDE.
Lord, shouldst thou waken in the night and find
Me weeping thus whenas I seem to sleep,
Then wake me, lest I do what thy good right
Forbids me. For in dreams upon thy bed
I shall be seeing then another man
And longing for him; this were not becoming,
And makes me shudder at myself to think it.
Oh promise me that thou wilt then awake me!
[Pause. The MERCHANT is silent; deep feeling
darkens his face.]
No question who it is? Does that not matter?
No? But thy face is gloomy and thou breathest
With effort? Then I will myself confess it:
Thou hast beheld him at our house ere now,
His name is Ganem--son of old Shalnassar,
The carpet-dealer--and 'tis three years now
Since first I knew him. But since yesteryear
I have not seen him more.
This I have said, this last thing I reveal,
Because I will permit no sediment
Of secrecy and lies to lurk within me.
I care not thou shouldst know: I am no vessel
Sold off as pure, but lined with verdigris
To eat its bottom out--and then because
I wanted to be spared his frequent visits
In this abode--for that were hard to bear.
MERCHANT (threateningly, but soon choked by wrath and pain).
Thou! Thou hast ... thou hast ...
[He claps his hands to his face.]
SOBEIDE.
Thou weepest too, then, on thy wedding-day?
And have I spoiled some dream for thee? Look hither:
Thou sayst, I am so young, and this, and this--
[Points to hair and cheeks.]
Are young indeed, but weary is my spirit,
So weary, that there is no word to tell
How weary and how aged before my time.
We are one age, perhaps thou art the younger.
In conversation once thou saidst to me,
That almost all the years since I was born
Had passed for thee in sitting in thy gardens
And in the quiet tower thou hast builded,
To watch the stars from it. 'Twas on that day
It first seemed possible to me, that thy
And, more than that, my father's fond desire
Might be ... fulfilled. For I supposed the air
In this thy house must have some lightness in it,
So light, so burdenless!--And in our house
It was so overladen with remembrance,
The airy corpse of sleepless nights went floating
All through it, and on all the walls there hung
The burden of those fondly cherished hopes,
Once vivid, then rejected, long since faded.
The glances of my parents rested ever
Upon me, and their whole existence.--Well,
Too well I knew each quiver of an eyelash,
And over all there was the constant pressure
Of thy commanding will, that on my soul
Lay like a coverlet of heavy sleep.
'Twas common, that I yielded at the last:
I seek no other word. And yet the common
Is strong, and all our life is full of it.
How could I thrust it down and trample on it,
While I was floundering in it up to the neck?
MERCHANT.
So my desire lay like a cruel nightmare
Upon thy breast! Then thou must surely hate me ...
SOBEIDE.
I hate thee not, I have not learned to hate,
And only just began to learn to love.
The lessons stopped, but I am fairly able
To do such things as, with that smile thou knowest,
To dance, with heart as heavy as the stones,
To face each heavy day, each coming evil
With smiles: the utmost power of my youth
That smile consumed, but to the bitter end
I wore it, and so here I stand with thee.
MERCHANT.
In this I see but shadowy connection.
SOBEIDE.
How I connect my being forced to smile
And finally becoming wife to thee?
Wilt thou know this? And must I tell thee all?
Then knowst thou, since thou art rich, so little
Of life, and hast no eyes for aught but stars,
And flowers in thy heated greenhouse? Listen:
This is the cause: a poor man is my father,
Not always poor, much worse: once rich, now poor,
And many people's debtor, most of all
Thy debtor. And his starving spirit lived
Upon my smile, as other people's hearts
On other lies. These last years, since thou camest,
I knew my task; till then had been my schooling.
MERCHANT.
And so became my wife!
As quick she would have grasped her pointed shears
And opened up a vein and with her blood
Have let her life run out into a bath,
If that had been the price with which to purchase
Her father's freedom from his creditor!
... Thus is a wish fulfilled!
SOBEIDE.
Be not distressed. This is the way of life.
I am myself as in a waking dream.
As one who, taken sick, no more aright
Compares his thoughts, nor any more remembers
How on the day before he viewed a matter,
Nor what he then had feared or had expected:
He cannot look with eyes of yesterday ...
So also when we reach the worser stages
Of that great illness: Life. I scarcely know
Myself how great my fear of many things,
How much I longed for others, and I feel,
When some things cross my mind, as if it were
Another woman's fate, and not my own,
Just some one that I know about, not I.
I tell thee, I am bitter, but not evil:
And if at first I was too wild for thee,
There will be no deception in me later,
When I shall sit at ease and watch thy gardeners.
My head is tired out. I grow so dizzy,
When I must keep two things within myself
That fight against each other. Much too long
Have I been forced to do this. Give me peace!
Thou giv'st me this, and for that I am grateful.
Call not this little: terrible in weakness
Is everything that grows on shifting sands
Of doubt. But here is perfect certainty.
MERCHANT.
And how of him?
SOBEIDE.
That too must not distress thee.
'Twere hard to judge, had I concealed it from thee;
I have revealed it now, so let it rest.
MERCHANT.
Thou art not free of him!
SOBEIDE.
So thinkest thou?
When is one "free?" Things have no hold on us,
Except we have in us the will to hold them.
All that is past. [Gesture.]
MERCHANT (after a pause).
His love was like to thine?
[SOBEIDE nods.]
But then, why then, how has it come to pass
That he was not the one--
SOBEIDE
Why, we were poor!
No, more than poor, thou knowst. His father, too.
Poor too. Besides, a gloomy man, as hard
As mine was all too soft, and on him weighing
As mine on me. The whole much easier
To live through than to put in words. For years
It lasted. We were children when it started,
Ere long as tired as foals, too early harnessed
For drawing heavy wagons in the harvest.
MERCHANT.
But let me tell thee, this cannot be true
About his father. I know old Shalnassar,
The carpet-dealer. Well, he is a graybeard,
And he who will may speak good of his name,
But I will not. A wicked, bad old man!
SOBEIDE.
May be, all one. To him it is his father.
I ne'er have seen him. Ganem sees him so.
He calls him sick, is saddened when he speaks
Of him. And therefore I have never seen him,
That is, not since my childhood, when I saw
Him now and then upon the window leaning.
MERCHANT.
But he's not poor, no, anything but poor!
SOBEIDE (sure of her facts, sadly smiling).
Thinkst thou I should be here?
MERCHANT.
And he?
SOBEIDE.
What, he?
MERCHANT.
He clearly made thee feel
He thought impossible, what he and thou
Had wished for years and long held possible?
SOBEIDE. Why, for it was impossible? ... and then
"Had wished for years"--thou seest, all these matters
Are different, and the words we use
Are different. At one time this has ripened,
But to decay again. For there are moments
With cheeks that burn like the eternal suns--
When somewhere hovers mute an unconfessed
Confession, somewhere vanishes in air
The echo of a call that never reached
Its utterance; here in me something whispers,
"I yielded to him;" mark: in thought! "I yielded"--
The following moment swallows everything,
As night the lightning flash ... How all began
And ended? Well, in this wise: first I sealed
My lips, soon then set seal upon my eye-lids,
And he--
MERCHANT.
Well, how was he?
SOBEIDE.
Why, very noble.
As one who seeks to sully his own image
In other eyes, to spare that other pain--
Quite different, no longer kind as once
--It was the greatest kindness, so to act--
His spirit rent and full of mockery, that
Perhaps was bitterer to himself than me,
Just like an actor oftentimes, so strangely
With set intent. At other times again
Discoursing of the future, of the time
When I should give my hand--
MERCHANT (vehemently).
To me?
SOBEIDE (coldly).
When I should give my hand to any other;--
Describing what he knew that I should never
Endure, if life should ever take that form.
As little as himself would e'er have borne it
A single hour, for he but made a show,
Acquaint with me, and knowing it would cost
The less of pain to wrench my heart from him,
So soon as I had come to doubt his faith.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
'Twas too well acted, but what wealth of goodness
Was there.
MERCHANT. The greatest goodness, _if_ 'twas really
Naught but a pose assumed.
SOBEIDE (passionately).
I beg thee, husband,
This one thing: ruin not our life together.
As yet 'tis young and blind as tiny fledglings,
A single speech like this might swiftly slay it!
I shall not be an evil wife to thee:
I mean that slowly I shall find, perhaps,
In other things a little of that bliss
For which I held out eager fingers, thinking
There was a land quite full of it, both air
And earth, and one might enter into it.
I know by now that _I_ was not to enter ...
I shall be almost happy in that day,
All longing, painless, shared 'twixt past and present,
Like shining sunlight on the fresh green trees,
And like an unburdened sky behind the garden
The future: empty, yet quite full of light ...
But we must give it time to grow:
As yet confusion everywhere prevails.
Thou must assist me, it must never happen
That with ill-chosen words thou link this present
Too strongly to the life which now is over.
They must be parted by a wall of glass,
As airtight and as rigid as in dreams.
(At the window.)
That evening must not come, that should discover
Me sitting at this window without thee:
--Just not to be at home, not from the window
Of my long girlhood's chamber to look out
Into the darkness, has a dangerous,
Peculiar and confusing power, as if
I lay upon the open road, no man's possession,
As fully mine as never in my dreams!
A maiden's life is much more strictly ruled
By pressure of the air, than thou conceivest,
To whom it seems most natural to be free.
The evening ne'er must come, when I should thus
Stand here, with all the weight of heavy shadows,
My parents' eyes, all, all behind me thrust,
Involved in yon dark hangings at my back,
And this brave landscape with the golden stars,
The gentle breeze, the bushes, thus before me.
(With growing agitation.)
The evening ne'er must come, when I should see
All this with eyes like these, to say to me:
Here lies a road that shimmers in the moonlight:
Before the gentle breeze the next light cloudlet
Impels to meet the moon, a man could run
That road unto its end, between the hedges,
Then comes a cross-road, now a planted field,
And then the shadow of the standing corn,
At last a garden! There his hand would touch
At once a curtain, back of which is all:
All kissing, laughing, all the happiness
This world can give promiscuously flung
About like balls of golden wool, such bliss
That but a drop of it on parched lips
Suffices to be lighter than a flame,
To see no more of difficulty, nor
To understand what men call ugliness!
(Almost shrieking.)
The evening ne'er must come, that with a thousand
Unfettered tongues should cry to me: why not?
Why hast thou never run in dark of night
That road? Thy feet were young, thy breath sufficient:
Why hast thou saved it, that thou mightst have plenty
To weep a thousand nights upon thy pillow?
[She turns her back to the window, clutches
the table, collapses and falls to her knees,
and remains thus, her face pressed to the
table, her body shaken with weeping. A
long pause.]
MERCHANT. And if the first door I should open wide,
The only locked one on this road of love?
[He opens the small doorway leading into
the garden on the right; the moonlight
enters.]
SOBEIDE (still kneeling by the table).
Art thou so cruel as, in this first hour,
To make a silly pastime of my weeping!
Art thou so fain to put thy scorn upon me?
Art thou so proud of holding me securely?
MERCHANT (with the utmost self-control).
How much I could have wished that thou hadst learned
To know me otherwise, but now there is
No time for that.
Thy father, if 'tis this which so constrains thee,
Thy father owes me nothing now, indeed
Within some days agreements have been made
Between us twain, from which some little profit
And so, I hope, a much belated gleam
Of joyousness may come.
[She has crept closer to him on her knees, listening.]
So then thou mightest--
Thou mayst, I mean to say, if it was this
That lamed thee most, if in this--_alien_ dwelling
Again thou feel the will to live, which thou
Hadst lost, if, as from heavy sleep aroused,
Yet not awake, thou feel it is this portal
That leads thee out to pulsing, waking life--
Then in the name of God and of the stars
I give thee leave to go where'er thou wilt.
SOBEIDE (still on her knees).
What?
MERCHANT.
I do no more regard thee as my wife
Than any other maid who, for protection
From tempest or from robbers by the wayside,
Had entered for a space into my house,
And I renounce herewith my claim upon thee,
Just as I have no valid right to any,
Whom such a chance might cast beneath my roof.
SOBEIDE.
What sayest thou?
MERCHANT.
I say that thou art free
To pass out through this door, and where thou wilt.
Free as the wind, the butterfly, the water.
SOBEIDE (half standing).
To go?
MERCHANT.
To go.
SOBEIDE.
Where'er I will?
MERCHANT.
Where 'er
Thou wilt, and at what time thou wilt.
SOBEIDE (still half dazed, now at the door).
Now? Here?
MERCHANT.
Or now, or later. Here, or otherwhere.
SOBEIDE (doubtfully).
But to my parents only?
MERCHANT (in a more decided tone).
Where thou wilt.
SOBEIDE (laughing and Weeping at once).
This dost thou then? O never in a dream
I ventured such a thought, in maddest dreams
I ne'er had crept to thee upon my knees
[She falls on her knees before him.]
With this request, lest I should see thy laughter
Upon such madness ... yet thou doest it,
Thou doest it! O thou! Thou good, good man!
[He raises her gently, she stands bewildered.]
MERCHANT (turns away).
When wilt thou go?
SOBEIDE.
This very instant, now!
O be not angry, think not ill of me!
Consider: can I tarry in thy house,
A stranger's house this night? Must I not go
At once to him, since I belong to him?
How may his property this night inhabit
An alien house, as it were masterless?
MERCHANT (bitterly).
Already his?
SOBEIDE.
Why sir, a proper woman
Is never masterless: for from her father
Her husband takes her, she belongs to him,
Be he alive or resting in the earth.
Her next and latest master--that is Death.
MERCHANT.
Then wilt thou not, at least till break of day,
Return to rest at home?
SOBEIDE.
No, no, my friend.
All that is past. My road, once and for all,
Is not the common one, this hour divides
Me altogether from all maiden ways.
So let me walk it to its very end
In this one night, that in a later day
All this be like a dream, nor I have need
To feel ashamed.
MERCHANT.
Then go!
SOBEIDE.
I give thee pain?
[MERCHANT turns away.]
Permit a single draught from yonder goblet.
MERCHANT.
It was my mother's, take it to thyself.
SOBEIDE.
I cannot. Lord. But let me drink from it.
[Drinks.]
MERCHANT.
Drain this, and never mayst thou need in life
To quench thy thirst with wine from any goblet
Less pure than that.
SOBEIDE.
Farewell.
MERCHANT.
Farewell.
[She is already on the threshold.]
Hast thou no fear? Thou never yet hast walked
Alone. We dwell without the city wall.
SOBEIDE.
Dear friend, I feel above all weakling fear,
And light my foot, as never in the daytime.
[Exit.]
MERCHANT (after following her long with his eyes, with a
gesture of pain).
As if some plant were drawing quiet rootlets
From out my heart, to take wing after her,
And air were entering all the empty sockets!
[He steps away from the window.]
Does she not really seem to me less fair,
So hasty, so desirous to run thither,
Where scarce she knows if any wait her coming!
No: 'tis her youth that I must see aright;
This is a part of all things beautiful,
And all this haste becomes this creature just
As mute aspects become the fairest flowers.
[Pause.]
I think what I have done is of a part
With my conception of the world's great movement.
I will not have one set of lofty thoughts
When I behold high up the circling stars,
And others when a young girl stands before me.
What _there_ is truth, must be so here as well,
And I must say, if yonder wedded child
Cannot endure to harbor in her spirit
Two things, of which the one belies the other,
Am I prepared to make my acts deny
What I have learned through groping premonition
And reason from that monstrous principle
That towers upon the earth and strikes the stars?
I call it Life, that monstrous thing, this too
Is life--and who might venture to divide them?
And what is ripeness, if not recognizing
That men and stars have but one law to guide them?
And so herein I see the hand of fate,
That bids me live as lonely as before,
And heirless--when I speak the last good-by--
And with no loving hand in mine, to die.
SCENE II
A wainscoted room in SHALNASSAR'S house. An ascending stairway, narrow
and steep, in the right background; a descending one at the left. A
gallery of open woodwork with openings, inner balconies, runs about the
entire stage. Unshaded hanging lamps. Curtained doorways to the left
and right. Against the left wall a low bench, farther to the rear a
table and seats. Old SHALNASSAR sits on the bench near the left
doorway, wrapped in a cloak. Before him stands a young man, the
impoverished merchant.
SHALNASS.
Were I as rich as you regard me--truly
I am not so, quite far from that, my friend--
I could not even then grant this postponement,
Nay, really, friend, and solely for your sake:
For too indulgent creditors, by Heaven,
Are debtors' ruin.
DEBTOR.
Hear me now, Shalnassar!
SHALNASS.
No more. I can hear nothing. Yea, my deafness
But grows apace with all your talking. Go!
Go home, I say: think how you may retrench.
I know your house, 'tis overrun with vermin,
I mean the servants. Curtail the expenses
Your wife has caused: they are most unbecoming
For your position. What? I am not here
To give you counsel. Home with you, I tell you.
DEBTOR.
I wanted to, my heart detains me here,
This heart that swells with pain. Go home? To me
The very door of my own house is hateful.
I cannot enter, but some creditor
Would block my way.
SHALNASS.
Well, what a fool you were.
Go home and join your lovely wife, be off!
Go home! Bring offspring into life. Then starve!
[He claps his hands. The Armenian slave
comes up the stairs. SHALNASSAR whispers
with him, without heeding the other.]
DEBTOR.
Not fifty florins have I in the world.
You spoke of servants? Aye, one withered crone
To carry water, that is all. And she
How long? No wretch abandoned, fed with alms,
Feels misery like mine: for I have known
The sweets of wealth. Through every night I slept,
Contentment round my head, and sweet was morning.
But hush! she loves me still, and so my failure
Is bright and golden. O, she is my wife!
SHALNASS.
I beg you, go, the lamps will have to burn
So long as you are standing round. Go with him.
Here are the keys.
Debtor (overcoming his fear).
A word, good Shalnassar!
I had not wished to beg you for reprieve.
SHALNASS.
What? Does my deafness cause me some illusion?
DEBTOR.
No, really.
SHALNASS.
But?
DEBTOR.
But for another loan.
SHALNASS (furious).
What do You want?
DEBTOR.
Not what I want, but must.
Thou never hast beheld her, thou must see her!
My heavy heart gives o'er its sullen beating
And leaps with joy, whene'er I look upon her.
(With growing agitation.)
All this must yet be altered. Her fair limbs
Are for the cult of tenderness created,
Not for the savage claws of desperation.
She cannot go a-begging, with such hair.
Her mouth is proud as it is sweet. O, fate
Is trying to outwit me--but I scorn it--
If thou couldst see her, old man--
SHALNASS.
I _will_ see her!
Tell her the man of years, upon whose gold
Her husband young so much depends--now mark:
The good old man, say, the decrepit gray-beard--
Desired to see her. Tell her men of years
Are childish, why should this one not be so?
But still a call is little. Tell her this:
It is almost a grave that she would visit,
A grave just barely breathing. Will you do't?
DEBTOR.
I've heard it said that you adore your gold
Like something sacred, and that next to that
You love the countenance of anguished men,
And looks that mirror forth the spirit's pain.
But you are old, have sons, and so I think
These evil sayings false. And therefore I
Will tell her this, and if perchance she asks me,
"What thinkest thou?" then I will say, "My dearest,
Peculiar, but not bad."--Farewell, but pray you,
When your desire is granted, let not mine,
Shalnassar, wait long for its due fulfilment.
[The DEBTOR and the Armenian slave exeunt down
the stairs.]
SHALNASS. (alone, rises, stretches, seems much taller now).
A honeyed fool is that, a sweet-voiced babbler,
"Hear, aged man!"--"I beg you, aged man!"
I've heard men say his wife is beautiful,
And has such fiery color in her hair
That fingers tumbling it feel heat and billows
At once. If she comes not, then she shall learn
To sleep on naked straw....
... 'Twere time to sleep.
They say that convalescents need much sleep.
But if I must be deaf, then I'll be deaf
To wisdom such as this. Sleep is naught other
Than early death. I would enjoy my nights
Together with the days still left to me.
I will be generous, whenas I please:
To Guelistane I Will give more this evening
Than she could dream. And this shall be my pretext
To have her change her room and take a chamber
Both larger and near mine. If she will do't,
Her bath shall be the juice of violets, roses,
Or pinks, and gold and amber she shall quaff,
Until the roof-beams reel in dizzy madness.
[He claps his hands, a slave comes. Exit
left, followed by slave. GUeLISTANE comes
up the stairs, an old slave-woman behind
her. GANEM bends forward from a niche
above, spies GUeLISTANE and comes down
the stairs.]
GANEM (takes her by the hand).
My dream, whence comest thou? So long I lay
To wait for thee.
[The old slave-woman mounts the stairs.]
GUeLISTANE.
I? From my bath I come
And go now to my chamber.
GANEM.
How thou shinest
From bathing.
GUeLISTANE.
It was flowing, glowing silver
Of moonlight.
GANEM.
Were I one of yonder trees,
I would cast off my foliage with a quiver,
And leap to thee! O were I master here!
GUeLISTANE.
Aye, if thou wert! Thy father is quite well.
He bade me dine alone with him this evening.
GANEM.
Accursed skill, that roused this blood again,
Which was already half coagulated.
I saw him speaking with thee just this morning.
What was it?
GUeLISTANE.
I have told thee.
GANEM.
Speak, was that all? Thou liest, there was more!
GUeLISTANE.
He asked me--
GANEM.
What? But hush, the walls have ears.
[She whispers.]
Beloved!
While thou art speaking, ripes in me a plan,
Most wonderful, note well, and based on this:
He now is but the shadow of himself,
And though he still stands threatening there, his feet
Are clay. His wrath is thunder without lightning.
And--mark me well--all this his lustfulness
Is naught but senile braggadocio.
GUeLISTANE.
Well,
What dost thou base on this?
GANEM.
The greatest hope.
[He whispers.]
GUeLISTANE.
But such a poison--
Suppose there should be one of such a nature,
To end the life, but leave the corpse unmarred--
This poison none will sell thee.
GANEM.
Aye, no man,
A woman will--
GUeLISTANE.
For what reward?
GANEM.
For this,
That, thinking I am wed, she also thinks
To call me husband--after.
GUeLISTANE.
Who'll believe it?...
GANEM.
There long has been a woman who believes it.
GUeLISTANE.
Thou liest: saidst thou not the plan was new?
And now thou sayst there long has been a woman.
GANEM.
There has: I meshed her in this web of lies
Before I saw the goal. Today 'tis clear.
GUeLISTANE.
Who is't?
GANEM.
The limping daughter of a poor
Old pastrycook, who lives in the last alley
Down in the sailors' quarter.
GUeLISTANE.
And her name?
GANEM.
What's in a name? Her eyes, with doglike fear,
Clung to me when I passed, one of those faces
That lure me, since so greedily they drink
In lies, and weave out of themselves such fancies.
And so I oft would stand and talk to her.
[Illustration: LAKE IN THE GRUNEWALD]
_From the Painting by Walter Leistikow_
GUeLISTANE. And who gives her the poison?
GANEM.
Why, her father,
By keeping it where she can steal it from him.
GUeLISTANE.
What? He a pastry-maker?
GANEM.
But quite skilful,
And very poor--and yet not to be purchased
By us at any price: he is of those
Who secretly reject our holy books,
And eat no food on which our shadow falls.
I'll visit her, while thou art eating dinner
With him.
GUeLISTANE.
So each will have his part to play.
GANEM.
But mine shall end all further repetition
Of thine. Soon I return. Make some excuse
To leave him. If I found thee with him--
GUeLISTANE (puts her hand over his mouth).
Hush!
GANEM (overcome).
How cool thy fingers are, and yet, how burns
Thy blood within them, sorceress! Thou holdest
Me captive in the deepest cell, and feedest
Me e'er at midnight with thy kennels' leavings;
Thou scourgest me, and in the dust I grovel.
GUeLISTANE.
E'en so, and thou?
GANEM (crushed by her look).
And I?
[Looks down at his feet.]
My name is Ganem,
Ganem, the slave of love.
[He sinks before her, clasping her feet.]
GUeLISTANE.
Go quickly, go!
I hear thy father, go! I bid thee go!
I will not have them find us here together.
GANEM.
I have a silly smile, quite meaningless,
'Twould serve me well to look him in the face.
[GUeLISTANE goes up the stairs. The Armenian
slave comes from below. GANEM turns to go
out on the right.]
SLAVE.
Was Guelistane with thee?
GANEM. [Shrugs his shoulders.]
SLAVE.
But thou wast speaking.
GANEM.
Aye, with my hound.
SLAVE.
Then she is doubtless here.
[He goes up the stairs. The stage remains
empty awhile, then SHALNASSAR enters
from the left with three slaves hearing vessels
and ornaments. He has everything set down by
the left wall, where there is a table with low seats.]
SHALNASS.
Put this down here, this here. Now ye may serve.
[He goes to the lowest step of the stairway.]
Ah, convalescents, so they say, should seek
The sun. Well, here I stand,
[GUeLISTANE comes down and he leads her to the gifts.]
And know no more
Of sickness, than that amber is its work,
And pearls, when it resides in trees or oysters.
My word, they both are here. And here are birds,
Quite lifelike, woven into gleaming silk,
If it be worth thy while to look at them.
GUeLISTANE.
This is too much.
SHALNASS.
Aye, for a pigeon-house,
But scarcely for a chamber large enough
To hold such rose-perfume as yonder vases
Exhale, and yet not fill the air to stifling.
GUeLISTANE.
O see, what wondrous vases!
SHALNASS.
This is onyx,
And that one Chrysophrase, beneath thy notice.
Impenetrable they are called, but odors
Can pass their walls as they were rotten wood.
GUeLISTANE.
How thank thee?
[SHALNASSAR does not understand.]
GUeLISTANE.
How, I say, am I to thank thee?
SHALNASS.
By squandering all this:
This desk of sandal-wood and inlaid pearl
Use stead of withered twigs on chilly nights
To warm thy bath: watch how the flames will sparkle,
With sweet perfume!
[A dog is heard to give tongue, then several.]
GUeLISTANE.
What sheer and fragile lace! [Lifts it up.]
SHALNASS.
Dead, lifeless stuff. I'll bring to thee a dwarf,
Hath twenty tongues of beasts and men within him.
Instead of apes and parrots I will give thee
Most curious men, abortions of the trees
That marry with the air. They sing by night.
GUeLISTANE.
Thou shalt have kisses.
[The baying of the dogs grows stronger, seems nearer.]
SHALNASS.
Say, do young lovers
Give better gifts?
GUeLISTANE.
What wretched blunderers
In this great art, but what a master thou!
[The Armenian slave comes, plucks SHALNASSAR
by the sleeve, and whispers.]
SHALNASS.
A maiden sayst thou? Doubtless 'tis a woman,
But young? I do not understand.
GUeLISTANE.
What maiden meanest thou. Beloved?
SHALNASS.
None, none. I merely bade this slave "remain,"
And thou misheardest. (To the slave.) Hither
come, speak softly.
SLAVE.
She is half dead with fear, for some highwayman
Pursued her here, and then the dogs attacked her
And pulled her down. All out of breath she asked me,
"Is this Shalnassar's house, the carpet-dealer?"
SHALNASS.
It is the wife of that sweet fool. He sent her.
Be still. (He goes to GUeLISTANE, who is just
putting a string of pearls about her throat.)
O lovely! they're not worth their place.
[He goes back to the slave.]
SLAVE.
She also speaks of Ganem.
SHALNASS.
Of my son?
All one. Say, is she fair?
SLAVE.
I thought so.
SHALNASS.
What!
SLAVE.
But all deformed with fear.
GUeLISTANE.
Some business?
SHALNASS (to her).
None,
But serving thee.
[He puts out his hand to close the clasp at
her neck, but fails.]
GUeLISTANE.
Forbear!
SHALNASS (puts his hand to his eye).
A little vein
Burst in my eye. I must behold thee dance,
To make the blood recede.
GUeLISTANE.
A strange idea.
SHALNASS.
Come, for my sake.
GUeLISTANE.
Why, then I must put up
My hair.
SHALNASS.
Then put it up. I cannot live
While thou delayest.
[GUeLISTANE goes up the stairs.]
(To the slave.)
Lead her here to me.
Say only this: the one she seeks awaits her.
Mark that: the one she seeks; no more.
[He walks up and down; exit slave.]
No being is so simple; no, I cannot
Believe there are such fools. Highwaymen, bosh!
He sent her here, and all that contradicts it
Is simply lies.
I little thought that she would come tonight,
But gold draws all this out of nothingness.
I'll keep her if she pleases me: her husband
Shall never see her face again. With fetters
Of linked gold I'll deck her pretty ankles.
I'll keep them both and make them both so tame
That they will swing like parrots in one ring.
[The slave leads SOBEIDE up the stairs. She is
agitated, her eyes staring, her hair disheveled,
the strings of pearls torn off. She no longer
wears her veil.]
SHALNASS.
O that my son might die for very wrath!
Well, well, and how she trembles and dissembles.
[He motions the slave out.]
SOBEIDE (looks at him fearfully).
Art thou Shalnassar?
SHALNASS.
Yes. And has thy husband--
SOBEIDE.
My husband? Knowst thou that? Why, did I not
Just now ... was it not just this very night?...
What?... or dost thou surmise?
SHALNASS.
Coquettish chatter
May do for youthful apes. But I am old,
And know the power that I have over you.
SOBEIDE.
That power thou hast, but thou wilt not employ it
To do me hurt.
SHALNASS.
No, by the eternal light!
But I am not a maker of sweet sayings,
Nor fond of talk.
Deliberate flattery I put behind me:
The mouth that sucks the sweetness of the fruit
Is mute. And this is chiefly autumn's trade.
Yea, though the spring may breathe a sweeter odor,
Old autumn laughs at him.--Nay, look not so
Upon my hand. Because 'tis full of veins,
Rank weeds, in which the juice of life dries up.--
O, it will seize thee yet and it can hold thee!
What, pain so soon? I'll soothe it with a string
Of pearls, come, come!
[Tries to draw her away.]
SOBEIDE (frees herself).
Have mercy, thou, my poor enfeebled brain
Is all deranged. Is it to me thou speakest?
Speak, thou art surely drunken or wouldst mock me.
Knowst thou then who I am? Oh yes, thou saidst
My husband. Yes, this was my wedding-day!
Knowst thou it? When I stood with him alone,
My husband, then it all came over me;
I wept aloud, and when he asked me, then
I lifted up my voice against him, spoke
To him of Ganem, of thy son, and told him
The whole. I'll tell thee later how it was.
Just now I know not. Only this: the door
He opened for me, kindly, not in anger,
And said to me I was no more his wife,
And I might go where'er I would.--Then go
And fetch me Ganem! Fetch him here for me!
SHALNASS. (angrily grasps his beard).
Accursed deception! Speak, what devil let thee in?
SOBEIDE.
Dear sir, I am the only child of Bachtjar,
The jeweler.
SHALNASS. (claps his hands, the slave comes).
Call Ganem.
SOBEIDE (involuntarily).
Call him hither.
SHALNASS. (to the slave).
Bring up the dinner. Is the dwarf prepared?
SLAVE.
They're feeding him; for till his hunger's gone,
He is too vicious.
SHALNASS.
Good, I'll go and see it.
[Exit with the slave to the left.]
SOBEIDE (alone).
Now I am here. Does fortune thus begin?
Yes, this has had to come, and all these colors
I know because I dreamed them, mingled thus.
We drink from goblets which a little child,
With eyes that sparkle as through garlands gay,
Holds out--but from the branches of a tree-top
Black drops drip down into the goblet's bowl
And mingle death and night with what we drink.
[She sits down on the bench.]
With whatsoe'er we do some night is mingled,
And e'en our eye has something of its blackness.
The glitter in the fabrics of our looms
Is but the woof, the pattern, its true warp
Is night.
Aye, death is everywhere; and with our glances
And with our words we cover him from sight,
And like the children, when in merry playing
They hide some toy, so we forget forthwith
That we are hiding death from our own glances.
Oh, if _we_ e'er have children, they must keep
From knowing this for many, many years.
Too soon I learned it. And the cruel pictures
Are evermore in me: they perch within me
Like turtle-doves in copses and come swarming
Upon the least alarm.
[She looks up.]
But now Ganem will come. Oh, if my heart
Would cease from holding all my blood compressed.
I'm wearied unto death. Oh, I could sleep.
[With forced liveliness.]
Ganem will come, and then all will be well!
[She breathes the scent of oil of roses and
becomes aware of the precious objects.]
How all this is perfumed, and how it sparkles!
[With alarmed astonishment.]
And there! Woe's me, this is the house of wealth,
Deluded, foolish eyes, look here and here!
[She rouses her memory feverishly.]
And that old man was fain with strings of pearls
To bind my arms and hands--why, they are rich!
And "poor" was every second word he uttered.
He lied then, lied not once but many times!
I saw him smiling when he lied, I feel it,
It chokes me here!
[She tries to calm herself.]
Oh, if he lied--but there are certain things
That can constrain a spirit. And his father
I have done much for my old father's sake--
His father this? That chokes me more than ever.
Inglorious heart, he comes, and something, something
Will be revealed, all this I then shall grasp,
I then shall grasp--
[She hears steps, looks about her wildly, then
cries in fear.]
Come, leave me not alone!
[GUeLISTANE and an old serving-woman come down
the stairs and go to the presents by the
table.]
SOBEIDE (starting).
Ganem, is it not thou?
GUeLISTANE (in an undertone).
Why, she is mad.
[She lays one present after another on the
servant's arms.]
SOBEIDE (standing at some distance from her).
No, no, I am not mad. Oh, be not angry.
The dogs are after me! But first a man.
I'm almost dead with fear. He is my friend,
Will tell you who I am. Ye do not know
How terror can transform a human being.
I ask you, are not all of us in terror
Of even drunken men? This was a murd'rer.
I am not brave, but with a lie that sped
Into my wretched head I held him off
Awhile--then he came on, and I could feel
His hands. Take pity on me, be not angry!
Ye sit there at the table fair with candles,
And I disturb. But if ye are his friends,
Ask him to tell you all. And later on,
When we shall meet and ye shall know me better,
We both will laugh about it. But as yet
(Shuddering.)
I could not laugh at it.
GUeLISTANE (turning to her).
Who is thy friend, and who will tell us all?
SOBEIDE (with innocent friendliness).
Why, Ganem.
GUeLISTANE.
Oh, what business hast thou here?
SOBEIDE (steps closer, looks fixedly at her).
What, art thou not the widow
Of Kamkar, the ship-captain?
GUeLISTANE.
And thou the daughter
Of Bachtjar, the gem-dealer?
[They regard each other attentively.]
SOBEIDE.
It is long since
We saw each other.
GUeLISTANE.
What com'st thou here
To do?
SOBEIDE.
Then thou liv'st here?--I come to question Ganem
(Faltering.)
About a matter--on which much depends--
Both for my father--
GUeLISTANE.
Hast not seen him lately?
Ganem, I mean.
SOBEIDE.
Nay, 'tis almost a year.
Since Kamkar died, thy husband, 'tis four years.
I know the day he died. How long hast thou
Lived here?
GUeLISTANE.
They are my kin. What is't to thee,
How long? But then, what odds? Why then, three years.
[SOBEIDE is silent.]
GUeLISTANE (to the slave).
Look to't that nothing fall. Hast thou the mats?
(To SOBEIDE.)
For it may be, if one were left to lie
And Ganem found it, he would take the notion
To bed his cheek on it, because my foot
Had trodden it, and then whate'er thou spokest,
He would be deaf to thine affair. Or if
He found the pin that's fallen from my hair
And breathing still its perfume: then his senses
Would fasten on that trinket, and he never
Would know thy presence.
(To the slave.)
Pick it up for me.
Come, bend thy back.
[She pushes the slave. SOBEIDE bends quickly
and holds out the pin to the slave. GUeLISTANE
takes it out of her hand and thrusts
with it at SOBEIDE.]
SOBEIDE
Alas, why prickst thou me?
GUeLISTANE.
That I may circumvent thee, little serpent.
Go, for thy face is such a silly void
That one can see what thou wouldst hide in it.
Go home again, I counsel thee.--Come thou
And carry all thou canst.
(To SOBEIDE.)
Mark thou my words:
What's mine I will preserve and keep from thieves!
[She goes up the stairs with the slave.]
SOBEIDE (alone).
What's left for me? How can this turn to good,
That so begins? No, no, my destiny
Would try me. What should mean to him this woman?
This is not love, it is but lust, a thing
That men find needful to their lives. He comes,
(In feverish haste.)
And he will cast this from him with a word
And laugh at me. Arise, my recollections,
For now I need you or shall never need you!
Woe, woe, that I must call you in this hour!
Will not one loving glance return to me?
One unambiguous word? Ah, words and glances,
Deceitful woof of air. A heavy heart
Would cling to you, and ye are rent like cobwebs.
Away, fond recollection! My old life
Today is cast behind me, and I stand
Upon a sphere that rolls I know not whither.
(With increasing agitation.)
Ganem will come to me, and his first word
Will rend the noose that tightens on my throat.
He comes, will take me in his arms--all dripping
With fear and horror, stead of oils and perfumes,--
I'll say no word, I'll hang upon his neck
And drink the words he speaks. For his first word,
The very first will lull all fears to sleep ...
He'll smile all doubt away ... and put to flight ...
But if he fail?... I will not think it, will not!
[GANEM comes up the stairs.]
SOBEIDE (cries out).
Ganem!
[She runs to him, feels his hair, his face,
falls before him, presses her head against
him, at once laughing and weeping convulsively.]
I'm here, Oh take me, take me, hold me fast!
Be good to me, thou knowst not all as yet.
I cannot yet ... How lookest thou upon me?
[She stands up again, steps back, and looks
at him in fearful suspense.]
GANEM (stands motionless before her.)
Thou!
SOBEIDE (in breathless haste).
I belong to thee, am thine, my Ganem!
Ask me not now how this has come to pass:
This is the centre of a labyrinth,
But now we stand here. Wilt thou not behold me!
He gave me freedom, he himself, my husband ...
Why does thy countenance show such a change?
GANEM.
No cause. Come hither, they may overhear us ...
SOBEIDE.
I feel that there is something in me now
Displeases thee. Why dost thou keep it from me?
GANEM.
What wouldst thou?
SOBEIDE.
Nothing, if I may but please thee.
Ah, be indulgent. Tell me my shortcomings.
I will be so obedient. Was I bold?
Look thou, 'tis not my nature so; I feel
As if this night had gripped me with its fists
And flung me hither, aye, my spirit shudders
At all that I had power there to say,
And that I then had strength to walk this road.
Art sorry that I had it?
GANEM.
Why this weeping?
SOBEIDE.
Thou hast the power to change me so. I cannot
But laugh or weep, or blush or pale again
As thou wouldst have it.
[GANEM kisses her.]
SOBEIDE.
When thou kissest me,
O look not thus! But no, I am thy slave.
Do as thou wilt. Here let me rest. I will
Be clay unto thy hands, and think no more.
And now thy brow is wrinkled?
GANEM.
Aye, for soon
Thou must return. Thou smilest?
SOBEIDE.
Should I not?
I know thou wouldst but try me.
GANEM.
No, in earnest,
Thou art in error. Thinkest thou perhaps
That I can keep thee here? Say, has thy husband
Gone over land, that thou art not afraid?
SOBEIDE.
I beg thee cease, I cannot laugh just now.
GANEM.
No, seriously, when shall I come to thee?
SOBEIDE.
To me, what for? Thou seest, I am here:
Look, here before thy feet I sit me down;
I have no other home except the straw
Beside thy hound, if thou wilt not provide
A bed for me; and none will come to fetch me.
[He raises her, then claps his hands delightedly.]
GANEM.
O splendid! How thou playst a seeming part
When opportunity demands. And it becomes thee,
Oh, most superbly! We'll draw profit from it.
There'll be no lack of further free occasion,
To yield ourselves to pleasure undismayed--
When shall I come to thee?
SOBEIDE (stepping back).
Oh, I am raving!
My head's to blame, for that I hear thee speaking
Quite other words than those thou really utter'st.
O Ganem, help me! Have thou patience with me,
What day is this today?
GANEM.
Why ask that now?
SOBEIDE.
'Twill not be always so, 'tis but from fear,
And then because I've had to feel too much
In this one fleeting night; that has confused me.
_This_ was my wedding-day: then when alone
With him, my husband, I did weep and said
It was because of thee. He oped the door
And let me out.--
GANEM.
He has the epilepsy,
I'll wager, sought fresh air. Thou art too foolish!
Let me undo thy hair and kiss thy neck.
But then go quickly home: what happens later
Shall be much better than this first beginning.
[He tries to draw her to him.]
SOBEIDE (frees herself, steps back).
Ganem, he oped the door for me, and said
I was no more his wife, and I might go
Where'er I would ... My father free of debt
... And he would let me go where'er I would ...
To thee, to thee! [She bursts into sobs.]
I ran, there was the man who took away
My pearls and would have slain me--
And then the dogs--
(With the pitiable expression of one forsaken.)
And now I'm here with thee!
GANEM (inattentively, listening intently up stage).
I think I hear some music, hear'st it thou?--
'Tis from below.
SOBEIDE.
Thy face and something else,
Ganem, fill me with a mighty fear--
Hark not to that, hear me! hear me, I beg thee!
Hear me, that here beneath thy glance am lying
With open soul, whose ebb and flow of blood
Proceeds but from the changes of thy mien.
Thou once didst love me--that, I think, is past--
For what came then, I only am to blame:
Thy brightness waxed within my gloomy soul
Like moons in fog--
[GANEM listens as before. SOBEIDE with
growing wildness.]
Suppose thou loved me not:
Why didst thou lie? If I was aught to thee,
Why hast thou lied to me? O speak to me--
Am I not worth an answer?
[Weird music and voices are heard outside.]
GANEM.
Yes, by heaven.
It is the old man's voice and Guelistane's!
[Down the stairs come a fluting dwarf and an
effeminate-looking slave playing a lute,
preceded by others with lights; then SHALNASSAR,
leaning on GUeLISTANE; finally a eunuch with
a whip stuck in his belt. GUeLISTANE frees herself
and comes forward, seeming to search the floor for
something; the others come forward also. The music
ceases.]
GUeLISTANE (over her shoulder, to SHALNASSAR).
I miss a tiny jar, of swarthy onyx
And filled with ointment. Art thou ling'ring still,
Thou Bachtjar's daughter? Bend thy lazy back
And try to find it.
[SOBEIDE is silent, looking at GANEM.]
SHALNASS.
Let it be and come!
I'll give thee hundreds more.
GUeLISTANE.
It was a secret,
The ointment in it.
GANEM (close to GUeLISTANE).
What means this procession?
SHALNASS.
Come on, why not? The aged cannot wait.
And ye, advance! Bear lights and make an uproar!
Be drunken: what has night to do with sleep!
Advance up to the door, then stay behind!
[The slaves form in order again.]
GANEM (furious).
Door, door? What door?
SHALNASS. (to GUeLISTANE, who leans against him).
Say, shall I give an answer?
If so, I'll do 't to flatter thee. If not,
'Twill be to show thee that my happiness
Requireth not old envy's flattery.
GANEM (to GUeLISTANE).
Say no, say he is lying!
GUeLISTANE.
Go, good Ganem,
And let us pass. Thy father is recovered,
And we are glad of it. Why stand so gloomy?
One must be merry with the living, eh,
While yet they live? [She looks into his eyes.]
GANEM (snatches the whip from the eunuch).
Old woman, for what purpose is this whip?
Now flee and scatter, crippled, halting folly!
[He strikes at the musicians and the lights,
then casts down the whip.]
Out, shameful lights, and thou, to bed with thee,
Puffed, swollen body; and ye bursting veins,
Ye reddened eyes, and thou putrescent mouth,
Off to a solitary bed, and night,
Dark, noiseless night instead of brazen torches
And blaring horns!
[He motions the old man out.]
SHALNASS. (bends with an effort to take the whip).
Mine is the whip, not thine!
SOBEIDE (cries out).
His father! Son and father for one woman!
GUeLISTANE (wrests the whip out of SHALNASSAR'S hand).
Go thou to bed thyself, hot-headed Ganem,
And leave together them that would be joined.
Rebuke thy father not. An older man
Can pass a sounder judgment, is more faithful
Than wanton youth. Hast thou not company?
Old Bachtjar's daughter stands there in the darkness,
And often I've been told that she is fair.
I know right well, thou wast in love with her.
So then good night. [They all turn to go.]
GANEM (wildly).
Go not with him!
GUeLISTANE (speaking backward over her shoulder).
I go
Where'er my heart commands.
GANEM (beseechingly).
Go not with him!
GUeLISTANE.
Oh, let us through: there will be other days.
GANEM (lying before her on the stairs).
Go not with him!
GUeLISTANE (turning around).
Thou daughter of old Bachtjar,
Keep him, I say, I want him not, I trample
Upon his fingers with my feet! Seest thou?
SOBEIDE (as if demented).
Aye, aye, now let us dance a merry round!
Take thou my hand and Ganem's; I Shalnassar's.
Our hair we'll loosen, and that one of us
That has the longer hair shall have the young one
Tonight--tomorrow just the other way!
King Baseness sits enthroned! And from our faces
Lies drip like poison from the salamander!
I claim my share in your high revelry.
(To GANEM, who angrily watches them mount
the stairs.)
Go up and steal her from thy father's bed
And choke him sleeping: drunken men are helpless!
I see how fain thou art to lie with her.
When thou are sated or wouldst have a change,
Then come to me, but softly we will tread,
For heavy sleep comes not to my old husband,
Such as they have, who can give ear to this,
And then sleep through it!
[She casts herself on the floor.]
But with grievous howling
I will arouse this house to shame and wrath
And lamentation ...
(She lies groaning.)
... I have loved thee so,
And so thou tramplest on me!
[An old slave appears in the background,
putting out the lights; he picks up a fallen
fruit and eats it.]
GANEM (claps his hands in sudden anger).
Come, take her out! Here is a shrieking woman,
I scarcely know her, says she weeps for me.
Her father fain would wed her to the merchant,
The wealthy one, but she perverts the whole,
And says her husband is a similar pander,
But he's no more than fool, for aught I see.
(He steps close to her, mockingly sympathetic.)
O ye, too credulous by far. But then,
Your nature's more to blame than skill of ours.
No, get thee up. I will no more torment thee.
SOBEIDE (raises herself up. Her voice is hard).
Then naught was true, and back of all is naught.
From this I cannot cleanse myself again:
What came into my soul today, remaineth.
Another might dispel it: I'm too weary.
(Stands up.)
Away! I know my course, but now away
From here!
[The old slave has gone slowly down the stairs.]
GANEM.
I will not hold thee. Yet the road--
How wilt thou find it? Still, thou foundst it once.
SOBEIDE.
The road, the self-same road!
(She shudders.) Yon aged man
Shall go with me. I have no fear, but still
I would not be alone: until the dawn--
[GANEM goes up stage to fetch the slave.]
SOBEIDE.
Meseems I wear a robe to which the pest
And horrid traces of wild drunkenness
And wilder nights are clinging, and I cannot
Put off the robe, but all my flesh goes too.
Now I must die, and all will then be well.
But speedily, before this shadow-thinking
About my father gathers blood again:
Else 'twill grow stronger, drag me back to life,
And I must travel onward in this body.
GANEM (slowly leads the old slave forward).
Give heed. This is rich Chorab's wife, the merchant.
Hast understood?
OLD SLAVE (nods).
The rich one.
GANEM.
Aye, thou shalt
Escort her.
OLD SLAVE.
What?
GANEM.
I say, thou art to lead her
Back to her house.
(OLD SLAVE nods.)
SOBEIDE.
Just to the garden wall.
From there I only know how I must go.
Will he do that? I thank thee. That is good,
Most good. Come, aged man, I go with thee.
GANEM.
Go out this door, the old man knows the path.
SOBEIDE.
He knows it, that is good, most good. We go.
[They go out through the door at the right.
GANEM turns to mount the stairs.]
SCENE III
The garden of the rich merchant. The high wall runs from the right
foreground backward toward the left. Steps lead to a small latticed
gate in the wall. To the left a winding path is lost among the trees.
It is early morning. The shrubs are laden with blossoms, and the
meadows are full of flowers. In the foreground the gardener and his
wife are engaged in taking delicate blooming shrubs from an open barrow
and setting them in prepared holes.
GARDENER.
The rest are coming now. But no, that is
A single man ... The master!
WIFE.
What? He's up
Ere dawn, and yesterday his wedding-day?
Alone he walks the garden--that's no man
Like other men.
GARDENER.
Be still, he's coming hither.
MERCHANT (walks up slowly from the left).
The hour of morn, before the sun is up,
When all the branches in the lifeless light
Hang dead and dull, is terrible. I feel
As if I saw the whole world in a frightful
And vacant glass, as dreary as my mind's eye.
O would all flowers might wither! Would my garden
Were poisonous morass, filled to the full
With rotted corpses of these blooming trees,
And my corpse in their midst.
[He is pulling to pieces a blossoming twig,
stops short and drops it.]
Ah, what a fool!
A gray-haired fool, as old as melancholy,
Ridiculous as old! I'll sit me down
And bind up wreaths and weep into the water.
[He walks on a few paces, lifts his hand as
if involuntarily to his heart.]
[Illustration: A BRANDENBURG LAKE]
From the Painting by Walter Leistikow
O how like glass this is, and how the finger
With which fate raps upon it, like to iron!
Years form no rings on men as on the trees,
Nor fashion breast-plates to protect the heart.
[Again he walks a few paces, and so comes
upon the gardener, who takes off his straw
hat; he starts up out of his revery, and
looks inquiringly at the gardener.]
GARDENER.
Thy servant Sheriar, lord; third gardener I.
MERCHANT.
What? Sheriar, Oh yes. And this thy wife?
GARDENER.
Aye, lord.
MERCHANT.
But she is younger far than thou,
And once thou cam'st to me to make complaint
That she and some young lad,--I can't recall ...
GARDENER.
It was the donkey-driver.
MERCHANT.
So I chased
Him from my service, and she ran away.
GARDENER (bowing low).
Thou know'st the sacred courses of the stars,
Yet thou rememberest the worm as well,
That in the dust once crawled beside thy feet.
'Tis so, my lord. But she returned to me,
And lives with me thenceforth.
MERCHANT.
And lives with thee?
The fellow beat her, doubtless! Thou dost not.
[He turns away, his tone becomes bitter.]
Why, let us seat ourselves here in the grass,
And each will tell his story to the other.
He lives with her thenceforth. Why yes, he has her!
Possession is the end of all! And folly
It were to scorn the common, when our life
Is made up of the common through and through.
[Exit to the right with vigorous strides.]
WIFE (to the gardener).
What did he say to thee?
GARDENER. Oh, nothing, nothing.
[SOBEIDE and the camel-driver appear at the
latticed gate.]
WIFE.
I'll tell thee something.
[Draws near him.]
Look, look there!
The bride! That is our master's bride!
And see how pale and overwrought.
GARDENER.
Pay heed
To thine affairs.
WIFE.
Look there, she has no veil,
And see who's with her. Look. Why, that is none
Of master's servants, is it?
GARDENER.
I don't know.
[SOBEIDE puts her arm, through the lattice,
seeking the lock.]
WIFE.
She wants to enter. Hast thou not the key!
GARDENER (looking up).
Aye, that I have, and since she is the mistress,
She must be served before she opes her lips.
[He goes to the gate and unlocks it. SOBEIDE
enters, the old slave behind her. The
gardener locks the gate. SOBEIDE walks
forward with absent look, the old slave
following. The gardener walks past her,
takes off his straw hat, and is about to return
to his work. The wife stands a few paces
to the rear, parts the bushes curiously.]
SOBEIDE.
Pray tell me, is the pond not here at hand,
The big one, with the willows on its banks?
GARDENER (pointing to the right).
Down there it lies, my mistress, thou canst see it.
But shall I guide thee?
SOBEIDE (with a vehement gesture).
No, no, leave me, go!
[She is about to go off toward the right; the
old slave catches her dress and holds her
back. She turns. OLD SLAVE holds out his
hand like a beggar, but withdraws it at
once in embarrassment.]
SOBEIDE.
What?
OLD SLAVE.
Thou art at home, I'm going back again.
SOBEIDE.
Oh yes, and I have robbed thee of thy sleep,
And give thee naught for it. And thou art old
And poor. But I have nothing, less than nothing!
As poor as I no beggar ever was.
[OLD SLAVE screws up his face to laugh, holds
out his hand again.]
SOBEIDE (looks helplessly about her, puts her hand to her
hair, feels her pearl pendants, takes them off,
and gives them to him).
Take this, and this, and go!
OLD SLAVE (shakes his head).
Oh no, not that!
SOBEIDE (in a torment of haste).
I give them gladly, only go, I beg of thee!
[Starts away.]
OLD SLAVE (holds them in his hand).
No, take them back. Give me some little coin.
I'm but a poor old fool. And they would come,
Shalnassar and the others, down upon me,
And take the pearls away. For I am old
And such a beggar. This would be my ruin.
SOBEIDE.
I have naught else. But come again tonight
And bring them to the master here, my husband.
He'll give thee money for them.
OLD SLAVE.
Thou'lt be here?
Ask but for him; go now and let me go.
[Starts away.]
OLD SLAVE (holds her back).
If he is kind, oh do thou pray for me,
That he may take me as a servant. He
Is rich and has so many. I am eager,
Need little sleep. But in Shalnassar's house
I always have such hunger in the evening.
I will--
SOBEIDE (frees herself).
Just come tonight and speak to him,
And say I wanted him to hear thy prayer.
Now go, I beg thee, for I have no time.
[The old slave goes toward the gate, but
stands still in the shrubbery. The gardener's
wife has approached SOBEIDE from the
left. SOBEIDE takes a few steps, then lets
her vacant glance wander about, strikes
her brow as if she had forgotten something.
She suddenly stands still before the gardener's
wife, looks at her absently, then inquires
hastily:]
The pond is there, I hear? The pond?
[Points to the left.]
WIFE.
No, here.
[Points to the right.]
Here down this winding path. It turns right there.
Wouldst overtake my lord? He's walking slowly:
When thou art at the crossways, thou wilt see him.
Thou canst not miss him.
SOBEIDE (more agitated).
I, the master?
WIFE.
Why yes, dost thou not seek him?
SOBEIDE.
Him?--Yes, yes,
Then--I'll--go--there.
[Her glance roves anxiously, suddenly is
fixed upon an invisible object at the left
rear.]
The tower, is it locked?
WIFE.
The tower?
SOBEIDE.
Yes, the steps to mount it.
WIFE.
No,
The tower's never locked, by day or night.
Dost thou not know?
SOBEIDE.
Oh yes.
WIFE.
Wilt thou go up it?
SOBEIDE (smiling painfully).
No, no, not now. Perhaps another time.
(Smiling with a friendly gesture.)
Go, then. Go, go.
(Alone.)
The tower, the tower!
And quick. He comes from there. Soon 'tis too late.
[She looks searchingly about her, walks
slowly at first to the left, then runs through
the shrubbery. The old slave, who has
watched her attentively, slowly follows her.]
GARDENER (through with his work).
Come here and help me, wife.
WIFE.
Yes, right away.
[They take up the barrow and carry it along
toward the right.]
MERCHANT (enters from the right.)
I loved her so! Ah, how this life of ours
Resembles dreams illusory. Today
I might have had her, here and always, I!
Possession is the whole: slow-growing power
That sifts down through the soul's unseen and hidden
Interstices, feeds thus the wondrous lamp
Within the spirit, and soon from such eyes
There bursts a mightier, sweeter gleam than moonlight.
Oh, I have loved her so! I fain would see her,
See her once more. My eye sees naught but death:
The flowers wilt before my eyes like candles,
When they begin to run: all, all is dying,
And all dies to no purpose, for she is
Not here--
[The old camel-driver comes running from
the left across the stage to the gardener
and shows him something that seems to be
happening rather high in the air to the left;
the gardener calls his wife's attention to it,
and all look.]
MERCHANT (becomes aware of this, follows the direction of their
glances, grows deathly pale).
God, God! Give answer! There, there, there!
The woman on the tower, bending forward,
Why does she so bend forward? Look, look there!
[WIFE shrieks and covers her face.]
GARDENER (runs to the left, looks, calls back).
She lives and moves! Come, master, come this way.
[The merchant runs out, the gardener's wife
following. Immediately thereafter the
merchant, the gardener, and his wife come
carrying SOBEIDE, and lay her down in the
grass. The gardener takes off his outer
garment and lays it under her head.
The old camel-driver stands at some distance.]
MERCHANT (kneeling).
Thou breathest, thou wilt live for me, thou must!
Thou art too fair to die!
SOBEIDE (opens her eyes).
Forbear, I'm dying; hush, I know it well.
Dear husband, hush, I beg thee. Thee I had
Not thought to see again--
I need to crave thy pardon.
MERCHANT. (tenderly).
Thou!
SOBEIDE.
Not this.
This had to be.--No, what took place last night:
I did to thee what should become no woman,
And all my destiny I grasped and treated
As I in dancing used to treat my veils.
With fingers vain I tampered with my Self.
Speak not, but understand.
MERCHANT.
What happened--then?
SOBEIDE.
Ask not what happened; ask me not, I beg thee.
I had before been weary: 'twas the same
Up to the end. But now 'tis easy. Thou
Art good, I'll tell thee something else: my parents--
Thou knowest how they are--I bid thee take them
To live with thee.
MERCHANT.
Yes, yes, but thou wilt live.
SOBEIDE.
No, say not so; but mark, I fain would tell thee
A many things. Oh yes, that graybeard man.
He's very poor, take him into thy house
At my request.
MERCHANT.
Now thou shalt bide with me.
I will thy every wish divine: breathe softly
As e'er thou wilt, yet I will be the lyre
To answer every breath with harmony,
Until thou weary and bid it be still.
SOBEIDE.
Say not such words, for I am dizzy and
They flicker in my eyes. Lament not much,
I beg of thee. If I remained alive,
All mangled as I am, I never could
Bring children into life for thee; my body
Would be so ugly, whereas formerly
I know I had some beauty. This would be
So hard for thee to bear and hide from me.
But I shall die at once, I know, my dear.
This is so strange: our spirits dwell in us
Like captive birds. And when the cage is shattered,
It flies away. No, no, thou must not smile:
I feel it is so. Look, the flowers know it,
And shine the brighter since I know it too.
Canst thou not understand? Mark well my words.
[Pause.]
Art thou still there, and I too, all this while?
Oh, now I see thy face, and it is other
Than e'er I saw till now. Art thou my husband?
MERCHANT.
My child!
SOBEIDE.
Thy spirit seems to bend and lean
Out of thine eyes, and oh, the words thou speakest!
They quiver in the air, because the heart
So quivers, whence they come. Weep not, I can
Not bear it, for I love thee so. O let
Me see as last of all thine eyes. We should
Have lived together long and had our children.
But now 'tis fearful--for my parents.
[Dies.]
MERCHANT (half bowed).
Thus noiseless falls a star. Meseems, her heart
Was never close united with the world.
And what have I of her, except this glance,
Whose closing was involved in rigid Lethe,
And in such words as by false breath of life
Were made to sound so strong, e'en while they faded,
Just as the wind, ere he lies down to sleep,
Deceitful swells the sails as ne'er before.
[He rises.]
Aye, lift her up. So bitter is this life:
A wish was granted her, and that one door
At which she lay with longing and desire
Was oped--and back she came in such distress,
Death-stricken, that but issued forth the evening prior--
As fishers, cheeks with sun and moon afire,
Prepare their nets--in hopes of great success.
[They lift up the body to carry it in.]
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
* * * * * *
THE GREEN COCKATOO
A Grotesque in One Act
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
EMILE, Duc de Cadignan
FRANCOIS, Vicomte de Nogeant
ALBIN, Chevalier de la Tremouille
MARQUIS DE LANSAC
SEVERINE, his wife
ROLLIN, Poet
PROSPER (formerly Theatre Manager), HOST
HENRI |
|
BALTHASAR |
|
GUILLAUME |
|
SCAEVOLA |
|
JULES |
\
ETIENNE > His troupe
/
MAURICE |
|
GEORGETTE |
|
MICHETTE |
|
FLIPOTTE |
LEOCADIE, Actress, wife of Henri
GRASSET, Philosopher
LEBRET, Tailor
GRAIN, a vagabond
THE COMMISSAIRE OF POLICE
Nobles, Actors, Actresses, Citizens, and Citizens? Wives
The Action takes place in Paris in the evening of the 14th July,
1789, in the underground tavern of PROSPER.
THE GREEN COCKATOO (1899)
TRANSLATED BY HORACE SAMUEL
SCENE.--THE TAVERN OF THE GREEN COCKATOO
A medium-sized underground room. Seven steps lead down to it on the
Right (rather far back). The stairs are shut off by a door on top.
A second door which is barely visible is in the background on the Left.
A number of simple wooden tables with chairs around them fill nearly
the whole room. On the Left in the Centre is a bar; behind the bar a
number of barrels with pipes. The room is lighted by small oil lamps
which hang from the ceiling.
The HOST, PROSPER. Enter the citizens LEBRET and GRASSET.
GRASSET (coming down the steps). Come in, Lebret. I know the tap. My
old friend and chief has always got a cask of wine smuggled away
somewhere or other, even when all the rest of Paris is perishing of
thirst.
HOST. Good evening, Grasset. So you show your face again, do you? Away
with Philosophy! Have you a wish to take an engagement with me again?
GRASSET. The idea! Bring some wine rather. I am the guest--you the
host.
HOST. Wine? Where shall I get wine from, Grasset? They've sacked all
the wine-shops in Paris this very night. And I would lieve wager that
you had a hand therein.
GRASSET. Out with the wine. The mob who are coming an hour after us are
bound-- (Listening.) Do you hear anything, Labret?
LEBRET. It is like slight thunder.
GRASSET. Good!--Citizens of Paris-- (To HOST.) You're sure to have
another barrel in reserve for the mob--so out with our wine; my friend
and admirer, the Citizen Labret, tailor of the Rue St. Honore, will pay
for everything.
[Illustration: ARTHUR SCHNITZLER]
LEBRET Certainly, certainly, I will pay.
[HOST hesitates.]
GRASSET. Show him that you have money, Labret.
[LEBRET draws out his purse.]
HOST. Now I will see if I-- (He opens the cock of a barrel and fills
two glasses.) Where do yon come from, Grasset? The Palais-Royal?
GRASSET. For sure--I made a speech there. Ay, my good friend, it is my
turn now. Do you know whom I spoke after?
HOST. Well?
GRASSET. After Camille Desmoulins. Yes, indeed, I dared to do it. And
tell me, Labret, who had the greater applause--Desmoulins or I?
LEBRET. You--without a doubt.
GRASSET. And how did I bear myself?
LEBRET. Splendidly.
GRASSET. Do you hear, Prosper? I placed myself on the table--I looked
like a monument--indeed I did--and all the thousands--five thousands,
ten thousands, assembled round me--just as they had done before round
Camille Desmoulins--and cheered me.
LEBRET. It was a louder cheer,
GRASSET. Indeed it was ... not much louder, but it was louder. And now
they're all moving toward the Bastille ... and I make bold to say they
have followed my call. I swear to you before the evening is out we
shall have it.
HOST. Yes, to be sure, if the walls fall down before your speeches!
GRASSET. What--speeches--are you deaf? 'Tis a case of shooting now. Our
valiant soldiers are there. They have the same hellish fury against the
accursed prison as we have. They know that their brothers and fathers
sit imprisoned behind those walls.... But there would have been no
shooting if we had not spoken. My dear Prosper, great is the power of
intellect. There--(to LEBRET) where are the papers?
LEBRET. Here! (Pulls pamphlets out of his pocket.)
GRASSET. Here are the latest pamphlets which have just been distributed
in the Palais-Royal. Here is one by my friend Cerutti--"Memorial for
the French People;" here is one by Desmoulins, who certainly speaks
better than he writes--"Free France."
HOST. When's your own pamphlet going to appear--the one you're always
talking about, you know?
GRASSET. We need no more. The time has come for deeds. Anyone who sits
within his four walls today is a knave. Every real man must go out into
the streets.
LEBRET. Bravo!--Bravo!
GRASSET. In Toulon they have killed the mayor; in Brignolles they have
sacked a dozen houses; but we in Paris are always sluggards and will
put up with anything.
HOST. You can scarcely say that now.
LEBRET. (who has been drinking steadily). Up, you citizens, up!
GRASSET. Up! Lock up your shop and come with us now.
HOST. I'll come right enough, when the time comes.
GRASSET. Ay, to be sure, when there is no more danger.
HOST. My good friend, I love Liberty as well as you do, but my calling
comes before everything.
GRASSET. There is only one calling now for citizens of Paris--freeing
their brothers.
HOST. Yes, for those who have nothing else to do!
LEBRET. What says he? He makes game of us.
HOST. Never dreamt of it. But now, my friends, look to it that you go
away--my performance will begin in a minute, and I can't find you a job
in it.
LEBRET. What performance? Is this a theatre?
HOST. Certainly, 'tis a theatre. Why, only a fortnight ago your friend
was playing here.
LEBRET. Were you playing here, Grasset?... Why do you let the fellow
jeer at you like that without punishing him?
GRASSET. Calm yourself--it is true; I did play here. This is no
ordinary tavern: 'tis a den of thieves. Come.
HOST. You'll pay first.
LEBRET. If this is a den of thieves I won't pay a single sou.
HOST. Explain to your friend where he is.
GRASSET. This is a strange place. People who play criminals come
here--and others who are criminals without suspecting it.
LEBRET. Indeed?
GRASSET. I would have you mark that what I just said was very witty; it
is positively capable of making the substance of a whole speech.
LEBRET. I don't understand a word of all you say.
GRASSET. I was simply telling you that Prosper was my manager. And
he is still playing comedy with his actors, but a different kind from
before. My former gentlemen and lady colleagues sit around and behave
as though they were criminals. Do you understand! They tell
blood-curdling stories of things that have never happened to
them--speak of crimes they have never committed ... and the audience
that comes here enjoys the pleasant titillation of hobnobbing with the
most dangerous rabble in Paris--swindlers, burglars, murderers--and--
LEBRET. What kind of an audience?
HOST. The most elegant people in Paris.
GRASSET. Noble--
HOST. Gentlemen of the Court.
LEBRET. Down with them!
GRASSET. It does 'em good. It gives a fillip to their jaded senses.
'Twas here that I made my start, Labret--here that I delivered my first
speech as though for a joke; here it was that I first began to hate the
dogs who sat amongst us with all their fine clothes and perfumes and
rottenness ... and I am very glad indeed, my good Labret, that you,
too, should see just for once the place from which your great friend
raised himself. (In another tone.) I say, Prosper, supposing the
business doesn't come off--
HOST. What business?
GRASSET. Why, my political career--will you engage me again?
HOST. Not for anything!
GRASSET (lightly). Why--I thought there might be still room for
somebody besides your Henri.
HOST. Apart from that ... I should be afraid that you might forget
yourself one fine day and fall foul in earnest of one of my paying
customers.
GRASSET (flattered). That would certainly be possible--
HOST. I--I have control over myself--
GRASSET. Frankly, Prosper, I must say that I would admire you for your
self-control, if I happened not to know that you are a poltroon.
HOST. Ah! my friend, I am satisfied with what I can do in my own line.
I get enough pleasure out of being able to tell the fellows my opinion
of them to their faces and to insult them to my heart's content--while
they take it for a joke. That, too, is a way of venting one's wrath.
(Draws a dagger and makes it flash.)
LEBRET. Citizen Prosper, what is the meaning of this?
GRASSET. Have no fear. I wager that the dagger is not even sharpened.
HOST. In that, my friend, you may be making a mistake. One fine day the
jest may turn to earnest--and so I am ready for all emergencies.
GRASSET. The day is nigh. We live in great times. Come, Citizen Labret,
we will go to our comrades. Farewell, Prosper; you will see me either a
great man or never again.
Labret (giddily). As a great man--or--not at all.
[Exeunt. HOST remains behind, sits on a table, opens a
pamphlet, and reads aloud.]
HOST. "Now that the beast is in the noose, throttle it." He doesn't
write badly, that little Desmoulins. "Never was richer booty offered to
the victors. Forty thousand palaces and castles, two-fifths of all the
property in France, will be the reward of valor. Those who plume
themselves on being conquerors will be put beneath the yoke, the
nation will be purged."
Enter the COMMISSAIRE.
HOST (sizing him up). Hallo--the rabble's beginning to come in pretty
early tonight.
COMMISSAIRE. My dear Prosper, don't start any of your jokes on me; I am
the Commissaire of your district.
HOST. And how can I be of any service?
COMMISSAIRE. I have orders to attend the performance in your tavern
this evening.
HOST. It will be an especial honor for me.
COMMISSAIRE. 'Tis nothing of that, my excellent Prosper. The
authorities wish to have definite information as to what really goes on
in your place. For some weeks--
HOST. This is a place of amusement, M. le Commissaire--nothing more.
COMMISSAIRE. Let me finish what I was saying. For some weeks past this
place is said to have been the theatre of wild orgies.
HOST. You are falsely informed, M. le Commissaire. We make jokes here,
nothing more.
COMMISSAIRE. It begins with that, I know. But it finishes up in another
way, so I am informed. You have been an actor.
HOST. A manager, sir--manager of a first-class troupe who last played
in Denis.
COMMISSAIRE. That is immaterial. Then you came into a small legacy.
HOST. Not worth speaking about, M. le Commissaire.
COMMISSAIRE. Your troupe split up.
HOST. And my legacy as well.
COMMISSAIRE (smiling). Very well! (Both smile. Suddenly serious.)
You started a tavern.
HOST. That fared wretchedly.
COMMISSAIRE. After which you had an idea that, which, as one must
admit, possesses a certain quantum of originality.
HOST. You make me quite proud, sir.
COMMISSAIRE. You gathered your troupe together again, and have a comedy
played here which is of a peculiar and by no means harmless character.
HOST. If it were harmful, M. le Commissaire, I should not have my
audience--the most aristocratic audience in Paris, I'm in a position to
say. The Vicomte de Nogeant is my daily customer. The Marquis de Lansac
often comes, and the Duc de Cadignan, M. le Commissaire, is the most
enthusiastic admirer of my leading actor, the celebrated Henri Baston.
COMMISSAIRE. As well as of the art or arts of your actresses.
HOST. When you get to know my little actresses, M. le Commissaire, you
won't blame anybody in the whole world for that.
COMMISSAIRE. Enough. The authorities have been informed that the
entertainments which your--what shall I say--?
HOST. The word "artists" ought to suffice.
COMMISSAIRE. I will decide on the word "subjects"--that the
entertainments which your subjects provide transgress in every sense
the limits the laws allow. Speeches are said to be delivered by
your--what shall I say?--by your artist-criminals which--what does my
information say?--(he reads from a notebook, as he had been doing
previously) which are calculated to produce not only an immoral
effect, which would bother us but little, but a highly seditious
effect--a matter to which the authorities absolutely cannot be
indifferent, at a time so agitated as the one in which we live.
HOST. M. le Commissaire, I can only answer that accusation by politely
inviting you to see the thing just once for yourself. You will observe
that nothing of a seditious nature takes place here, if only because my
audience will not permit itself to be made seditious. There is simply a
theatrical performance here, that is all.
COMMISSAIRE. I naturally cannot accept your invitation, but I will stay
here by virtue of my office.
HOST. I think I can promise you a first-class entertainment, M. le
Commissaire; but I will take the liberty of advising you to doff your
official garb and to appear here in civilian clothes. If people
actually saw a Commissaire in uniform here, both the spontaneity of my
artists and the mood of my audience would suffer thereby.
COMMISSAIRE. You are right, M. Prosper; I will go away and come back as
an elegant young man.
HOST. You will have no difficulty about that, M. le Commissaire. You
would be welcomed here even as a vagabond--that would not excite
attention--but not as a Commissaire.
COMMISSAIRE. Good-by. (Starts to go.)
HOST (bowing). When will the blessed day come when I can treat you
and your damned likes--?
[The COMMISSAIRE meets GRAIN in the doorway. GRAIN is in
absolute rags and gives a start when he sees the COMMISSAIRE. The
latter looks at him first, smiles, and then turns courteously to
HOST.]
COMMISSAIRE. One of your artists already? [Exit.]
GRAIN (whining pathetically). Good evening.
HOST (after looking at him for a long time). If you're one of my
troupe, I won't grudge you my recognition ... of your art, because I
don't recognize you.
GRAIN. What do you mean?
HOST. No jests now; take off your wig; I'd rather like to know who you
are. (He pulls at his hair.)
GRAIN. Oh, dear!
HOST. But 'tis genuine! Heavens--who are you? You appear to be a real
ragamuffin.
GRAIN. I am!
HOST. What do you want of me?
GRAIN. Have I the honor of speaking to Citizen Prosper?--the host of
The Green Cockatoo?
HOST. I am he.
GRAIN. My name is Grain, sometimes Carniche--very often Shrieking
Pumice-stone; but I was sent to prison, Citizen Prosper, under the name
of Grain, and that is the real point.
HOST. Ah, I understand. You want to play in my establishment and start
off with playing me. Good. Go on.
GRAIN. Citizen Prosper, don't look upon me as a swindler. I am a man of
honor. If I tell you that I was imprisoned, 'tis the complete truth.
[HOST looks at him suspiciously.]
GRAIN (pulling a paper out of his pocket). Here, Citizen Prosper, you
can see from this that I was let out yesterday afternoon at four
o'clock.
HOST. After two years' imprisonment! Zounds, 'tis genuine!
GRAIN. Were you all the time doubting it, then. Citizen Prosper?
HOST. What did you do to get two years?
GRAIN. I would have been hanged; but I was lucky enough to be still
half a child when I killed my poor aunt.
HOST. Nay, fellow, how can a man kill his own aunt?
GRAIN. Citizen Prosper, I would never have done it if my aunt had not
deceived me with my best friend.
HOST. Your aunt?
GRAIN. That's it--she was dearer to me than aunts usually are to their
nephews. The family relations were peculiar--it made me embittered,
most embittered. May I tell you about it?
HOST. Go on telling--perhaps you and I will be able to do business
together.
GRAIN. My sister was but half a child when she ran away from
home--and whom do you think she went with?
HOST. 'Tis difficult to guess.
GRAIN. With her uncle. And he left her in the lurch--with a child--
HOST. A whole one, I hope.
GRAIN. 'Tis indelicate of you, Citizen Prosper, to jest about such
things.
HOST. I'll tell you what, Shrieking Pumice-stone, you--your family
history bores me. Do you think I'm here to listen to every Tom, Dick,
or Harry o' a ragamuffin telling me whom he has killed? What's all that
go to do with me? I take it you wish something of me.
GRAIN. Ay, truly. Citizen Prosper; I've come to ask you for
work.
HOST (sarcastically). I would have you mark that there are no aunts
to murder in my place--this is a house of entertainment.
GRAIN. Oh, I found the once quite enough. I want to become a
respectable member of society--I was recommended to come to you.
HOST. By whom, if I may ask?
GRAIN. A charming young man whom they put in my cell three days ago.
Now he's alone. His name's Gaston!... and you know him.
HOST. Gaston! Now I know why I've missed him for three evenings. One of
my best interpreters of pickpockets. He told yarns--ah! it made 'em
split their sides.
GRAIN. Quite so. And now they've nabbed him.
HOST. Nabbed--what do you mean? He didn't really steal I suppose.
GRAIN. Yes, he did. But it must have been the first time, for he
seems to have gone about it with incredible clumsiness. Just think of
it--(confidentially)--just made a grab at the pocket of a lady in the
Boulevard des Capucines, and pulled out her purse--an absolute amateur.
You inspire me with confidence, Citizen Prosper, and so I'll make a
confession to you. There was a time when I, too, transacted little bits
of business of that sort, but never without my dear father. When I was
still a child, when we all lived together, when my poor aunt was still
alive--
HOST. What are you moaning for! I think 'tis in bad taste. You ought
not to have killed her.
GRAIN. Too late. But the point I was coming to is--take me on here. I
will do just the opposite of Gaston. He played the thief and became
one--
HOST. I will give you a trial. You will produce a fine effect with
your make-up. And at a given moment you'll just describe the aunt
matter--how it all happened--someone or other will be sure to ask you.
GRAIN. I thank you, Citizen Prosper. And with regard to my wages--
HOST. Tonight you will play on trial, and I am, therefore, not yet in a
position to pay you wages. But you will get good stuff to eat and
drink; and I shall not mind a franc or so for a night's lodging.
GRAIN. I thank you. And just introduce me to your other colleagues as a
visitor from the provinces.
HOST. Oh, no. We will tell them right away that you are a real
murderer. They will much prefer that.
GRAIN. Pardon me. I don't wish to do anything against my interests, but
I don't see why--
HOST. When you have been on the boards a bit longer, you will
understand.
Enter SCAEVOLA and JULES.
SCAEVOLA. Good evening, Chief.
HOST. How many times have I got to tell you that the whole joke falls
flat if you call me Chief?
SCAEVOLA. Well, whatever you are, I don't think we shall play tonight.
HOST. And why?
SCAEVOLA. The people won't be in the mood. There's a hellish uproar in
the streets, and in front of the Bastille especially they are yelling
like men possessed.
HOST. What matters that to us? The shouting has been going on for
months, and our audience hasn't stayed away from us. It goes on
diverting itself just as it did before.
SCAEVOLA. Ay, it has the gaiety of people who are shortly going to be
hanged.
HOST. If only I live to see it!
SCAEVOLA. In the meanwhile, give us something to drink to get me into
the vein. I don't feel at all in the vein tonight.
HOST. That's often the case with you, my friend. I must tell you that I
was most dissatisfied with you last night.
SCAEVOLA. Why so, if I may ask?
HOST. The story about the burglary was simply babyish.
SCAEVOLA. Babyish?
HOST. To be sure. Absolutely incredible. Mere roaring is of no avail.
SCAEVOLA. I didn't roar.
HOST. You are always roaring. It will really be necessary for me to
rehearse things with you. One can never rely on your inspirations.
Henri is the only one.
SCAEVOLA. Henri--never anything but Henri! Henri simply plays to the
gallery. My burglary of last night was a masterpiece. Henri will never
do anything as good as that as long as he lives. If I don't satisfy
you, my friend, then I'll just go to a proper theatre. Anyhow, yours is
nothing but a cheap-jack establishment. Hallo! (Notices GRAIN.) Who
is this! He isn't one of our lot, is he? Perhaps you've just engaged
someone? But what a make-up the fellow has!
HOST. Calm yourself. 'Tis not a professional actor. 'Tis a real
murderer.
SCAEVOLA. Oh, indeed. (Goes up to him.) Very glad to know you. My
name is Scaevola.
GRAIN. My name is Grain.
[JULES has been walking around in the room the whole time,
frequently standing still, like a man tortured inwardly.]
HOST. What ails you, Jules?
JULES. I am learning my part.
HOST. What?
JULES. Remorse. Tonight I am playing a man who is a prey to remorse.
Look at me. What do you think of the furrow in the forehead here? Do I
not look as though all the furies of hell--(Walks up and down.)
SCAEVOLA (roars). Wine--wine, here!
HOST. Calm yourself.... There is no audience yet.
Enter HENRI and LEOCADIE.
HENRI. Good evening. (He greets those sitting at the back with a light
wave of his hand.) Good evening, gentlemen.
HOST. Good evening, Henri. What do I see?--you and Leocadie together?
GRAIN (who has noticed LEOCADIE, to SCAEVOLA). Why, I know her.
(Speaks softly with the others.)
LEOCADIE. Yes, my dear Prosper, it is I.
HOST. I have not seen you for a year on end. Let me greet you. (He
tries to kiss her.)
HENRI. Stop that. (His eyes often rest on LEOCADIE with pride and
passion, but also a certain anxiety.)
HOST. But, Henri--as between old comrades--your old chief Leocadie!
LEOCADIE. Oh, the good old times. Prosper!
HOST. What are you sighing about? When a wench has made her way in the
way you have! No doubt about it, a pretty young woman has always a much
easier time of it than we have.
HENRI (wild with rage). Stop it.
HOST. Why the deuce do you keep on shouting at me like that? Because
you've picked up with her once more?
HENRI. Hold your tongue--she became my wife yesterday.
HOST. Your ...? (To LEOCADIE.) Is he joking?
LEOCADIE. He has really married me. Yes.
HOST. Then I congratulate you.... I say, Scaevola, Jules, Henri is
married.
SCAEVOLA (comes to the front). I wish you joy (winks at LEOCADIE).
[JULES shakes hands with them both.]
GRAIN (to HOST). Ah! How strange! I saw that woman--a few minutes
after I was let out.
HOST. What do you mean?
GRAIN. She was the first pretty woman I'd seen for two years. I was
very moved. But it was another gentleman with whom-- (Goes on
speaking to HOST.)
HENRI (in an exalted tone as though inspired, but not theatrically).
Leocadie, my love, my wife ... all the past is over now. A great deal
is blotted out on an occasion like this.
[SCAEVOLA and JULES have gone to the back. HOST comes forward
again.]
HOST. What sort of occasion?
HENRI. We are united now by a holy sacrament. That means more than any
human oath. God is now watching over us, and one ought to forget
everything which has happened before. Leocadie, a new age is dawning.
Everything becomes holy now, Leocadie. Our kisses, however wild they
may be, are holy from henceforth. Leocadie, my love, my wife! (He
contemplates her with an ardent glance.) Isn't her expression quite
different. Prosper, from what you ever knew her to have before? Is not
her forehead pure! What has been is blotted out--not so, Leocadie?
LEOCADIE. Surely, Henri.
HENRI. And all is well. We leave Paris tomorrow. Leocadie makes her
last appearance tonight at the Porte St. Martin, and I am placing here
tonight for the last time.
HOST. Are you mad, Henri? Do you want to desert me? Besides, the
manager of the Porte St. Martin will never think of letting Leocadie go
away. Why, she makes the fortune of his house. The young gentlemen
stream thither, so they say.
HENRI. Hold your peace. Leocadie will go with me. She will never
desert me. Tell me that you will never desert me, Leocadie. (Brutally.)
Tell me.
LEOCADIE. I will never desert you.
HENRI. If you did, I would ... (pause). I am sick of this life. I want
quiet--I wish to have quiet.
HOST. But what do you want to do then, Henri? It is quite ridiculous. I
will make you a proposition. So far as I am concerned, take Leocadie
from the Porte St. Martin, but let her stay here with me. I will engage
her. Anyway, I have rather a dearth of talented women characters.
HENRI. My mind is made up. Prosper. We are leaving town. We are going
into the country.
HOST. Into the country? But where?
HENRI. To my old father, who lives alone in our poor village--I haven't
seen him for seven years. He has almost given up hope of ever seeing
his lost son again. He will welcome me with joy.
PROSPER. What will you do in the country? In the country they all
starve. People are a thousand times worse off there than in town. What
on earth will you do there? You are not the man to till the fields.
Don't imagine you are.
HENRI. Time will prove that I am the man to do even that.
HOST. Soon there won't be any corn growing in any part of France. You
are going to certain misery.
HENRI. To happiness. Prosper. Not so, Leocadie? We have often dreamt of
it. I yearn for the peace of the wide plains. Yes, Prosper, I have seen
myself in my dreams going over the fields with her, in an infinite
stillness with the wonderful placid heavens over us. Ay, we will flee
from this awful and dangerous town; the great peace will come over us.
Is it not true, Leocadie, that we have often had such dreams?
LEOCADIE. Yes, we have often had such dreams.
HOST. Look here, Henri, you should consider it. I will gladly raise
your wages and I will give Leocadie quite as much as you.
LEOCADIE. Hear you that, Henri?
HOST. I really don't know who's to take your place here. Not a single
one of my people has such precious inspirations as you have, not one of
them is so popular with my audience as you ... don't go away.
HENRI. I can quite believe that no one will take my place.
HOST. Stay by me, Henri. (Throws LEOCADIE a look; she intimates that
she will arrange matters.)
HENRI. And I can promise you that they will take my departure to
heart--they, not I. For tonight--for my final appearance I have
reserved something that will make them all shudder ... a foreboding of
the end of this world will come over them ... for the end of their
world is nigh. But I shall only experience it from a safe distance ...
they will tell us about it out there, Leocadie, many days after it has
happened.... But I tell you, they will shudder. And you yourself will
say, "Henri has never played so well."
HOST. What are you going to play? What? Do you know what, Leocadie?
LEOCADIE. I never know anything.
HENRI. But has anyone any idea of what an artist lies hidden within me?
HOST. They certainly have an idea, and that's why I tell you that a man
with a talent such as yours doesn't go and bury himself in the country.
What an injustice to yourself! and to Art!
HENRI. I don't care a straw about Art. I wish for quiet. You don't
understand that, Prosper; you have never loved--
HOST. Oh!
HENRI. As I love. I want to be alone with her--that's the only way ...
that's the only way, Leocadie, of forgetting everything. But then we
shall be happier than human beings have ever been before. We shall
have children; you will be a good mother, Leocadie, and a true
wife. All the past, all the past will be blotted out. (Great pause.)
LEOCADIE. 'Tis getting late, Henri. I must go to the theatre. Farewell,
Prosper; I am glad at last to have seen your famous den, the place
where Henri scores such triumphs.
HOST. But why did you never come?
LEOCADIE. Henri would not let me--because I should have to sit next to
the young men, you know.
HENRI (has gone to the back). Give me a drink, Scaevola. (He
drinks.)
HOST (to LEOCADIE, when HENRI is out of hearing). Henri is an
arrant fool--if you had only sat next to them!
LEOCADIE. Now then! no remarks of that sort.
HOST. Take my tip and be careful, you silly gutter-brat. He will kill
you one of these days.
LEOCADIE. What's up, then?
HOST. You were seen only yesterday with one of your fellows.
LEOCADIE. That was not a fellow, you blockhead; that was--
HENRI (turns round quickly). What's the matter with you? No jokes, if
you don't mind. No more whispering. No more secrets now. She is my
wife.
HOST. What did you give her for a wedding present?
LEOCADIE. Heavens! he never thinks about such things.
HENRI. Well, you shall have one this very night.
LEOCADIE. What?
SCAEVOLA and JULES. What are you going to give her?
HENRI (quite seriously). When you have finished your scene, you must
come here and see me act. (They laugh.)
HENRI. No woman ever had a more glorious wedding present. Come,
Leocadie. Good-by for the present, Prosper. I shall soon be back again.
[Exeunt HENRI and LEOCADIE.]
Enter together FRANCOIS, Vicomte de Nogeant, and ALBIN, Chevalier
de la Tremouille.
SCAEVOLA. What a contemptible braggart!
HOST. Good evening, you swine. [ALBIN starts back.]
FRANCOIS (without taking any notice). Was not that the little
Leocadie of the Porte St. Martin, who went away with Henri?
HOST. Of course it was.--If she really took great trouble she could
eventually make you remember that even you are something of a man, eh?
FRANCOIS (laughing). That is not impossible. It seems we are rather
early tonight.
HOST. In the meanwhile you can amuse yourself with your minion.
[ALBIN is on the point of flying into a passion.]
FRANCOIS. Let it pass. I told you what went on here. Bring us wine.
HOST. Ay, that I will. The time will soon come when you will be very
satisfied with Seine water.
FRANCOIS. Quite so, quite so ... but tonight I would fain ask for wine,
and the best wine into the bargain.
[HOST goes to the bar.]
ALBIN. That is really a dreadful fellow.
FRANCOIS. But just think, it's all a joke. And, withal, there are
places where you can hear similar things in real earnest.
ALBIN. Is it not forbidden?
FRANCOIS (laughs). One sees that you come from the provinces.
ALBIN. Ah! we, too, are having a bad time of it nowadays. The peasants
are getting so insolent ... one doesn't know what to do any more....
FRANCOIS. What would you have? The poor devils are hungry--that is the
secret.
ALBIN. How can I help it? How can my great-uncle help it?
FRANCOIS. Why do you mention your great-uncle?
ALBIN. Well, I do so because they actually held a meeting in our
village--quite openly--and at the meeting they actually called my
great-uncle, the Comte de Tremouille, a corn-usurer.
FRANCOIS. Is that all?
ALBIN. Nay, is that not enough!
FRANCOIS. We will go to the Palais-Royal tomorrow, and there you will
have a chance of hearing the monstrous speeches the fellows make. But
we let them speak--it is the best thing to do. They are good people at
bottom; one must let them bawl themselves out in that way.
ALBIN (pointing to SCAEVOLA, etc.). What suspicious characters
those are! Just see how they look at one. (He feels for his sword.)
FRANCOIS (draws his hand away). Don't be ridiculous. (To the three
others.) You need not begin yet; wait till there is more audience.
(To ALBIN.) They're the most respectable people in the world, actors
are. I will warrant you have already sat at table with worse knaves.
ALBIN. But they were better attired. [HOST brings wine.]
Enter MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE.
FRANCOIS. God be with you, children! Come and sit down by us.
MICHETTE. Here we are. Come along, Flipotte. She is still somewhat shy.
FLIPOTTE. Good evening, young gentleman.
ALBIN. Good evening, ladies.
MICHETTE. The little one is a dear. (She sits on ALBIN'S lap.)
ALBIN. But, Francois, please explain, are these respectable ladies?
MICHETTE. What does he say?
FRANCOIS. No, that's not quite the word for the ladies who come here.
Odds life, you are silly, Albin!
HOST. What shall I bring for their Graces?
MICHETTE. Bring me a very sweet wine.
FRANCOIS (pointing to FLIPOTTE). A friend of yours?
MICHETTE. We live together. Yes, we have only one bed between us.
FLIPOTTE (blushing). Would you find it a very great nuisance should
you come and see her! (Sits on FRANCOIS'S lap.)
ALBIN. She is not at all shy.
SCAEVOLA (stands up; gloomily turning to the table where the young
people are). At last I've found you. (To ALBIN.) And you, you
miserable seducer, aren't you ashamed that you ... She is mine.
[HOST looks on.]
FRANCOIS (to ALBIN). a joke--a joke....
ALBIN. She isn't his--
MICHETTE. Go away. You let me sit where I want to.
[SCAEVOLA stands there with clenched fists.]
HOST (behind). Now, now?
SCAEVOLA. Ha, ha!
HOST (takes him by the collar). Ha, ha! (By his side.) You have not
a farthing's worth of talent. Roaring, that's the only thing you can
do.
MICHETTE (to FRANCOIS). Recently he did it much better.
SCAEVOLA (to HOST). I'm not in the vein. I'll make a better show
later on, when more people are here; you see. Prosper, I need an
audience.
Enter the DUC DE CADIGNAN.
DUKE. Already in full swing!
[MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE go up to him.]
MICHETTE. My sweet Duke.
FRANCOIS. Good evening, EMILE ... (introducing) My young friend,
Albin, Chevalier de Tremouille--the Duc de Cadignan.
DUKE. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. (To the girls, who are
hanging on to him.) Leave me alone, children! (To ALBIN.) So you,
too, are having a look at this droll tavern?
ALBIN. It bewilders me in the extreme.
FRANCOIS. The Chevalier has only been in Paris a few days.
DUKE (laughing). Then you have certainly chosen a nice time.
ALBIN. How so?
MICHETTE. He still has that delicious perfume! There isn't another man
in Paris who has such a pleasant smell. (To ALBIN.) ... You can't
perceive it like that.
DUKE. She speaks of the seven or eight hundred whom she knows as well
as me.
FLIPOTTE. Will you let me play with your sword, dear?
[She draws his sword out of its sheath and flashes it about.]
GRAIN (to Host). He's the man--'twas him I saw her with--
[HOST lets him go on, seems astonished.]
DUKE. Henri is not here yet, then? (To ALBIN.) If you see him, you
will not regret having come here.
HOST (to DUKE). Oh, so you're here again, are you? I am glad. We
shall not have the pleasure much longer.
DUKE. Why? I find it very nice at your place.
HOST. I believe that. But since in any case you will be one of the
first ...
ALBIN. What does that mean!
HOST. You understand me well enough. The favorites of fortune will be
the first! (Goes to the back.)
DUKE (after reflection). If I were king, I would make him my Court
Fool; I mean to say, I should have many Court Fools, but he would be
one of them.
ALBIN. What did he mean by saying that you were too fortunate?
DUKE. He means, Chevalier ...
ALBIN. Please, don't call me Chevalier. Everybody calls me Albin,
simply Albin, just because I look so young.
DUKE (smiling). Good.... But you must call me Emile--eh?
ALBIN. With pleasure, if you allow it, Emile.
[Illustration: HENRIK IBSEN.]
_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_
FROM OLAF GULBRANSSON'S "FAMOUS CONTEMPORARIES"
DUKE. They have a sinister wit, have these people.
FRANCOIS. Why sinister? I find it quite reassuring. So long as the mob
is in the mood for jests, it will never come to anything serious.
DUKE. Only the jests are much too strange. I learnt a thing today that
gives food for thought.
FRANCOIS. Tell us.
FLIPOTTE and MICHETTE. Ay, tell us, sweet Duke!
DUKE. Do you know Lelange?
FRANCOIS. Of course--the village ... the Marquis de Montferrat has one
of his finest hunts there.
DUKE. Quite right; my brother is now at the castle with him, and he has
written home about the things I am going to tell you. They have a mayor
at Lelange who is very unpopular.
FRANCOIS. If you can tell me the name of one who is popular--
DUKE. Just listen. The women of the village paraded in front of the
mayor's house with a coffin.
FLIPOTTE. What? Did they carry it? Carry a coffin? I wouldn't like to
carry a coffin for anything in the world.
FRANCOIS. Hold your tongue. Nobody is asking you to carry a coffin.
(To the DUKE.) Well?
DUKE. And one or two of the women went into the mayor's house and
explained to him that he must die, but they would do him the honor of
burying him.
FRANCOIS. Well, have they killed him?
DUKE. No; at least, my brother doesn't write anything about it.
FRANCOIS. Well then ... blusterers, talkers, clowns--that's what they
are. Today they're roaring in Paris at the Bastille for a change, just
as they've already done half a dozen times before ...
DUKE. Well, if I were king I should have made an end of it long ago.
ALBIN. Is it true that the king is so good-natured?
DUKE. You have not yet been presented to His Majesty?
FRANCOIS. This is the first time the Chevalier has been in Paris.
DUKE. Yes, you are incredibly young. How old, if I may ask?
ALBIN. I only look so young; I am already seventeen.
DUKE. Seventeen!--how much is still in front of you! I am already
four-and-twenty!... I am beginning to regret how much of my youth I
have missed!
FRANCOIS (laughs). That is good. You, Duke--you count every day lost
in which you have not conquered a woman or killed a man.
DUKE. Only the unfortunate thing is that one never makes a conquest of
the right woman, and always kills the wrong man. And that as a matter
of fact is how one misses one's youth. You know what Rollin says?
FRANCOIS. What does Rollin say?
DUKE. I was thinking of his new piece that they are playing at the
Comedie--there is such a pretty simile in it. Don't you remember?
FRANCOIS. I have no memory for verses.
DUKE. Nor have I, unfortunately ... I only remember the sense. He says,
youth which a man does not enjoy is like a feather-ball, which you
leave lying in the sand instead of throwing it up into the air.
ALBIN (like a wiseacre). I think that is quite right.
DUKE. Is it not true? The feathers gradually lose their color and fall
out. 'Tis better for it to fall into a bush where it cannot be found.
ALBIN. How should one understand that, Emile?
DUKE. 'Tis more a matter of feeling than of understanding. If I could
repeat the verses, you would understand it at once.
ALBIN. I have an idea, Emile, that you, too, could make verses if you
wished.
DUKE. Why?
ALBIN. Since you have been here, it seems to me as though life were
flaming up.
DUKE (smiling). Yes? Is life flaming up?
FRANCOIS. Won't you come and sit with us after all?
[Meanwhile, two nobles come in and sit down at a distant
table. HOST appears to be addressing insults to them.]
DUKE. I cannot stay here. But in any case I will come back again.
MICHETTE. Stay with me.
FLIPOTTE. Take me with you. (They try to hold him.)
HOST (coming to the front). Just you leave him alone. You're not bad
enough for him by a long way. He's got to run after a whore off the
streets--that's where he feels most in his element.
DUKE. I shall certainly come back, if only not to miss Henri.
FRANCOIS. What do you think, when we came, Henri was just going out
with Leocadie.
DUKE. Really--he has married her. Did you know that?
FRANCOIS. Is that so? What will the others have to say to it?
ALBIN. What others?
FRANCOIS. She is loved all around, you know.
DUKE. And he wants to go away with her ... what do I know about it?...
Somebody told me.
HOST. Indeed? Did they tell you? (Glances at the DUKE.)
DUKE (having first looked at HOST). It is too silly. Leocadie was
made to be the greatest, the most splendid whore in the world.
FRANCOIS. Who doesn't know that?
DUKE. Could anything be more unreasonable than to take people away from
their true calling? (As FRANCOIS laughs.) I am not joking. Whores
are born, not made--just as conquerors and poets are.
FRANCOIS. You are paradoxical.
DUKE. I am sorry for her, and for Henri. He should stay here--no, not
here--I should like to bring him to the Comedie--though even there--I
always feel as though nobody understood him as well as I do.
Of course, that may be an illusion, since I have the same feeling in
regard to most artists. But I must say if I were not the Duc de
Cadignan, I should really like to be a comedian like him--like him, I
say ...
ALBIN. Like Alexander the Great.
DUKE (smiling). Yes, Alexander the Great.... (To FLIPOTTE.) Give me
my sword. (He puts it in the sheath. Slowly.) It is the finest way of
making fun of the world; a man who can play any part and at the same
time play us is greater than all of us. (ALBIN looks at him in
astonishment.) Don't you reflect on what I say. 'Tis all only true at
the actual moment. Good-by.
MICHETTE. Give me a kiss before you go.
FLIPOTTE. Me too!
[They hang on to him, the Duke kisses them both at once and
goes. In the meanwhile:]
ALBIN. a wonderful man!
FRANCOIS. That is quite true; ... but the existence of men like that is
almost a reason for not marrying.
ALBIN. But do explain; what are those girls?
FRANCOIS. Actresses. They, too, belong to the troupe of Prosper, who is
at present the host of the tavern. No doubt they've done in the past
much the same as they're doing now.
[GUILLAUME rushes in apparently breathless.]
GUILLAUME (making toward the table where the actors are sitting, with
his hand on his heart--speaking with difficulty--supporting himself).
Saved--ay, saved!
SCAEVOLA. What is it? What ails you?
ALBIN. What has happened to the man?
FRANCOIS. That is part of the acting now. Mark you.
ALBIN. Ah!
MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE (going quickly to GUILLAUME). What is it?
What ails you?
SCAEVOLA. Sit down. Take a draught!
GUILLAUME. More!--more! Prosper, more wine! I have been running. My
tongue cleaves to my mouth. They were right at my heels.
JULES (gives a start). Ah! be careful; they really are at our heels.
HOST. Come, tell us, what happened then? (To the actors.)
Movement!--more movement!
GUILLAUME. Women here ... women--ah! (Embraces FLIPOTTE.) That brings
one back to life again! (To ALBIN, who is highly impressed.) The
Devil take me, my boy, if I thought I would ever see you alive again.
(As though he were listening.) They come!--they come! (Goes to the
door.) No, it is nothing ... They ...
ALBIN. How strange! There really is a noise, as though people outside
were pressing forward very quickly. Is that part of the stage effects
as well?
SCAEVOLA. He goes in for such damned subtleties every blessed time.
(To JULES.) 'Tis too silly--
HOST. Come now, tell us why they are at your heels again?
GUILLAUME. Oh, nothing special. But if they got me, it would cost me my
head. I've set fire to a house.
[During this in and sit down at the
tables.]
HOST (softly). Go on!--go on!
GUILLAUME (in the same tone). What more do you want? Isn't it enough
for you if I've set fire to a house?
FRANCOIS. But tell me, my friend, why you set fire to the house.
GUILLAUME. Because the President of the Supreme Court lived in it. We
wanted to make a beginning with him. We wanted to keep the good
Parisian householders from taking folk into their houses so lightly who
send us poor devils to the prison.
GRAIN. That's good! That's good!
GUILLAUME (looks at GRAIN and is surprised; then goes on speaking).
All the houses must be fired. Three more fellows like me and there
won't be any more judges in Paris.
GRAIN. Death to the judges!
JULES. Yes ... but there may be one whom we can't annihilate.
GUILLAUME. I should like to know who he is.
JULES. The judge within us.
HOST (softly). That's tasteless. Leave off. Scaevola, roar! Now's the
time.
SCAEVOLA. Wine here, Prosper; we want to drink to the death of all the
judges in France.
[During the last words enter the MARQUIS DE LANSAC, with his
wife, SEVERINE, and ROLLIN, the poet.]
SCAEVOLA. Death to all who have the power in their hands today!
MARQUIS. See you, Severine, that is how they greet us.
ROLLIN. Marquise, I warned you.
SEVERINE. Why?
FRANCOIS. Whom do I see? The Marquise! Allow me to kiss your hand. Good
evening. Marquis. Well met to you, Rollin. And you, Marquise, you dare
to venture into this place!
SEVERINE. I heard such a lot about it. And besides, we are having a day
of adventures already--eh, Rollin?
MARQUIS. Yes. Just think of it, Vicomte; you would never believe where
we come from--from the Bastille.
FRANCOIS. Are they still keeping up the tumult there?
SEVERINE. Ay, indeed! It looks as though they meant to storm it.
ROLLIN (declaiming).
Like to a flood that seethes against its banks,
And rages deep that its own child, the Earth,
Resists it.--
SEVERINE. Don't, Rollin! We left our carriages there in the
neighborhood. It is a magnificent spectacle--there is always something
so grand about crowds.
FRANCOIS. Yes, yes, if they only did not smell so vilely.
MARQUIS. And my wife would not leave me in peace--I had to bring her
here.
SEVERINE. Well, what is there so very special here?
HOST (to LANSAC). Well, so you're here, are you, you dried-up old
scoundrel? Did you bring your wife along because she wasn't safe enough
for you at home?
MARQUIS (with a forced laugh). He's quite a character.
HOST. But take heed that she is not snatched away from under your nose
in this very place. Aristocratic ladies like her very often get a deuce
of a fancy to try what a real rogue is like.
ROLLIN. I suffer unspeakably, Severine.
MARQUIS. My child, I prepared you for this--it is high time that we
went.
SEVERINE. What ails you? I think it's charming. Nay, let us seat
ourselves.
FRANCOIS. Would you allow me. Marquise, to present to you the Chevalier
de la Tremouille. He is here for the first time, too. The Marquis de
Lansac; Rollin, our celebrated poet.
ALBIN. Delighted. (Compliments; they sit down.) (To FRANCOIS.) Is
that one of those that are playing, or--I can't make it out--
FRANCOIS. Don't be so stupid. That is the lawful wife of the Marquis de
Lansac ... a lady of extreme propriety.
ROLLIN (to SEVERINE). Say that thou lovest me.
SEVERINE. Yes, yes; but ask me not every minute.
MARQUIS. Have we missed a scene already?
FRANCOIS. Nothing much. An incendiary's playing over there, 'twould
appear.
SEVERINE. Chevalier, you must be the cousin of the little Lydia de la
Tremouille who was married today.
ALBIN. Quite so, Marquise; that was one of the reasons why I came to
Paris.
SEVERINE. I remember having seen you in the church.
ALBIN (embarrassed). I am highly flattered, Marquise.
SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). What a dear little boy!
ROLLIN. My dear Severine, you have never yet managed to know a man
without his pleasing you.
SEVERINE. Indeed I did; and what is more, I married him straight away.
ROLLIN. I am always so afraid, Severine--I am sure there are moments
when it's not safe for you to be with your own husband.
HOST (brings wine). There you are. I wish it were poison; but for the
time being, the law won't let us serve it to you, you scum.
FRANCOIS. The time'll soon come, Prosper.
SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). What is the matter with both those pretty
girls? Why don't they come nearer? Now that we once are here, I want to
join in everything. I really think that everything is extremely moral
here.
MARQUIS. Have patience, Severine.
SEVERINE. I think nowadays one diverts oneself best in the streets. Do
you know what happened to us yesterday when we went for a drive in the
Promenade de Longchamps?
MARQUIS. Please, please, my dear Severine, why--
SEVERINE. A fellow jumped onto the footboard of our carriage and
shouted, "Next year you will stand behind your coachman and we shall be
sitting in the carriages."
FRANCOIS. Hm! That is rather strong.
MARQUIS. Odds life! I don't think one ought to talk of such things.
Paris is now somewhat feverish, but that will soon pass off again.
GUILLAUME (suddenly). I see flames--flames everywhere I look--red,
high flames.
HOST (to him). You're playing a madman, not a criminal.
SEVERINE. Does he see flames?
FRANCOIS. But all this is still not the real thing. Marquise.
ALBIN (to ROLLIN). I cannot tell you how bewildered I feel already
with everything.
MICHETTE (comes to the MARQUIS). I have not yet greeted you, darling,
you dear old pig.
MARQUIS (embarrassed). She jests, dear Severine.
SEVERINE. It does not look that way. Tell me, little one, how many
love-affairs have you had so far?
MARQUIS (to FRANCOIS). It is really wonderful how well my wife the
Marquise knows how to adapt herself to every situation.
ROLLIN. Yes, it is wonderful.
MICHETTE. Have you counted yours?
SEVERINE. When I was still as young as you ... of course ...
ALBIN (to ROLLIN). Tell me, M. Rollin, is the Marquise joking, or is
she really like--? I positively can't make it out.
ROLLIN. Reality ... playing ... do you know the difference so exactly.
Chevalier?
ALBIN. At any rate ...
ROLLIN. I don't. And what I find so peculiar here is that all apparent
distinctions, so to speak, are taken away. Reality passes into play--
play into reality. Just look now at the Marquise. How she gossips with
those creatures as though she were one of them. At the same time she
is--
ALBIN. Something quite different.
ROLLIN. I thank you, Chevalier.
HOST (to GRAIN). Well, how did it all happen?
GRAIN. What?
HOST. Why, the affair with your aunt, for which you went to prison for
two years.
GRAIN. I told you, I strangled her.
FRANCOIS. That is feeble. He is an amateur. I have never seen him
before.
GEORGETTE (comes quickly in, dressed like a prostitute of the lowest
class). Good evening, children. Is my Balthasar not here yet?
SCAEVOLA. Georgette, sit by me. Your Balthasar will yet be here in
time.
GEORGETTE. If he is not here in ten minutes, he won't bring off
anything again--he won't come back at all then.
FRANCOIS. Watch her, Marquise. She is the wife of that Balthasar of
whom she has just been speaking, and who will soon come in. She
represents just a common street-jade, while Balthasar is her bully. All
the same, she is the truest wife to be found in the whole of Paris.
BALTHASAR comes in.
GEORGETTE. My Balthasar! (She runs toward him and embraces him). So
there you are.
BALTHASAR. It is all in order. (Silence around him.) It was not worth
the trouble. I was almost sorry for him. You should size up your
customers better, Georgette. I am sick of killing promising youths for
the sake of a few francs.
FRANCOIS. Splendid!
ALBIN. What--?
FRANCOIS. He brings out the points so well.
Enter the COMMISSAIRE, disguised; sits down at table.
HOST (to him). You come at a good time, M. le Commissaire. This is
one of my best exponents.
BALTHASAR. One should really try and find another profession. On my
soul, I am not a craven, but this kind of bread is hard earned.
SCAEVOLA. I can well believe so.
GEORGETTE. What's the matter with you today?
BALTHASAR. I will tell you what. Georgette--I think you're a trifle too
tender with the young gentlemen.
GEORGETTE. See what a child he is! But be reasonable, Balthasar. I must
needs be very tender so as to inspire them with confidence.
ROLLIN. What she says is really deep.
BALTHASAR. If I thought for a moment that you felt anything when
another--
GEORGETTE. What do you say to that? Dumb jealousy will yet bring him to
his grave.
BALTHASAR. I have already heard one sigh, Georgette, and that was at a
moment when one of them was already giving sufficient proofs of his
confidence.
GEORGETTE. One can't leave off playing a woman in love so suddenly.
BALTHASAR. Be careful, Georgette--the Seine is deep. (Wildly.) Should
you ever deceive me--
GEORGETTE. Never, never.
ALBIN. I positively can't make it out.
SEVERINE. Rollin, that is the right interpretation!
ROLLIN. You think so?
MARQUIS (to SEVERINE). It is time we were going, Severine.
SEVERINE. Why? I am beginning to enjoy it.
GEORGETTE. My Balthasar, I adore you. (Embrace.)
FRANCOIS. Bravo! bravo!
BALTHASAR. What loony is that?
COMMISSAIRE. This is unquestionably too strong; this is--
Enter MAURICE and ETIENNE. They are dressed like young nobles, but
one can see that they are only disguised in dilapidated theatrical
costumes.
FROM THE ACTORS' TABLE. Who are they?
SCAEVOLA. May the devil take me if it ain't Maurice and Etienne.
GEORGETTE. Of course it is they!
BALTHASAR. Georgette!
SEVERINE. Heavens! what monstrously pretty young persons.
ROLLIN. It is painful, Severine, to see you so violently excited by
every pretty face.
SEVERINE. What did I come here for, then?
ROLLIN. Tell me, at any rate, that you love me.
SEVERINE (with a peculiar look). You have a short memory.
ETIENNE. Well, where do you think we have come from?
FRANCOIS. Listen, Marquis; they're a couple of quite witty youths.
MAURICE. A wedding.
ETIENNE. One has got to dress up a bit in places like this. Otherwise
one of those damned secret police gets on one's track at once.
SCAEVOLA. At any rate, have you made a good haul?
HOST. Let's have a look.
MAURICE (drawing watches out of his waistcoat). What'll you give me
for this?
HOST. For that there? A louis.
MAURICE. Indeed?
SCAEVOLA. It is not worth more.
MICHETTE. That is a lady's watch. Give it to me, Maurice.
MAURICE. What will you give me for't?
MICHETTE. Look at me--isn't that enough?
FLIPOTTE. No, give it to me; look at me--
MAURICE. My dear children, I can have that without risking my head.
MICHETTE. You are a conceited ape.
SEVERINE. I swear that's no acting.
ROLLIN. Of course not; there is a flash of reality running through the
whole thing. That is the chief charm.
SCAEVOLA. What wedding was it, then?
MAURICE. The wedding of Mademoiselle de la Tremouille; she was married
to the Comte de Banville.
ALBIN. Do you hear that, Francois? I assure you they are real knaves.
FRANCOIS. Calm yourself, Albin. I know the two. I have seen them play a
dozen times already. Their specialty is the portrayal of pickpockets.
[MAURICE draws some purses out of his waistcoat.]
SCAEVOLA. Well, you can do the handsome tonight.
ETIENNE. It was a very magnificent wedding. All the nobility of France
was there. Even the King was represented.
ALBIN (excited). All that is true.
MAURICE (rolls some money over the table). That is for you, my
friends, so that you can see that we all stick to one another.
FRANCOIS. Properties, dear Albin. (He stands up and takes a few
coins.) We, too, you see, come in for a share.
HOST. You take it--you have never earned anything so honestly in your
life.
MAURICE (holds in the air a garter set with diamonds). And to whom
shall I give this? (GEORGETTE, MICHETTE, and FLIPOTTE make a rush
after it.) Patience, you sweet pusses. We will speak about that later
on. I will give it to the one who devises a new caress.
SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). Would you not like to let me join in the
competition!
ROLLIN. I protest you will drive me mad, Severine.
MARQUIS. Severine, had we not better be going now? I think--
SEVERINE. Oh, no. I am enjoying myself excellently. (To ROLLIN.) Ah
well, my mood is getting so--
MICHETTE. How did you get hold of the garter?
MAURICE. There was such a crush in the church--and when a lady thinks
one is courting her-- (All laugh.)
[GRAIN has stolen FRANCOIS'S purse.]
FRANCOIS (showing the money to ALBIN). Mere counters. Are you
satisfied now?
[GRAIN wants to get away.]
HOST (going after him softly). Give me the purse at once which you
took from this gentleman.
GRAIN. I--
HOST. Straightaway ... or it will be the worse for you.
GRAIN. You need not be churlish. (Gives it to him.)
HOST. And stay here. I have no time to search you now. Who knows what
else you have pouched. Go back to your place.
FLIPOTTE. I shall win the garter.
HOST (throwing the purse to FRANCOIS). Here's your purse. You lost it
out of your pocket.
FRANCOIS. I thank you, Prosper. (To ALBIN.) You see, we are in
reality in the company of most respectable people.
[HENRI, who has already been present for some time and has sat
behind, suddenly stands up.]
ROLLIN. Henri--there is Henri.
SEVERINE. Is he the one you told me so much about?
MARQUIS. Assuredly. The man one really comes here to see.
[HENRI comes to the front of the stage, very theatrically; is
silent.]
THE ACTORS. Henri, what ails you?
ROLLIN. Observe the look. A world of passion. You see, he is playing
the man who commits a crime of passion.
SEVERINE. I prize that highly.
ALBIN. But why does he not speak?
ROLLIN. He is beside himself. Just watch. Pay attention.... He has
wrought a fearful deed somewhere.
FRANCOIS. He is somewhat theatrical. It looks as though he were going
to get ready for a monologue.
HOST. Henri, Henri, where do you come from?
HENRI. I have murdered.
ROLLIN. What did I say?
SCAEVOLA. Whom?
HENRI. The lover of my wife.
[PROSPER looks at him; at this moment he obviously has the
feeling that it might be true.]
HENRI (looks up). Well, yes, I've done it. What are you looking at me
like that for? That's how the matter stands. Is it, then, so wonderful
after all? You all know what kind of a creature my wife is; it was
bound to end like that.
HOST. And she--where is she?
FRANCOIS. See, the host takes it seriously. You notice how realistic
that makes the thing.
[Noise outside--not too loud.]
JULES. What noise is that outside?
MARQUIS. Do you hear, Severine?
ROLLIN. It sounds as though troops were marching by.
FRANCOIS. Oh, no; it is our dear people of Paris. Just listen how they
bawl. (Uneasiness in the cellar; it grows quiet outside.) Go on,
Henri--go on.
HOST. Yes, do tell us, Henri--where is your wife? Where have you left
her?
HENRI. Oh, I have no qualms about her. She will not die of it. Whether
it is this man or that man, what do the women care? There are still a
thousand other handsome men running about Paris--whether it is this man
or that man--
BALTHASAR. May it fare thus with all who take our wives from us.
SCAEVOLA. All who take from us what belongs to us.
COMMISSAIRE (to HOST). These are seditious speeches.
ALBIN. It is dreadful ... the people mean it seriously.
SCAEVOLA. Down with the usurers of France! We would fain wager that the
fellow whom he caught with his wife was another again of those accursed
hounds who rob us of our bread as well.
ALBIN. I propose we go.
SEVERINE. Henri!--Henri!
MARQUIS. But, Marquise--
SEVERINE. Please, dear Marquis, ask the man how he caught his wife--or
I will ask him myself.
MARQUIS (after resisting). Tell us, Henri, how did you manage to
catch the pair?
HENRI (who has been for a long while sunk in reverie). Know you my
wife, then? She is the fairest and vilest creature under the sun. And I
loved her! We have known one another for seven years--but it is only
yesterday that she became my wife. In those seven years there was not
one day, nay, not one day, in which she did not lie to me, for
everything about her is a lie--her eyes and her lips, her kisses and
her smiles.
FRANCOIS. He rants a little.
HENRI. Every boy and every old man, every one who excited her and every
one who paid her--every one, I think, who wanted her--has possessed
her, and I have known it!
SEVERINE. Not every one can boast as much.
HENRI. And all the same she loved me, my friends. Can any one of you
understand that? She always came back to me again--from all quarters
back again to me--from the handsome and from the ugly, from the shrewd
and from the foolish, from ragamuffins and from courtiers--always came
back to me.
SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). Now, if only you had an inkling that it is just
this coming back which is really love.
HENRI. What I suffered ... tortures, tortures!
ROLLIN. It is harrowing.
HENRI. And yesterday I married her. We had a dream--nay, I had a dream.
I wanted to get away with her from here. Into solitude, into the
country, into the great peace. We wished to live like other happy
married couples--we dreamt also of having a child---
ROLLIN (softly). Severine.
SEVERINE. Very good!
ALBIN. Francois, that man is speaking the truth.
FRANCOIS. Quite so; the love-story is true, but the real pith is the
murder-story.
HENRI. I was just one day too late.... There was just one man whom she
had forgotten, otherwise--I believe--she wouldn't have wanted any one
else.... But I caught them together ... it is all over with him.
ACTORS. Who?--who? How did it happen? Where does he lie? Are you
pursued? How did it happen? Where is she?
HENRI (with growing excitement). I escorted her ... to the theatre
... today was to be the last time.... I kissed her ... at the door ...
and she went to her dressing-room ... and I went off like a man who has
nothing to fear. But when I had gone a hundred yards, I began
... to have ... within me--do you understand? ... a terrible unrest ...
and it was as though something forced me to turn round ... and I turned
round and went back. But once there I felt ashamed and went away again
... and again I walked a hundred yards away from the theatre ... and
then something gripped me ... again I went back. Her scene was at an
end--she hasn't got much to do, she just stands awhile on the stage
half naked--and then she has finished. I stood in front of her
dressing-room, put my ear to the door, and heard whispers. I could not
make out a word ... the whispering ceased ... I pushed open the door
... (he roars like a lion) it was the Duc de Cadignan, and I murdered
him.
HOST (who now at last takes it for the truth). Madman!
[HENRI looks up, gazes fixedly at HOST.]
SEVERINE. Bravo!--bravo!
ROLLIN. What are you doing. Marquise? The moment you call out "bravo!"
you make it all acting again--and the pleasant shudder is past.
MARQUIS. I do not find the shudder so pleasant. Let us applaud, my
friends; that is the only way we can throw off the spell.
[A gentle bravo, growing continually louder; all applaud.]
HOST (to HENRI, during the noise). Save yourself--flee, Henri.
HENRI. What!--what!
HOST. Let this be enough, and see that you get away.
FRANCOIS. Hush!... Let us hear what the host says.
HOST (after a short reflection). I am telling him that he ought to
get away before the watch at the city gates are informed. The handsome
Duke was a favorite of the King--they will break you on the wheel. Far
better had it been had you stabbed that scum, your wife.
FRANCOIS. What playing up to each other!... Splendid!
HENRI. Prosper, which of us is mad, you or I! (He stands there and
tries to read in PROSPER'S eyes.)
ROLLIN. It is wonderful; we all know that he is acting, and yet if the
Duc de Cadignan were to enter now, it would be like a ghost appearing.
[Noise outside--growing stronger and stronger. People come in;
shrieks are heard. Right at their head GRASSET. Others, among
them LEBRET, force their way over the steps. Cries of "Liberty!
Liberty!" are heard.]
GRASSET. Here we are, my boys--in here!
ALBIN. What is that? Is that part of the performance?
FRANCOIS. No.
MARQUIS. What means it?
SEVERINE. What people are those?
GRASSET. In here! I tell you, my friend Prosper has still got a barrel
of wine left, and we have earned it. (Noise from the streets.) Friend!
Brother! We have them!--we have them!
SHOUTS (from outside). Liberty! Liberty!
SEVERINE. What has happened?
MARQUIS. Let us get away--let us get away; the mob approaches.
ROLLIN. How do you propose to get away?
GRASSET. It has fallen; the Bastille has fallen!
HOST. What say you? Speaks he the truth?
GRASSET. Hear you not?
[ALBIN wants to draw his sword.]
FRANCOIS. Stop that at once, or we are all lost.
GRASSET (reeling in down the stairs). And if you hasten, you will still
be in time to see quite a merry sight ... the head of our dear Delaunay
stuck on a very high pole.
MARQUIS. Is the fellow mad?
SHOUTS. Liberty! Liberty!
GRASSET. We have cut off a dozen heads; the Bastille belongs to us; the
prisoners are free! Paris belongs to the people!
HOST. Hear you?--hear you? Paris belongs to us!
GRASSET. See you how he gains courage now. Yes, shout away, Prosper;
naught more can happen to you now.
HOST (to the nobles). What say you to it, you rabble? The joke is at an
end.
ALBIN. Said I not so?
HOST. The people of Paris have conquered.
COMMISSAIRE. Silence! (They laugh.) Silence! I forbid the continuance
of the performance!
GRASSET. Who is that nincompoop?
COMMISSAIRE. Prosper, I regard you as responsible for all these
seditious speeches.
GRASSET. Is the fellow mad?
HOST. The joke is at an end. Don't you understand? Henri, do tell
them--now you can tell them. We will protect you--the people of Paris
will protect you.
GRASSET. Yea, the people of Paris.
[HENRI stands there with a fixed stare.]
HOST. Henri has really murdered the Duc de Cadignan.
ALBIN, FRANCOIS, and MARQUIS. What says he?
ALBIN and others. What means all this, Henri?
FRANCOIS. Henri, pray speak.
HOST. He found him with his wife and he has killed him.
HENRI. 'Tis not true!
HOST. You need fear naught more now; now you can shout it to all the
world. I could have told you an hour past that sue was the Duke's
mistress. By God, I was nigh telling you--is't not true, you, Shrieking
Pumice-stone?--did we not know it?
HENRI. Who has seen her? Where has she been seen?
HOST. What matters that to you now? The man's mad ... you have killed
him; of a truth you cannot do more.
FRANCOIS. In heaven's name, is't really true or not?
HOST. Ay, it is true.
GRASSET. Henri, from henceforth you must be my friend. Vive la
Liberte!--Vive la Liberte!
FRANCOIS. Henri, speak, man!
HENRI. She was his mistress? She was the mistress of the Duke? I knew
it not ... he lives ... he lives ... (Tremendous sensation.)
SEVERINE (to the others). Well, where's the truth now?
ALBIN. My God!
[The DUKE forces his way through the crowd on the steps.]
SEVERINE (who sees him first). The Duke!
SOME VOICES. The Duke.
DUKE. Well, well, what is it?
HOST. Is it a ghost?
DUKE. Not that I know of. Let me through!
ROLLIN. What won't we wager that it is all arranged! The fellows yonder
belong to Prosper's troupe. Bravo, Prosper! This is a real success.
DUKE. What is it? Is the playing still going on here, while outside ...
but don't you know what manner of things are taking place outside? I
have seen Delaunay's head carried past on a pole. Nay, why do you look
at me like that? (Steps down.) Henri--
FRANCOIS. Guard yourself from Henri.
[Henri rushes like a madman on the Duke and plunges a dagger into
his neck.]
COMMISSAIRE (stands up). This goes too far!
ALL. He bleeds.
ROLLIN. A murder has been done here.
SEVERINE. The Duke is dying.
MARQUIS. I am distracted, dear Severine, to think that today of all
days I should have brought you to this place.
SEVERINE. Why not? (In a strained tone.) It is a wonderful success. One
does not see a real duke really murdered every day.
ROLLIN. I cannot grasp it yet.
COMMISSAIRE. Silence! Let no one leave the place!
GRASSET. What does he want?
[Illustration: GEORG BRANDES]
_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_
From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous Contemporaries"
COMMISSAIRE. I arrest this man in the name of the law.
GRASSET (laughs). It is we who make the laws, you blockheads! Out with
the rabble! He who kills a duke is a friend of the people. Vive la
Liberte!
ALBIN (draws his sword). Make way! Follow me, my friends! [Leocadie
rushes in over the steps.]
VOICES. His wife!
LEOCADIE. Let me in here. I want my husband! (She comes to the front,
sees, and shrieks out.) Who has done this? Henri! [HENRI looks at her.]
LEOCADIE. Why have you done this?
HENRI. Why?
LEOCADIE. I know why. Because of me. Nay, nay, say not 'twas because of
me. Never in all my life have I been worth that.
GRASSET (begins a speech). Citizens of Paris, we will celebrate our
victory. Chance has led us on our way through the streets of Paris to
this amiable host. It could not have fitted in more prettily. Nowhere
can the cry "Vive la Liberte!" ring sweeter than over the corpse of a
duke.
VOICES. Vive la Liberte! Vive la Liberte!
FRANCOIS. I think we might go. The people have gone mad. Let us go.
ALBIN. Shall we leave the corpse here?
SEVERINE. Vive la Liberte! Vive la Liberte!
MARQUIS. Are you mad?
CITIZENS _and_ ACTORS. Vive la Liberte! Vive la Liberte!
SEVERINE (leading the nobles to the exit). Rollin, wait you tonight
outside my window. I will throw the key down like t'other night. We
will pass a pretty hour--I feel quite pleasurably excited.
SHOUTS. Vive la Liberte! Vive Henri! Vive Henri!
LEBRET. Look at the fellows--they are running away from us.
GRASSET. Let them for tonight--let them; they will not escape us.
LITERATURE
A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
* * * * *
CHARACTERS
MARGARET
CLEMENT
GILBERT
LITERATURE (1902)
BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
TRANSLATED BY A. I. DU P. COLEMAN, A.M.
Professor of English Literature, College of the City of New York
Scene, a decently but not richly furnished room, belonging to
MARGARET. Table, small writing-desk, chairs, a cupboard, two windows up
stage, doors right and left. At rise of curtain, CLEMENT is discovered
leaning against mantelpiece, in a very elegant dark gray morning suit,
smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. MARGARET stands by window,
then walks up and down, finally comes behind CLEMENT and runs her hands
through his hair. She seems rather restless. CLEMENT goes on reading,
then seizes her hand and kisses it.
CLEMENT. Horner is sure of his game--or rather my game. Waterloo five
to one, Barometer twenty to one, Busserl seven to one, Attila sixteen
to one.
MARGARET. Sixteen to one!
CLEMENT. Lord Byron six to four--that's us, darling!
MARGARET. I know.
CLEMENT. Besides, it's still six weeks to the race.
MARGARET. Apparently he thinks it's a dead certainty.
CLEMENT. The way she knows all the terms ...!
MARGARET. I've known these terms longer than I have you. And is it
quite settled that you'll ride Lord Byron yourself?
CLEMENT. How can you ask? The Ladies' Plate! Whom else should I put up?
If Horner didn't know I was going to ride him myself, he wouldn't be
standing at six to four, you may be sure of that.
MARGARET. I believe you. You're so handsome on horseback--simply fit to
take one's breath away! I shall never forget how you looked at Munich,
the day I got to know you ...
CLEMENT. Don't remind me of it! I had awful luck that day. Windisch
would never have won the race if he hadn't got ten lengths start. But
this time--ah ...! And the next day we go away.
MARGARET. In the evening.
CLEMENT. Yes ... But why?
MARGARET. Because in the morning we shall be getting married, I
suppose.
CLEMENT. Yes, yes, darling.
MARGARET. I'm so happy! (Embraces him.) And where shall we go?
CLEMENT. I thought we'd agreed about that--to my place in the country.
MARGARET. Yes, later. But can't we have a little while on the Riviera
first?
CLEMENT. That'll depend on the Ladies' Plate; if I win it ...
MARGARET. Dead certainty!
CLEMENT. And anyhow, in April the Riviera really isn't the thing any
more.
MARGARET. Oh, that's it, is it?
CLEMENT. Of course that's it, child. You've retained from your old life
certain conceptions of what's the thing which are--you'll forgive me
for saying it--just a little like those of the comic papers.
MARGARET. Really, Clement ...
CLEMENT. Oh well, we'll see. (Goes on reading.) Badegast fifteen to one
...
MARGARET. Badegast? He won't be in it.
CLEMENT. How do you know that?
MARGARET. Szigrati himself told me.
CLEMENT. How was that? Where?
MARGARET. Why, yesterday up at the Freudenau, while you were talking to
Milner.
CLEMENT. To my way of thinking, Szigrati isn't the right sort of
company for you.
MARGARET. Jealous?
CLEMENT. Nonsense! Anyhow, after this I shall introduce you everywhere
as my fiancee. (She kisses him.) Well, what did Szigrati tell you?
MARGARET. That he wasn't going to enter Badegast for the Ladies' Plate.
CLEMENT. Oh, you mustn't believe everything Szigrati tells you. He's
spreading the report that Badegast won't run just in order that the
odds may be longer.
MARGARET. Why, that's just like speculation.
CLEMENT. Well, don't you suppose we've got any speculators among us?
For many men the whole thing is a business. Do you suppose a man like
Szigrati has the slightest feeling for sport? He might just as well be
on the stock exchange. But for the matter of that, as far as Badegast
is concerned, people might well lay a hundred to one against him.
MARGARET. Oh? I thought he looked splendid this morning.
CLEMENT. Oh, she's seen Badegast too!
MARGARET. To be sure--didn't Butters give him a gallop this morning
after Busserl?
CLEMENT. But Butters doesn't ride for Szigrati. That must have been a
stable-boy. Well, anyhow, Badegast may look as splendid as you like, it
makes no difference--he's no good. Ah, Margaret, with your brains
you'll soon learn to distinguish real greatness from false. It's really
incredible, the quickness with which you've already--what shall I
say?--initiated yourself into all these things--it surpasses my boldest
expectations.
MARGARET (annoyed). Why does it surpass your expectations? You know
very well that all these things are not so new to me. Some very good
people used to visit my parents' house--Count Libowski and various
others; and also at my husband's ...
CLEMENT. Oh, of course--I know ... At bottom I've really got nothing
against the cotton business.
MARGARET. What has it to do with my personal views that my husband had
a cotton factory? I always continued my education in my own fashion.
But let's not talk any further about those days--they're far
enough away, thank God!
CLEMENT. But there are others that are nearer.
MARGARET. To be sure. But what does that mean?
CLEMENT. Oh, I only mean that in your Munich surroundings you can't
have heard much of sporting matters, as far as I am able to judge.
MARGARET. I wish you'd stop reproaching me with the surroundings in
which you learned to know me.
CLEMENT. Reproaching you? There can't be any question of that. But it
has always been and still is incomprehensible to me how you got in with
those people.
MARGARET. You talk exactly as if they had been a gang of criminals!
CLEMENT. Child, I give you my word, there were some of them that looked
exactly like highway-robbers. What I can't understand is how you, with
your well-developed sense of ... Well, I won't say anything more than
your taste for ... cleanliness and nice perfumes ... could bear living
among those people, sitting down at the table with them.
MARGARET (smiling). Didn't you do it too?
CLEMENT. I sat down near them--not with them. And you know it was for
your sake, exclusively for your sake, that I did it. I won't deny that
some of them improved on closer acquaintance; there were some really
interesting people among them. And you mustn't get the idea, darling,
that when I'm among ill-dressed people I have a feeling of conscious
superiority. It's not that--but there's something in their whole
bearing, in their very nature, that makes one nervous.
MARGARET. Oh, I think that's rather a sweeping statement.
CLEMENT. Now don't get offended with me, darling. I've just said there
were some very interesting people among them. But how a _lady_ can feel
at home with them for any length of time, I shall never be able to
understand.
MARGARET. You forget one thing, my dear Clement--that in a certain
sense I belong to their circle, or did belong to it.
CLEMENT. You--I beg your pardon!
MARGARET. They were artists.
CLEMENT. Ah good--we're back on that subject again!
MARGARET. Yes--and that's the thing that always hurts me, that you
can't feel with me there.
CLEMENT. "Can't feel with you" ... I like that! I can feel with you all
right--but you know what it was I always disliked about your
scribbling, and you know that it's a very personal thing.
MARGARET. Well, there are women who in my situation at that time would
have done worse things than write poetry.
CLEMENT. But such poetry! (He picks up a little book on the
mantelpiece.) That's the whole question. I can assure you, every time I
see it lying there, everytime I even think of it, I'm ashamed to think
it's yours.
MARGARET. You simply don't understand it. No, you mustn't be vexed with
me; if you had just that one thing more, you'd be perfect--and that
probably is not to be. But what is it that disturbs you in the verses?
You surely know that I haven't experienced anything like that.
CLEMENT. I hope not!
MARGARET. You know it's all imagination.
CLEMENT. But then I can't help asking myself ... how comes a lady to
have such an imagination? (Reads.)
"So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck
And suck thy lips' drained sweetness ..."
(Shakes his head.) How can a lady write such stuff, or allow it to be
printed? Everybody who reads it must call up a picture of the authoress
and the neck and ... the intoxication.
MARGARET. When I give you my word that such a neck has never existed
...
CLEMENT. No, I can't believe that it has. Lucky for me that I
can't--and ... for you too, Margaret. But how did you ever come by such
fancies? All these glowing emotions can't possibly be referred to your
first husband--you told me yourself he never understood you.
MARGARET. Of course he didn't--that's why I got a divorce from him. You
know all about that. I simply couldn't exist by the side of a man who
had no ideas beyond eating and drinking and cotton.
CLEMENT. Yes, I know. But all that's three years ago--and you wrote the
verses later.
MARGARET. Yes ... But just think of the position in which I found
myself ...
CLEMENT. What sort of a position? You hadn't any privations to put up
with, had you? From that point of view your husband, to give him his
due, behaved really very well. You weren't forced to earn your own
living. And even if they gave you a hundred florins for a poem--they
certainly wouldn't give more--you weren't obliged to write a book like
that.
MARGARET. Clement, dear, I didn't mean the word "position" in a
material sense; I meant the position in which my soul was. Haven't you
any conception ...? When you first met me, it was much better--to a
certain extent I had found myself; but at first ...! I was so helpless
and distracted. I did everything I could--I painted, I even gave
English lessons in the boardinghouse where I was living. Just think
what it was like, to be there as a divorced woman at twenty-two, to
have no one ...
CLEMENT. Why didn't you stay quietly in Vienna?
MARGARET. Because I was not on good terms with my family. No one has
really understood me. Oh, these people ...! Do you suppose any of my
relations could conceive that one should want anything else from life
except a husband and pretty clothes and a position in society!
Oh, good heavens ...! If I had had a child, things might have been very
different--and again they might not. I am a very complex creature. But
after all, what have you to complain of! Wasn't my going to Munich the
best thing I could have done? How else should I ever have known you!
CLEMENT. That's all right--but you didn't go there with that purpose in
view.
MARGARET. I went because I wanted to be free--inwardly free. I wanted
to see if I could make the thing go on my own resources. And you must
admit that it looked as if I should be able to. I was on the road to
becoming famous. (CLEMENT looks at her dubiously.) But I cared more for
you than even for fame.
CLEMENT (good-naturedly). And I'm a bit more dependable.
MARGARET. I wasn't thinking about that. I loved you from the very first
moment--that was the thing that counted. I had always dreamed of some
one just like you; I had always known that no other sort of man could
make me happy. Blood isn't a mere empty word; it's the only thing that
counts. Do you know, that's why I always have a kind of idea ...
CLEMENT. What?
MARGARET. At least now and then the thought comes to me that there may
be some noble blood in my veins too.
CLEMENT. How so?
MARGARET. Well, it would be a possibility.
CLEMENT. I don't understand.
MARGARET. I told you that there used to be aristocratic visitors at my
parents' house ...
CLEMENT. Well, and if there were ...?
MARGARET. Who knows ...?
CLEMENT. Oh, I say, Margaret! How can you talk of such things!
MARGARET. Oh, when you're about one can never say what one thinks!
That's the only thing the matter with you--if it weren't for that you'd
be perfect. (She nestles up to him.) I do love you so tremendously.
The very first evening, when you came into the cafe with Wangenheim,
I knew it at once--knew that you were the man for me. You know you
strode in among those people like a being from another world.
CLEMENT. I hope so. And you, thank goodness, didn't look as if you
belonged to that one. No ... when I remember that crowd--the Russian
girl, for example, who looked like a student with her close-cropped
hair, only that she didn't wear the cap ...
MARGARET. She's a very talented artist, the Baranzewich.
CLEMENT. I know--you showed her to me in the Pinakothek, standing on a
ladder, copying pictures. And then the fellow with the Polish name ...
MARGARET (begins to recall the name). Zrkd ...
CLEMENT. Oh, don't bother--you won't need to pronounce it any more.
Once he delivered a lecture in the cafe, when I was there, without
seeming in the least embarrassed.
MARGARET. He's a great genius--you may take my word for it.
CLEMENT. Oh, of course--they're all great geniuses at the cafe. And
then there was that insufferable cub ...
MARGARET. Who?
CLEMENT. Oh, you know the fellow I mean--the one that was always making
tactless remarks about the aristocracy.
MARGARET. Gilbert--you must mean Gilbert.
CLEMENT. That's the one. Of course I don't undertake to defend
everybody in my station of life; there are clowns and boobies in every
rank, even among poets, I've been told. But it's unmannerly of the
fellow, one of us being there ...
MARGARET. Oh, that was his way.
CLEMENT. I had to take myself sharply in hand, or I should have said
something rude.
[Illustration: GERHART HAUPTMANN]
_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_
FROM OLAF GULBRANSSON'S "FAMOUS CONTEMPORARIES"
MARGARET. He was an interesting man for all that ... yes. And
besides--he was fearfully jealous of you.
CLEMENT. So I thought I noticed. (Pause.)
MARGARET. Oh, they were all jealous of you. Naturally ... you were so
different. And then they all paid court to me, just because they were
all quite indifferent to me. You must have noticed that, too, didn't
you? What are you laughing at?
CLEMENT. It's comical ... If any one had prophesied to me that I should
marry one of the crowd at the Cafe Maximilian! The ones I liked best
were the two young painters--they were really just as if they'd stepped
out of a farce at the theatre. You know, those two that looked so much
alike, and shared everything together--I fancy even the Russian girl on
the step-ladder.
MARGARET. I never troubled my head about such things.
CLEMENT. Those two must have been Jews, weren't they?
MARGARET. What makes you think so?
CLEMENT. Oh ... because they were always cutting jokes--and then their
pronunciation ...
MARGARET. I think you might dispense with anti-Semitic remarks.
CLEMENT. Come, child, don't be so sensitive. I know you're half-Jewish.
And really, you know, I've nothing against the Jews. I even had an
instructor once, who put me through my Greek for my final exam. He was
a Jew, if you like--and a splendid fellow. One meets all kinds of
people ... And I'm not sorry to have had a chance to see your Munich
circle--it's all a bit of experience.--But, you admit, I must have
appeared to you as a kind of life-saver.
MARGARET. Yes, indeed you did. Oh, Clement, Clement ...! (She embraces
him.)
CLEMENT. What are you laughing at?
MARGARET. Oh, a thought struck me ...
CLEMENT. Well ...?
MARGARET. "So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck ..."
Clement (annoyed). I don't know why you always have to spoil a fellow's
illusions!
MARGARET. Tell me honestly, Clement--wouldn't you be proud if your
girl--if your wife--were a great, famous authoress?
CLEMENT. I've told you already what I think. You may call me narrow if
you like, but I assure you that if you began writing poems again, or,
even more, having them printed, in which you gushed about me or told
the world all about our happiness, there'd be an end of the marriage--I
should be up and off.
MARGARET. And you say that--you, a man who has had a dozen notorious
affairs!
CLEMENT. Notorious or not, my dear, _I_ never told anybody about them;
I
never rushed into print when a girl hung, drunk with bliss, about my
neck, so that anybody could buy it for a gulden and a half. That's the
thing, you see. I know that there are people who get their living that
way--but I don't consider it the thing to do. I tell you it seems worse
to me than for a girl to show herself off in tights as a Greek statue
at the Ronacher. At least she keeps her mouth shut--but the things that
one of your poets blabs out, well, they're past a joke!
MARGARET (uneasily). Dearest, you forget that a poet doesn't always
tell the truth. We tell things which we haven't experienced at all, but
what we've dreamed, invented.
CLEMENT. My dear Margaret, I wish you wouldn't always keep saying "we."
Thank heaven, you're out of that sort of thing now!
MARGARET. Who knows?
CLEMENT. What do you mean by that?
MARGARET (tenderly). Clem, I really must tell you?
CLEMENT. Why, what's up now?
MARGARET. Well, I'm not out of it--I haven't given up writing.
CLEMENT. You mean by that ...?
MARGARET. Just what I say--that I'm still writing, or at least that I
have written something. Yes, this impulse is stronger than other people
can conceive. I believe I should have gone to pieces if I hadn't
written.
CLEMENT. Well, what have you been writing this time?
MARGARET. A novel. I had too much in my breast that wanted to be
said--I should have choked if I hadn't got it out. I haven't said
anything about it before--but of course I had to tell you sooner or
later. Kuenigel is delighted with it.
CLEMENT. Who is Kuenigel?
MARGARET. My publisher.
CLEMENT. Then somebody's read the thing already?
MARGARET. Yes--and many more will read it. Clement, you'll be
proud--believe me!
CLEMENT. You're mistaken, my dear child. I think you have ... Well,
what sort of things have you put into it?
MARGARET. That's not so easy to explain in one word. The book contains,
so to say, the best of what is to be said about things.
CLEMENT. Brava!
MARGARET. And so I am able to promise you that from this time on I
shan't touch a pen. There's no more need.
CLEMENT. Margaret, do you love me or not?
MARGARET. How can you ask? I love you, and you alone. Much as I have
seen, much as I have observed, I have felt nothing--I waited for you.
CLEMENT. Then bring it here, your novel.
MARGARET. Bring it here? How do you mean?
CLEMENT. That you felt you had to write it--may be; but at least no one
shall read it. Bring it here--we'll throw it in the fire.
MARGARET. Clement ...!
CLEMENT. I ask that much of you--I have a right to ask it.
MARGARET. Oh, it isn't possible! It's ...
CLEMENT. Not possible! When I wish it--when I explain that I make
everything else dependent on it ... you understand me ... it may
perhaps turn out to be possible.
MARGARET. But, Clement, it's already printed.
CLEMENT. What--printed?
MARGARET. Yes ... in a few days it'll be for sale everywhere.
CLEMENT. Margaret ...! And all this without a word to me ...
MARGARET. I couldn't help it, Clement. When you see it, you'll forgive
me--more than that, you'll be proud of me.
CLEMENT. My dear girl, this is past a joke.
MARGARET. Clement ...!
CLEMENT. Good-by, Margaret.
MARGARET. Clement ...! What does this mean? You are going?
CLEMENT. As you see.
MARGARET. When will you be back?
CLEMENT. That I can't at the present moment say. Good-by.
MARGARET. Clement ...! (Tries to restrain him.)
CLEMENT. If you please ... [Exit.]
MARGARET (alone). Clement ...! What does this mean! He's leaving me?
Oh, what shall I do?--Clement!--Can he mean that all is over ...?
No--it's impossible! Clement! I must follow him ... (Looks about for
her hat. The bell rings.) Ah ...he's coming back! He was only trying to
frighten me ... Oh, my Clement! (Goes toward door. Enter GILBERT.)
GILBERT (to maid, who has opened door for him). I told you I was sure
she was at home. Good morning, Margaret.
MARGARET (taken aback). You ...?
GILBERT. Yes, I--Amandus Gilbert.
MARGARET. I ... I'm so surprised ...
GILBERT. That is evident. But there's no reason why you should be. I am
only passing through--I'm on my way to Italy. And really I've come to
see you just for the purpose of bringing you a copy of my latest work
in remembrance of our old friendship. (Hands her the book. As she does
not take it at once, he lays it on the table.)
MARGARET. You're very kind ... thank you.
GILBERT. Oh, not at all. You have a certain right to this book. So this
is where you live ...
MARGARET. Yes. But ...
GILBERT. Oh, it's only temporary, I know. For furnished rooms they
aren't bad. To be sure, these family portraits on the walls would drive
me to distraction.
MARGARET. My landlady is the widow of a general.
GILBERT. Oh, you needn't apologize.
MARGARET. Apologize ...? I wasn't thinking of it.
GILBERT. It's very queer, when one comes to think ...
MARGARET. To think of what?
GILBERT. Why shouldn't I say it? Of the little room in the Steinsdorfer
Strasse, with the balcony looking out on the Isar. Do you remember it,
Margaret?
MARGARET. Do you think you'd better call me Margaret ... now?
GILBERT. As you please ... (Pause. Suddenly.) You know really you
behaved very badly ...
MARGARET. What?
GILBERT. Or do you prefer that I should speak in paraphrases?
Unfortunately I can't find any other expression for your conduct. And
it was all so unnecessary--it would have been just as well to be honest
with me. There was nothing to be gained by stealing away from Munich in
the dead of night.
MARGARET. It wasn't the dead of night--I left Munich by the express at
8.30 A. M., in bright sunshine.
GILBERT. Well, anyhow, you might just as well have said good-by,
mightn't you? (Sits.)
MARGARET. The Baron may come in at any moment.
GILBERT. Well, what if he does? You surely haven't told him that once
upon a time you lay in my arms and adored me. I am just an old
acquaintance from Munich--and as such I have surely the right to call
on you!
MARGARET. Any other old acquaintance--not you.
GILBERT. Why? You persist in misunderstanding me. I am really here only
as an old acquaintance. Everything else is over--long ago over ...
Well, you'll see there. (Points to his book.)
MARGARET. What book is that?
GILBERT. My latest novel.
MARGARET. Oh, you're writing novels?
GILBERT. To be sure.
MARGARET. Since when have you risen to that?
GILBERT. What do you mean?
MARGARET. Oh, I remember that your real field was the small sketch, the
observation of trivial daily occurrences ...
GILBERT (excitedly). My field ...? My field is the world! I write what
I choose to write--I don't allow any bounds to be set to my genius. I
don't know what should prevent me from writing a novel.
MARGARET. Well, the standard critics used to say ...
GILBERT. What standard critic do you mean?
MARGARET. I remember, for example, a feuilleton of Neumann's in the
_Allgemeine_ ...
GILBERT (angrily). Neumann is an idiot! I've given him a blow in the
face.
MARGARET. You've given him ...?
GILBERT. Oh, not literally ... Margaret, you used to be as disgusted
with him as I was--we agreed entirely in the view that Neumann was an
idiot. "How can that mere cipher dare ..."--those were your very words,
Margaret, "How can he dare to set limits to you--to strangle your next
book before its birth?" That's what you said! And now you appeal to
that charlatan!
MARGARET. Please don't shout so. My landlady ...
GILBERT. I can't bother with thinking about generals' widows when ray
nerves are on edge.
MARGARET, But what did I say? I really can't understand your being so
sensitive.
GILBERT. Sensitive? You call it being sensitive? You, who used to
quiver from head to foot if the merest scribbler in the most obscure
rag ventured to say a word of criticism!
MARGARET. I don't remember that ever any disparaging words have been
written about me.
GILBERT. Oh ...? Well, you may be right. People are usually gallant to
a pretty woman.
MARGARET. Gallant ...? So they used to praise my poems only out of
gallantry? And your own verdict ...
GILBERT. Mine ...? I needn't take back anything that I said--I may
confine myself to remarking that your few really beautiful poems were
written in _our_ time.
MARGARET. And so you think the credit of them is really yours?
GILBERT. Would you have written them if I had never existed? Weren't
they written to _me_?
MARGARET. No.
GILBERT. What? Not written to me? Oh, that's monstrous!
MARGARET. No, they were not written to you.
GILBERT. You take my breath away! Shall I remind you of the situations
in which your finest verses had their origin?
MARGARET. They were addressed to an ideal ... (GILBERT points to
himself.) ... whose earthly representative you happened to be.
GILBERT. Ha! That's fine! Where did you get it? Do you know what the
French say in such circumstances? "That is literature!"
MARGARET (imitating his tone). "That is _not_ literature!" That is the
truth--the absolute truth. Or do you really believe that I meant you by
the slender youth--that I sang hymns of praise to your locks? Even in
those days you were ... well, not slender; and I shouldn't call this
locks. (Passes her hand over his hair. Taking the opportunity, he
seizes her hand and kisses it. In a softer voice.) What are you
thinking of?
GILBERT. You thought so in those days--or at least that was your name
for it. Ah, what won't poets say for the sake of a smooth verse, a
sounding rhyme? Didn't I call you once, in a sonnet, "my wise maiden?"
And all the time you were neither ... No, I mustn't be unjust to
you--you _were_ wise, confoundedly wise, revoltingly wise! And it has
paid you. But one oughtn't to be surprised; you were always a snob at
heart. Well, now you've got what you wanted. You caught your prey, your
blue-blooded youth with the well-kept hands and the neglected brain,
the splendid rider, fencer, shot, tennis-player, heart-breaker--Marlitt
couldn't have invented anything more disgusting. What more do you want?
Whether it will always content you, that knew something higher once, is
of course another question. I can only say this one thing to you--in my
eyes you are a renegade from love.
MARGARET. You thought that up in the train.
GILBERT. I thought it up just now--just a moment ago!
MARGARET. Write it down, then--it's good.
GILBERT. What was it that attracted you to a man of this sort? Nothing
but the old instinct, the common instinct!
MARGARET. I don't think _you've_ got any right ...
GILBERT. My dear child, in the old days I had a soul too to offer you.
MARGARET. Oh, at times, only this ...
GILBERT. Don't try now to depreciate our relation--you won't succeed.
It will remain always your most splendid experience.
MARGARET. Bah ... when I think that I tolerated that rubbish for a
whole year!
GILBERT. Tolerated? You were entranced with it. Don't be ungrateful--
I'm not. Miserably as you behaved at the last, for me it can't poison
my memories. And anyhow, that was part of the whole.
MARGARET. You don't mean it!
GILBERT. Yes ... And now listen to this one statement I owe to you: at
the very time when you were beginning to turn away from me, when you
felt this drawing toward the stable--_la nostalgie de l'ecurie_--I was
realizing that at heart I was done with you.
MARGARET. No ...!
GILBERT. It's quite characteristic, Margaret, that you hadn't the least
perception of it. Yes, I was done with you. I simply didn't need you
any more. What you could give me, you had given me; you had fulfilled
your function. You knew in the depths of your heart, you knew
unconsciously ... that your day was over. Our relation had achieved its
purpose; I do not regret having loved you.
MARGARET. _I_ do!
GILBERT. That's splendid! In that one small observation lies, for the
connoisseur, the whole deep distinction between the true artist and the
dilettante. To you, Margaret, our relation is today nothing more than
the recollection of a few mad nights, a few deep talks of an evening in
the alleys of the English Garden; I have made of it a work of art.
MARGARET. So have I.
GILBERT. How so? What do you mean?
MARGARET. What you've succeeded in doing, if you please, I've succeeded
in doing too. I also have written a novel in which our former relations
play a part, in which our former love--or what we called by that
name--is preserved to eternity.
GILBERT. If I were in your place, I wouldn't say anything about
eternity until the second edition was out.
MARGARET. Well, anyhow, it means something different when _I_ write a
novel from what it does when you write one.
GILBERT. Yes ...?
MARGARET. You see, you're a free man--you haven't got to steal the
hours in which you can be an artist; and you don't risk your whole
future.
GILBERT. Oh ... do you?
MARGARET. I have! Half an hour ago Clement left me because I owned up
to him that I had written a novel.
GILBERT. Left you? For ever?
MARGARET. I don't know. It is possible. He went away in anger. He is
unaccountable--I can't tell beforehand what he will decide about me.
GILBERT. Ah ... so he forbids you to write! He won't allow the girl he
loves to make any use of her brains--oh, that's splendid! That's the
fine flower of the nation! Ah ... yes. And you--aren't you ashamed to
experience the same sensations in the arms of such an idiot that you
once ...
MARGARET. I forbid you to talk like that about him! You don't
understand him.
GILBERT. Ha ...!
MARGARET. You don't know why he objects to my writing--it's only out of
love. He feels that I live in a world which is closed to him; he
blushes to see me exposing the innermost secrets of my soul to
strangers. He wants me for himself, for himself alone. And that's why
he rushed off ... no, not rushed; Clement isn't the sort of person who
rushes off ...
[Illustration: PAUL HEYSE]
_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_
From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous Contemporaries"
GILBERT. An admirable bit of observation. But at any rate he's gone. We
needn't discuss the tempo of his departure. And he's gone because he
won't allow you to yield to your desire to create.
MARGARET. Oh, if he could only understand that! I could be the best,
the truest, the noblest wife in the world, if the right man existed!
GILBERT. You admit by that expression that he isn't the right one.
MARGARET. I didn't say that!
GILBERT. I want you to realize that he is simply enslaving you, ruining
you, seeking to crush your personality out of sheer egoism. Oh, think
of the Margaret you were in the old days! Think of the freedom you had
to develop your ego when you loved me! Think of the choice spirits who
were your associates then, of the disciples who gathered round me and
were your disciples too. Don't you sometimes long to be back again?
Don't you sometimes think of the little room with the balcony ... and
the Isar flowing beneath the window ... (He seizes her hands and draws
near to her.)
MARGARET. O God ...!
GILBERT. It can all be so again--it needn't be the Isar. I'll tell you
what to do, Margaret. If he comes back, tell him that you have some
important business to see to in Munich, and spend the time with me. Oh,
Margaret, you're so lovely! We'll be happy once again, Margaret, as we
used to be. You remember, don't you? (Very close to her.) "So, drunk
with bliss, I hang upon thy neck ..."
MARGARET (retreats quickly from him). Go--go! No... no ... go, I tell
you! You know I don't love you any more.
GILBERT. Oh, ... h'm ... Really? Well, then I can only beg your pardon.
(Pause.) Good-by, Margaret ... good-by.
MARGARET. Good-by.
GILBERT. Good-by ... (Turns back once more.) Won't you at least, as a
parting gift, let me have a copy of your novel? I gave you mine.
MARGARET. It isn't out yet--it won't be till next week.
GILBERT. If you don't mind telling me ... what sort of a story is it?
MARGARET. It is the story of my life--of course disguised, so that no
one can recognize me.
GILBERT. Oh ...? How did you manage that?
MARGARET. It was quite simple. The heroine, to begin with, is not a
writer but a painter ...
GILBERT. Very clever of you.
MARGARET. Her first husband was not a cotton-manufacturer but a great
speculator--and she deceived him not with a tenor ...
GILBERT. Aha!
MARGARET. What are you laughing at?
GILBERT. So you deceived him with a tenor? That's something I didn't
know.
MARGARET. How do you know I did?
GILBERT. Why, you've just informed me yourself.
MARGARET. I ...? How? I said the heroine of my novel betrays her
husband with a baritone.
GILBERT. A basso would have been grander--a mezzo-soprano more piquant.
MARGARET. Then she goes not to Munich but to Dresden, and there has a
relation with a sculptor.
GILBERT. Myself, I suppose ... disguised?
MARGARET. Oh, very much disguised. The sculptor is young, handsome, and
a genius. In spite of all that, she leaves him.
GILBERT. For ...?
MARGARET. Guess!
GILBERT. Presumably a jockey.
MARGARET. Silly!
GILBERT. A count, then? A prince?
MARGARET. No--an archduke!
GILBERT (with a bow). Ah, you've spared no expense.
MARGARET. Yes--an archduke, who abandons his position at court for her
sake, marries her, and goes away with her to the Canary Islands.
GILBERT. The Canary Islands! That's fine. And then ...?
MARGARET. With their landing in ...
GILBERT. ... the Canaries ...
MARGARET. ... the novel ends.
GILBERT. Oh, I see ... I'm very curious--especially about the disguise.
MARGARET. Even you would not be able to recognize me, if it were not
...
GILBERT. Well ...?
MARGARET. If it were not that in the last chapter but two I've
reproduced all our correspondence!
GILBERT. What?
MARGARET. Yes--all the letters you wrote me, and all those I wrote you
are included.
GILBERT. Excuse me ... but how did you get yours to me? I've got them
all.
MARGARET. Ah, but I kept the rough drafts of them all.
GILBERT. Rough drafts?
MARGARET. Yes.
GILBERT. Rough drafts ...! Of those letters to me that seemed to be
dashed off in quivering haste? "Just one word more, dearest, before I
sleep--my eyes are closing already ..." and then, when your eyes had
quite closed, you wrote me off a fair copy?
MARGARET. Well, have you anything to complain of?
GILBERT. I might have suspected it. I suppose I ought to congratulate
myself that they weren't borrowed from a Lover's Manual. Oh, how
everything crumbles around me ... the whole past is in ruins! She kept
rough drafts of her letters!
MARGARET. You ought to be glad. Who knows whether my letters to you
will not be the only thing people will remember about you?
GILBERT. But it's an extremely awkward situation for another reason ...
MARGARET. What is that?
GILBERT (points to his book). You see, they're all in there too.
MARGARET. What? Where?
GILBERT. In my novel.
MARGARET. What's in your novel?
GILBERT. Our letters ... yours and mine.
MARGARET. How did you get yours, then, since I have them? Ah, you see
you wrote rough drafts too!
GILBERT. Oh no--I only made copies of them before I sent them to you. I
didn't want them to be lost. There are some in the book that you never
got; they were too good for you--you'd never have understood them.
MARGARET. For heaven's sake, is that true? (Quickly turns over the
leaves of GILBERT'S book.) Yes, it is! Oh, it's just as if we told the
whole world that we had ... Oh, good gracious ...! (Excitedly turning
over the leaves.) You don't mean to tell me you put in the one I wrote
you the morning after the first night ...
GILBERT. Of course I did--it was really brilliant.
MARGARET. But that's too dreadful! It'll be a European scandal. And
Clement ... heavens! I'm beginning to wish that he may not come back.
I'm lost--and you with me! Wherever you go, he'll know how to find
you--he'll shoot you down like a mad dog!
GILBERT (puts his book in his pocket). A comparison in very poor taste.
MARGARET. How came you by that insane idea? The letters of a woman whom
you professed to love ...! It's easy to see that you are no gentleman.
GILBERT. Oh, that's too amusing! Didn't you do exactly the same thing?
MARGARET. I am a woman.
GILBERT. You remember it now!
MARGARET. It is true--I have nothing to boast of over you. We are
worthy of each other. Yes ... Clement was right; we are worse than the
women at the Ronacher who exhibit themselves in tights. Our most hidden
bliss, our sorrows, all ... given to the world ... Bah! I loathe
myself! Yes, we two belong together--Clement would be quite right to
drive me from him. (Suddenly.) Come, Amandus!
GILBERT. What are you going to do?
MARGARET. I accept your proposal.
GILBERT. Proposal? What proposal?
MARGARET. I'll fly with you! (Looks about for her hat and cloak.)
GILBERT. What are you thinking of?
MARGARET (very much excited, puts her hat on with decision). It may
all be as it was before--so you said just now. It needn't be the Isar
... Well, I'm ready.
GILBERT. But this is perfectly crazy! Fly with me ...? What would be
the use of that? Didn't you say yourself that he would know how to find
me wherever I went? If you were with me, he would find you too. It
would be a great deal more sensible for each of us alone ...
MARGARET. You wretch! Would you abandon me now? And a few minutes ago
you were on your knees to me! Have you no shame?
GILBERT. What is there to be ashamed of? I am an ailing, nervous man
... I am subject to moods ... (MARGARET, at window, utters a loud cry.)
What's the matter? What will the general's widow think of me?
MARGARET. There he is! He's coming!
GILBERT. In that case ...
MARGARET. What--you're going?
GILBERT. I didn't come hero with the intention of calling on the Baron.
MARGARET. He'll meet you on the stairs--that would be worse still! Stay
where you are--I refuse to be the only victim.
GILBERT. Don't be a fool! Why are you trembling so? He can't have read
both novels. Control yourself--take off your hat. Put your cloak away.
(Helps her to take her things off.) If he finds you in this state,
he'll be bound to suspect ...
MARGARET. It's all one to me--as well now as later. I can't endure to
wait for the horror--I'll tell him everything at once.
GILBERT. Everything?
MARGARET. Yes, as long as you're here. If I come out honestly and
confess everything, he may forgive me.
GILBERT. And what about me? I have better things to do in the world
than to allow myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous baron!
(Bell rings.)
MARGARET. There he is--there he is!
GILBERT. You won't say anything!
MARGARET. Yes, I mean to speak out.
GILBERT. Oh, you will, will you? Have a care, then! I'll sell my skin
dearly.
MARGARET. What will you do?
GILBERT. I'll hurl such truths into his very face as no baron ever
heard before. (Enter CLEMENT; rather surprised at finding him, very
cool and polite.)
CLEMENT. Oh ... Herr Gilbert, if I'm not mistaken?
GILBERT. Yes, Baron. Happening to pass this way on a journey to the
south, I could not refrain from coming to pay my respects ...
CLEMENT. Ah, I see ... (Pause.) I'm afraid I have interrupted a
conversation--I should be sorry to do that. Please don't let me be in
the way.
GILBERT (to MARGARET). Ah ... what _were_ we talking about?
CLEMENT. Perhaps I may be able to assist your memory. In Munich you
always used to be talking about your books ...
GILBERT. Ah ... precisely. As a matter of fact, I _was_ speaking of my
new novel ...
CLEMENT. Oh ... then please go on. It's quite possible to discuss
literature with me--isn't it, Margaret? What is your novel? Naturalist!
Symbolist? A chapter of experience?
GILBERT. Oh, in a certain sense we all write but of things we have
lived.
CLEMENT. That's very interesting.
GILBERT. Even when one writes a Nero, it's absolutely indispensable
that at least in his heart he shall have set fire to Rome ...
CLEMENT. Of course.
GILBERT. Where else is one to get inspiration except from oneself?
Where is one to find models except in the life around one? (MARGARET is
growing more and more uneasy.)
CLEMENT. The trouble is that the model's consent is so seldom asked.
I'm bound to say, if I were a woman, I shouldn't thank a man for
telling the world ... (Sharply.) In decent society we call that ...
compromising a woman.
GILBERT. I don't know whether I may include myself in "decent
society"--but I call that doing honor to a woman.
CLEMENT. Oh!
GILBERT. The essential thing is to hit the mark. What, in the higher
sense, does it matter whether a woman has been happy in one man's arms
or another's?
CLEMENT. Herr Gilbert, I will call your attention to the fact that you
are speaking in the presence of a lady!
GILBERT. I am speaking in the presence of an old comrade who may be
supposed to share my views on these matters.
CLEMENT. Oh ...!
MARGARET (suddenly). Clement ...! (Throws herself at his feet.)
Clement ...!
Clement (taken aback). Really ... really, Margaret!
MARGARET. Forgive me, Clement!
CLEMENT. But--Margaret ...! (To GILBERT.) It is extremely unpleasant
for me, Herr Gilbert ... Get up, Margaret--get up! It's all right.
(MARGARET looks up at him inquiringly.) Yes--get up! (She rises.) It's
all right--it's all settled. You may believe me when I tell you. All
you've got to do is to telephone a single word to Kuenigel. I've
arranged everything with him. We'll call it in--you agree to that?
GILBERT. What are you going to call in, may I ask? Her novel?
CLEMENT. Oh, you know about it? It would seem, Herr Gilbert, that the
comradeship you speak of has been brought pretty well up to date.
GILBERT. Yes ... There is really nothing for me to do but to ask your
pardon. I am really in a very embarrassing position ...
CLEMENT. I regret very much, Herr Gilbert, that you have been forced to
be a spectator of a scene which I may almost describe as domestic ...
GILBERT. Ah ... well, I do not wish to intrude any further--I will wish
you good day. May I, as a tangible token that all misunderstanding
between us has been cleared up, as a feeble evidence of my good wishes,
present you, Baron, with a copy of my latest novel?
CLEMENT. You are very kind, Herr Gilbert. I must own, to be sure, that
German novels are not my pet weakness. Well, this is probably the last
I shall read--or the next to the last ...
MARGARET, GILBERT. The next to the last ...?
CLEMENT. Yes.
MARGARET. And the last to be ...?
CLEMENT. Yours, my dear. (Takes a book from his pocket.) You see, I
begged Kuenigel for a single copy, in order to present it to you--or
rather to both of us. (MARGARET and GILBERT exchange distracted
glances.)
MARGARET. How good you are! (Takes the book from him.) Yes ... that's
it!
CLEMENT. We'll read it together.
MARGARET. No, Clement ... no ... I can't let you be so good! There ...!
(Throws the book into the fire.) I don't want to hear any more of all
that.
GILBERT (delighted). Oh, but ...!
CLEMENT (goes toward the chimney). Margaret ...! What are you doing?
MARGARET (stands in front of fire, throws her arms round CLEMENT).
_Now_ will you believe that I love you?
GILBERT (much relieved). I think I am rather in the way ... Good-by
... good day, Baron ... (Aside.) To think that I should have to miss a
climax like that ...! [Exit.]
FRANK WEDEKIND
* * * * * *
THE COURT SINGER
A Play in One Act
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
GERARDO, Imperial and Royal Court Singer
MRS. HELEN MAROWA
PROFESSOR DUeHRING
MISS ISABEL COEURNE
MULLER, hotel proprietor
A valet
An elevator boy
A piano teacher
[Illustration: FRANK WEDEKIND]
THE COURT SINGER (1900)
TRANSLATED BY ALBERT WILHELM BOESCHE, PH.D.
Assistant Professor of German, Cornell University
SCENERY
Pretentiously furnished room in a hotel. Entrance from the corridor in
the centre; also side doors. In front to the right a window with heavy
closed curtains. To the left a grand piano. Behind the piano a Japanese
screen covering the fireplace. Big open trunks are standing around.
Enormous laurel wreaths on several upholstered armchairs. A mass of
bouquets are distributed about the room, some of them being piled up on
the piano.
SCENE I
Valet de chambre. Immediately afterward an elevator boy.
VALET (enters with an armful of clothes from the adjoining room, puts
them into one of the big trunks. Knocks on the door; he straightens
up). Well?--Come in!
Enter an elevator boy.
BOY. There's a woman downstairs wants to know if Mr. Gerardo is in.
VALET. No, he isn't in. (Exit elevator boy. Valet goes into the
adjoining room, returns with another armful of clothes. Knock on the
door. He lays the clothes aside and walks to the door.) Well, who's
this now? (Opens the door, receives three or four large bouquets, comes
forward with them and lays them carefully on the piano, then resumes
packing. Another knock, he goes to the door, opens it, receives a batch
of letters in all varieties of colors, comes forward and examines the
addresses.) "Mr. Gerardo."--"Courtsinger Gerardo."--"Monsieur
Gerardo."--"Gerardo Esq."--"To the Most Honorable Courtsinger
Gerardo"--that's from the chambermaid, sure!--"Mr. Gerardo, Imperial
and royal Courtsinger." (Puts the letters on a tray, then continues
packing.)