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THE DRAMA
A QUARTERLY REVIEW OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE
NO. 8 NOVEMBER 1912
THE GOOD HOPE.
A DRAMA OF THE SEA IN FOUR ACTS.
BY HERMAN HEIJERMANS, JR.
TRANSLATED BY HARRIET GAMPERT HIGGINS.
THE PLAYS OF HERMAN HEIJERMANS.
To those content with convenient superficialities the plays of a
dramatist such as Heijermans are easy of definition. He is dismissed
as "a realistic writer," "a playwright of the naturalistic school,"
a follower of Ibsen, or Hauptmann, or Tolstoy, or Zola. Even then,
perhaps, the definitions are not exhausted. They spring from the
encyclopedia of commonplaces, and are as chaotic as the minds of their
authors. There is the adjective "meticulous," for example,--invaluable
to critics. And "morbid,"--equally indispensable, in the form of
"morbid psychology." "Photographic" and "kinematographic" must not be
forgotten; the latter an almost brand-new weapon of offence. For the
rest, "grey," "faithful," "squalid" or "lifelike" will serve their
turn, according to the critic's point of view.
In phrases such as these we hear the echoes of a controversy now a
generation old; a controversy dating back to the "free theatres" of
the 1890 period in Paris, Berlin and London, the first performances of
Ibsen's "Ghosts," and the early plays of Hauptmann and Strindberg. Then
the issues between Realist and Philistine were sharply defined;
the very terms were mutually exclusive. To be modern, to be "free,"
was to be an Ibsenite, an apostle of moral indignation, an author or
playgoer burning to lay bare social hypocrisies and shams; not merely
pour épater le bourgeois, but in order to assert the Great Truths
of Actual Life, so recently discovered by the stage. It mattered
little that Ibsenites owed their existence to their misunderstanding
of Ibsen. He had supplied them with an essential war cry. The old
domination of insincere sentiment and false romance in the theatre
was indefensible and insupportable. All the enthusiasm of dramatic
reformers was perforce directed to the advance of the new realistic
movement. Hence arose a battle of epithets between the two camps,
with "antiquated," "conventional," "sentimental," "romantic" on the
one hand, and "vulgar," "dreary," "indecent," "noisome" on the other.
In Anglo-Saxon countries, naturally enough, the issue was made one of
morality rather than artistic method. Ibsen's views on marriage were
suspect, and the whole dramatic movement lay in quarantine. Indeed,
realism in literature came to be regarded as an unsettling tendency,
emanating from the Continent, and directed against all British
institutions from property to religion. The division of opinion may
be studied in historical documents such as the criticisms of the
London Press on the first English performance of "Hedda Gabler," and
the early prefaces of Bernard Shaw; the one side tilting at realism,
the other at romance;--both, alas, the most shifty of windmills where
morality is concerned.
The provocative cry of "naturalism," raised by the newer dramatists and
their supporters, was responsible for half the trouble. A naturalist,
in good English usage, is taken to be a professor with a butterfly net
or an inquirer into the lower forms of pond life; and there is a good
deal to be said for the analogy as applied to the author of realistic
literature. Pins and chloroform may be his implements of tragedy; his
coldly scientific method gives point to the comparison. Undoubtedly
the "naturalistic drama" suggested probable inhumanity and possible
horror. In any case it clearly offered no hope of an enjoyable evening,
and was condemned from the first to be unpopular.
So much for the misconception encouraged by a purely journalistic
phrase. Useless to maintain that the older dramatists, from
Robertson and Dumas fils to Sardou, held a monopoly of the milk
of human kindness, while Ibsen, Hauptmann, Tolstoy and Strindberg
wallowed in mere brutal, original sin. The alleged "naturalism" of
the latter belied its name. It ranged from revolutionary Utopianism
to the creation of most unnatural giants,--stage characters removed
from the average of everyday life by their own distinction. Indeed,
the differences between the old school and the new were as nothing
compared with the intellectual gulf between, say, Strindberg and
Tolstoy. Setting out from the common ground of external approximation
to life, the dramatists of the period soon diverged upon individual
paths. Hauptmann passed from the vivid and revolutionary "Weavers"
to the mythology of "Hannele" and the "Sunken Bell," and the simple
domestic drama of "Fuhrmann Henschel" and "Rose Bernd." Tolstoy became
a preacher; Strindberg a Swedenborgian mystic. Of the early playwrights
of the French Théâtre Libre, Courteline and Ancey, practised the
Comédie rosse, or brutal comedy, until Paris, tired of the uncouth
novelty, turned to the more amiable and no less natural work of Capus
and Donnay. Brieux devoted himself to the composition of dramatic
tracts. Bernard Shaw, after protesting that he "could none other" than
dramatize slum landlords and rent collectors in "Widowers' Houses,"
found readier targets for his wit in bishops, professors of Greek and
millionaires. Nature, in fact, proved too strong for naturalism. No
formula could embrace all the individual playwrights of that stormy
time. The most catholic of "schools" could not hold them.
Formulas, however, die hard; and it is still necessary to free
Heijermans from the "naturalistic" label so conveniently attached in
1890 to works like Tolstoy's "Power of Darkness," Hauptmann's Vor
Sonnenaufgang and Zola's "Therèse Raquin." All that his plays have
in common with theirs is a faithful observation of life, and more
particularly of life among the common people. Moreover, he belongs
to a newer generation. He had written several short pieces (notably
Ahasuerus and 'n Jodenstreek?) in 1893 and 1894, but "The Ghetto"
(1899) was his first important play. This three-act tragedy of the
Jewish quarter in a Dutch city has been published in an English
adaptation which woefully misrepresents the original, and I should
rather refer readers to a German translation (Berlin, Fleische)
revised by Heijermans himself. Like most early work, the play did
not satisfy its author, and several versions exist.
The story is simple enough. Rafael, the son of an old Jewish merchant,
has an intrigue with the Gentile maidservant, Rose. His father,
Sachel, lives in an atmosphere of mistrust, hard dealing, thievery;
a patriarch with all the immemorial wrongs of the ghetto upon his
shoulders, and all the racial instinct to preserve property, family
and religion from contact with "strange people." He is blind, but
in the night he has heard the lovers' footsteps in the house. Rose
has lied to him; Rafael, as usual, is neglecting his business for
Gentile companions. So the play opens. After some bargaining over
the dowry, a marriage is arranged for Rafael with the daughter of
another merchant. The authority of the Rabbi is called in, but Rafael
refuses. He is a freethinker; in the ghetto, but not of it. "Oh,
these little rooms of yours,--these hot, stifling chambers of despair,
where no gust of wind penetrates, where the green of the leaves grows
yellow, where the breath chokes and the soul withers! No, let me speak,
Rabbi Haeser! Now I am the priest; I, who am no Jew and no Christian,
who feel God in the sunlight, in the summer fragrance, in the gleam of
the water and the flowers upon my mother's grave ... I have pity for
you, for your mean existence, for your ghettos and your little false
gods--for the true God is yet to come, the God of the new community;
the commonwealth without gods, without baseness, without slaves!"
Sachel is blamed for allowing this open rupture to come about. It
is better to pay the girl off quietly and have done with her,
argue the other Jews. Every woman has her price--and especially
every Gentile woman. A hundred gulden--perhaps two hundred if she
is obstinate--will settle the matter. The money is offered, but Rose
is not to be bought. She has promised to go away with Rafael as his
wife. He has gone out, but he will return for her. The family tell
her that the money is offered with his consent; that he is tired of
her and has left home for good. But she is unmoved. She has learned
to mistrust the word of the Jews; she will only believe their sacred
oath. At last old Sachel swears by the roll of the commandments that
his son will not return. In despair, Rose throws herself into the
canal and is drowned. Rafael comes too late to save her. The God of
the Jews has taken his revenge.
The play is perhaps a little naïve and crudely imagined, but it
has all the essential characteristics of Heijermans' later work;
the intense humanitarian feeling, the burning rhetoric, the frankly
partisan denunciation of society. Indeed, it could not be otherwise. In
dealing with such a case of bigotry and racial intolerance, it is
idle for a playwright to hold the scales with abstract justice. At
most he can only humanise the tragedy by humanising the villains of
his piece, and showing them driven into cruelty by traditional forces
beyond their control. That is the part of the "Ankläger," the social
prophet and Public Prosecutor; and it is the part which Heijermans,
above all others, has filled in the newer dramatic movement.
In Het Pantser ("The Coat of Mail") his subject is the life of a Dutch
garrison town. "The Coat of Mail" is militarism; the creed of the
governing caste. And the setting is peculiarly apt for the presentation
of a social issue. In a small country such as Holland military
patriotism may be strong, but it is tempered by the knowledge that the
country only exists by the tolerance, or the diplomatic agreement, of
more powerful neighbours, and that in case of war it could do no more
than sacrifice an army to the invader. To the philosophic workman,
then, well read in revolutionary literature from Marx to Kropotkin,
the standing army presents itself simply as a capitalist tool, a
bulwark of the employing class against trade unionism. The industrial
struggle is uncomplicated by sentimentality. Patriotic stampedes to the
conservative side are unknown. Social Democracy is strong. Strikes are
frequent, and the protection of "blackleg" labourers is in the hands
of the garrison. That is the theme of this "romantic military play."
Mari, a second lieutenant, refuses to serve on strike duty. He is a
weak but sincere idealist; his head full of humanitarian enthusiasm,
his rooms stocked with anti-militarist pamphlets. He will leave the
army rather than order his men to fire on the factory workers. Around
him stand the members of the military caste, linked together by
tradition and family relationship. His father is a colonel in the same
regiment; the father of his fiancée, Martha, is commanding officer. One
friend he has: an army doctor named Berens, who has infected himself
with cancer serum in attempting to discover a cure for the disease,
and passes for a drunkard because he keeps the symptoms in check by
alcohol. Here a parallel is drawn between military bravery and the
civilian courage of the scientist.
Mari is put under arrest, but the affair is kept secret in order to
avoid a scandal. He can only be reinstated by full withdrawal and
apology. Martha comes to him and implores him to withdraw. The strike
is thought to be over. He can plead the excitement of the moment
in excuse, and the matter will be settled honorably. He gives way
and apologises. A friendly discussion of the point with his superior
officers is interrupted by a volley in the street outside. The troops
have fired upon the mob, and the son of the shoemaker over the way
has been shot.
Mari sends in his papers; but a newspaper has published the facts of
the case, and he is met with the disgrace of immediate dismissal from
the army. This does not suit Martha. She must marry a soldier; civilian
life with a dismissed lieutenant was not in the bond. So Mari suffers
another disillusionment, and the end of the play sees him setting
out from home, while the old shoemaker is left to lament for his son.
And the sum total of it all? A warm heart, a weakness for rhetoric,
and--a study in vacillation.
In Ora et Labora Heijermans is less rhetorical; rather, one suspects,
for lack of a mouthpiece. His peasants bear their fate, if not in
silence, with almost inarticulate resignation. They are too hungry to
waste words. Moreover, there is no visible enemy to denounce, no Coat
of Mail, no racial prejudice, no insatiate capitalism. Winter is the
villain of the piece. This is indeed naturalism, in the literal sense;
humanity devoured by Nature. Everything is frost-bound: the canal,
the soil, the very cattle. The barges are idle. There is no work and
no warmth. When the last cow upon the farm dies of disease, its throat
is cut so that it can be sold to the butcher. All hopes are centred
in the father of the family, who is to sell the carcase in the town;
but he spends the money and returns home drunk. As a last resort,
his son Eelke enlists in the army for six years' colonial service,
leaving Sytske, the girl he was about to marry. His advance pay buys
fuel and food, but the lovers part with a hopeless quarrel, and the
old peasants are left wrangling over the money he has brought.
Allerzielen (1906) is a later work. A village pastor finds a woman
in a state of collapse upon his threshold. He takes her in, and she
gives birth to a child. She is a stranger in the district, Rita by
name. The child is sent into the village to be nursed, while the
pastor gives up his own room to the mother. She recovers slowly, and
meanwhile the peasants set their tongues to work upon the scandal. The
child is discovered to be illegitimate. A good village housewife is
suckling a bastard. The pastor is housing an outcast, and shows no
sign of sending her about her business. The neighbouring clergy are
perturbed. Dimly and distantly the Bishop is said to be considering
the facts.... Amid alarums and excursions the affair pursues its
course. The village passes from astonishment to ribaldry, from ribaldry
to stone-throwing. The pastor speaks gently of Christian charity and
souls to be saved, but fails to appease his parishioners. They are
hot upon the scent in a heresy-hunt. If they could see within the
parsonage walls, they would yelp still louder. For Rita proves to be
an unblushing hedonist. No prayers for her, when the birth-pangs are
once over; no tears, no repentance. She sings gaily in her room while
the pastors argue about duty and morals. She feels "heavenly." She
invades the study to enjoy a view of sunlight, clouds and sea. She
finds the waves more musical than the wheezing of the church organ. If
only the child were with her, her happiness would be complete.
But the child is neglected by its foster mother. It sickens and
dies. The pastor is driven from his church by the Bishop, and leaves
the broken windows of the parsonage to his successor. Rita and he
are both homeless now. And then the child's father comes,--another
hedonist. The child is dead, but Life remains. Its body lies in
unconsecrated ground, but the vows of love are renewed at the
graveside. The Church can only crush its own slaves. All roads are
open to the spirits of the free. The pastor can only offer a hopeless
"Farewell" as the two set out upon their way. But Rita calls after,
"No,--no! You will come over to us."
It matters nothing that this gospel of Life has often been
preached. Heijermans has caught the spirit of it as well as the
letter. His characters say and do nothing particularly original;
nothing that would even pass for originality by reason of its
manner. He works in vivid contrasts, without a shade of paradox. He
figures the opposed forces of Reaction and Revolution in religion,
in statecraft, in economics, in all human relationships, with a
simplicity of mind which would draw a smile from the forever up-to-date
"intellectual." Reaction is a devilish superstition; Revolution
a prophetic angel pointing the way to the promised land. The one
is false, the other true. There is no disputing the point, since
truth and falsehood are absolute terms. Perhaps the secret is that
Heijermans never tires of his own philosophy. He is content to see it
firmly planted on the ground; he does not demand that it should walk
the tight-rope or turn somersaults as an intellectual exercise. He
has accepted a view of life which some call materialistic, and others
positivist, or scientific, or humanitarian; but for him it is simply
humane,--founded upon social justice and human need.
A philosophy, however, does not make a dramatist. In the plays I
have already described Heijermans shows his power of translating
the world-struggle of thought into the dramatic clash of will, but
it is upon "The Good Hope" (Op Hoop van Zegen) that his reputation
chiefly depends. He chooses a great subject; not merely the conflict
of shipowners and fishermen in the struggle for existence, but the
sea-faring life and the ocean itself. Truly "a sea-piece"; tempestuous,
powerful. One can hear the breaking of the waves. From the opening
scene, with the old men's tale of sharks, to the night of the storm
in the third act, when the women and children huddle in Kneirtje's
cottage for shelter, the story is always the same. The sea is the
symbol of Fate. It takes a father here, a brother there. It seizes
Geert and Barend alike; the one going aboard carelessly, the other
screaming resistance. Sometimes it plays with its victims on shore,
making no sign, leaving months of hope to end in despair. In a more
merciful mood it sends children running through the village to cry
"'n Ball op! 'n Ball op!" as an overdue ship is signalled from the
coastguard tower. And there an echo of the sea-ballad now and again;
when raps are heard upon the door at the height of the storm, or
a flapping curtain blows out the lamp, or a pallid face is seen at
the window....
In sheer force of theatrical construction "The Good Hope" is still
more striking. There are great moments, finely conceived. The play is
full of natural rather than violent coincidence. Barend has always
feared death by drowning, and he makes his first and last voyage in
a leaky trawler. His father sank in a wreck, and it is his mother,
unable to maintain the household, who persuades him to go. She fears
the disgrace of his refusal after the papers are signed, but he is
dragged aboard by the harbour police. His brother Geert sets out
proudly enough, singing the Marseillaise and preaching rebellion;
but he sinks far away, impotent, unheard, and leaves his sweetheart
to bear a fatherless child. Old Cobus can only reflect, "We take
the fishes, and God takes us." That is perhaps the most dramatic
thread of all,--the parallel of fate. The struggle for existence on
land drives men to the fishing-boats and the Dogger Bank. From the
minnows to leviathan, there is no escape. "We take the fishes, and
God takes us." A gale of wind and rain whistles through the play,
sweeping the decks of life, tossing men out into the unknown.
Let us turn to the social standpoint. The ship-owner, Bos, is frankly
a villain. He knows "The Good Hope" is unseaworthy, but he allows her
to sail. True, the warning comes from a drunken ship's carpenter,
but he understands the risks. Business is business. The ship is
well insured....
It is implied, then, that shipowners are unscrupulous scoundrels,
and fishermen their unhappy victims. Here is a bias which makes
the actual tragedy no more impressive. Good ships, as well as bad,
may perish in a storm. Nature is cruel enough without the help of
man. The problem of the big fish and the little fish is one of size,
not of morality. Even sharks may possibly rejoice in an amiable
temperament. It can only be said that Heijermans has here chosen the
right motive for his own particular type of drama. His sympathy is
with the fishermen. He knows that, humanly speaking, in every conflict
between employers and employed, the men are right and the masters
wrong. Impossible to redress the balance by individual virtue or
kindliness. The masters stand for the exploiting system; for capital,
for insurance, for power, for law and order and possession. Their
risks are less and their temptations greater. Even from the standpoint
of abstract justice, a dishonest employer may fairly be set against
a drunken labourer or a gaol-bird fisherman. The one is no less
natural than the other. But Heijermans goes beyond all finicking
considerations of this sort. He seeks to destroy and rebuild, not
to repair or adjust. He avoids mere naturalism; the "conscientious
transcription of all the visible and repetition of all the audible"
is not for him. And here he is undoubtedly justified, not only by
his own experience, but by that of other dramatists. There was no
inspiration in the movement towards mere actuality on the stage. It
sickened of its own surfeit of "life." Its accumulated squalor became
intolerable. It was choked by its own irrelevance, circumscribed
by its own narrowness. For naturalism is like a prison courtyard;
it offers only two ways of escape. One is the poet's upward flight,
the other the revolutionist's battering-ram. Heijermans has chosen
his own weapon, and used it well. He has given us "The Good Hope,"
not as a mere pitiful study in disillusionment, but as a tragic symbol
of human effort in the conquest of despair.
Ashley Dukes.
THE GOOD HOPE.
A Drama of the Sea in Four Acts.
By Herman Heijermans, Jr.
Translated by Harriet Gampert Higgins.
PERSONS.
Kneirtje, a fisherman's widow.
Geert }
Barend } her sons.
Jo, her niece.
Cobus, her brother.
Daantje, from the Old Men's Home.
Clemens Bos, a ship owner.
Clementine, his daughter.
Mathilde, his wife.
Simon, a ship carpenter's assistant.
Marietje, his daughter.
Mees, Marietje's betrothed.
Kaps, a bookkeeper.
Saart, a fisherman's widow.
Truus, a fisherman's wife.
Jelle, a beggar.
First Policeman.
Second Policeman.
The Drama is laid in a North Sea fishing village.
Copyright 1912 by The Dramatic Publishing Company.
THE GOOD HOPE
A Drama of the Sea in Four Acts.
By Herman Heijermans, Jr.
ACT I.
[Kneirtje's home, a poor living-room. At the left, two wall bedsteads
and a door; to the right, against the wall, a chest of drawers
with holy images, vases and photographs. A chimney fireplace nearer
front. At the back wall, near right corner, a wicket leading to the
cooking shed; at left against the wall a cupboard; a cage with dove;
window with flower pots, left of center; in back wall right of center a
door overlooking a narrow cobblestone roadway backed by a view of beach
with sea in middle distance and horizon. Through the window to the left
is seen the red tiled lower corner of roof of a cottage. Time, noon.]
CLEMENTINE. [Sketch book on her knee.] Now, then! Cobus!
COBUS. [Who poses, awakes with a start, smiles.] He-he-he! I wasn't
asleep--No, no--
CLEM. Head this way--still more--what ails you now? You were sitting
so natural. Hand on the knee again.
COBUS. Tja--when you sit still so long--you get stiff.
CLEM. [Impatiently.] Please! please! stop chewing.
COB. I haven't any chew. Look.
CLEM. Then keep your mouth shut.
DAANTJE. [Entering by the cooking shed.] Good day.
CLEM. Good day. Take a walk around the corner.
DAAN. No, Miss--time's up. [Looking at sketch.] It don't look like
him yet.
CLEM. [Smiling.]
DAAN. [Shifting his spectacles.] You see--if I may take the liberty,
Miss--his chin sets different--and his eyes don't suit me--but his
nose--that's him--and--and--his necktie, that's mighty natural--I'd
swear to that anywhere.
CLEM. Indeed.
DAAN. And the bedstead with the curtains--that's fine. Now, Miss,
don't you think you could use me?
CLEM. Perhaps. Hand higher--keep your mouth still.
COB. That's easy said--but when y'r used to chewing and ain't allowed
to--then you can't hold your lips still--what do you say, Daantje?
DAAN. I say time's up. We eat at four and the matron is strict.
CLEM. That will be necessary with you old fellows.
DAAN. Peh! We've a lot to bring in, haven't we? An Old Man's Home is a
jail--scoldings with your feed--as if y'r a beggar. Coffee this morning
like the bottom of the rain barrel--and peas as hard as y'r corns.
CLEM. If I were in your place--keep your mouth still--I'd thank God
my old age was provided for.
COB. Tja--tja--I don't want to blaspheme, but--
DAAN. Thank God?--Not me--sailed from my tenth year--voyages--more
than you could count--suffered shipwreck--starvation--lost two sons
at sea--no--no. I say the matron is a beast--I'd like to slap her jaw.
CLEM. That will do! This is no dive.
DAAN. I know that, but it makes your gorge rise. I wasn't allowed to
go out last week because, begging your pardon, I missed and spat beside
the sand box. Now I ask, would you spit beside a box on purpose? An old
man's home is a jail--and when they've shut you up, in one of them,
decent, they're rid of you. Wish the sharks had eaten me before I
quit sailing.
COB. [Giggling.] He! he! he! Man, the sharks wouldn't eat you--you
were too tough for them.
CLEM. Keep your lips still!
COB. Tja, tja.
DAAN. Sharks not like me--They'll swallow a corpse. Peh! I saw old
Willem bitten in two till the blood spouted on high. And he was a
thin man.
CLEM. Was old Willem eaten by a shark?
DAAN. By one? By six. Quick as he fell overboard they grabbed him. The
water was red.
CLEM. Hey! How frightful. And yet--I'd rather like to see a thing
like that.
DAAN. Like to see it! We had to.
CLEM. Did he scream?
DAAN. Did he scream!
COB. Tja, wouldn't you if you felt the teeth in your flesh? He--hehe!
[Sound of a fiddle is heard outside. Cobus sways in his chair in time
to the tune.] Ta da da de--da da da--
CLEM. [Hastily closing the sketch book.] There then! [Rises.] Tomorrow
you sit still--You hear!
COB. [Stretching himself.] All stiff! [Dances, snapping his fingers,
his knees wabbling.] Ta de da da--da-da-da.
DAAN. [At the window.] Psst! Nobody home.
JELLE. [Playing at window outside.] If you please.
DAAN. Nobody home.
JELLE. I come regular once a week.
DAAN. They have gone to the harbor.
CLEM. [Throws a coin out of the window.] There! [Playing stops.]
JELLE. Thank you. [Searches for the coin.]
COB. Behind that stone, stupid.
DAAN. No; more that way.
CLEM. I threw it out that way. Hey! what a donkey! Is he near-sighted?
COB. He's got only half an eye--and with half an eye you don't see
much. [To Jelle.] Behind you!
JELLE. I don't see anything.
DAAN. [Barend appears at door.] Psst! Hey! Barend, you help him----
CLEM. There is a ten-cent piece out there.
BAREND. [Basket of driftwood on his back.] Give it to 'im in his paws
then. [Enters.] [Throws down basket with a thud.] Here!
COB. Did you hear that impudent boy?
CLEM. Say there, big ape, were you speaking to me?
BAR. [Shy and embarrassed.] No, Miss. I did not know you were there,
I thought----
COB. What right had you to think--better be thinking of going to sea
again to earn your Mother's bread.
BAR. That's none of your business.
COB. Just hear his insolence to me--when he's too bashful to open
his mouth to others. [Taunting.] I'm not afraid--he-he-he!--No,
I don't get the belly ache when I must go to sea--he-he-he!
DAAN. Come along now. It's struck four.
CLEM. Ten o'clock tomorrow, Cobus.
DAAN. He can't do it, Miss, we must pull weeds in the court yard.
COB. Yes, we must scratch the stones.
CLEM. Tomorrow afternoon, then.
COB. Tja! I'll be here, then. Good day, Miss. [To Barend.] Good day,
pudding breeches.
CLEM. [Pinning on her hat.] He teases you, doesn't he?
BAR. [Laughing bashfully.] Yes, Miss.
CLEM. Been out searching the beach? [He nods embarrassed.] Found much?
BAR. No, it was ebb last night--and--and--[Gets stuck.]
CLEM. Are you really afraid to go to sea, silly boy? [He nods,
laughing.] They all go.
BAR. [Dully.] Yes, they all go.
CLEM. A man must not be afraid----
BAR. No, a man must not be afraid.
CLEM. Well, then?
BAR. [Timidly.] I'd rather stay on shore.
CLEM. I won't force you to go--How old are you?
BAR. Rejected for the army last month.
CLEM. Rejected?
BAR. For my--for my--I don't know why, but I was rejected.
CLEM. [Laughing.] That's lucky--A soldier that's afraid!
BAR. [Flaring up quickly.] I'm not afraid on land--let them come at
me--I'll soon stick a knife through their ribs!
CLEM. Fine!
BAR. [Again lapsing into embarrassment.] Beg pardon, Miss. [The soft
tooting of a steamboat whistle is heard.] That's the Anna--there's
a corpse on board----
CLEM. Another one dead?
BAR. The flag hung half-mast.
CLEM. Tu-tu-tu-tu--The second this week. First, the Agatha Maria----
BAR. No, 'twas the Charlotte.
CLEM. Oh, yes! The Agatha was last week--Do they know who? [He shakes
his head.] Haven't you any curiosity?
BAR. Ach--you get used to it--and none of our family are
aboard. [Embarrassed silence.] Father can't--Hendrick can't--Josef
can't--you know about them--and--and--Geert--he's still under arrest.
CLEM. Yes, he's brought disgrace on all of you.
BAR. Disgrace--disgrace----
CLEM. When is he free?
BAR. I don't know.
CLEM. You don't know?
BAR. They gave him six months--but they deduct the time before
trial--we don't know how long that was, so we can't tell.
KNEIRTJE. [Through the window.] Good day, Miss.
CLEM. Good day.
KNEIR. How did the chickens get out? Do look at that rooster! Get out,
you salamander! Kischt! Jo! Jo!
BAR. Let them alone. They'll go of themselves.
KNEIR. [Entering the room.] That's an endless devilment, Miss. [To
Barend.] Come, you, stick out your paws. Must we have another row
with Ari?
BAR. Then we'll have a row. [Goes off indifferently, chases away the
chickens, outside.]
KNEIR. Then we'll--such a lazy boy, I wish he'd never been
born--Sponger!--Are you going so soon, Miss?
CLEM. I am curious to know what's happened on the Anna.
KNEIR. Yes--I was on the way there--but it takes so long--and I've
had my fill of waiting on the pier--if that pier could only talk. Have
you finished my brother's portrait?
CLEM. Tomorrow. I want to make a drawing of Barend also--just as he
came in with the basket on his shoulders.
KNEIR. Barend? Well--All the same to me.
CLEM. He doesn't seem to get much petting around here.
KNEIR. [Annoyed.] Pet him! I should say not! The sooner I get rid of
him, the better! [Through the window.] Chase them away! Kischt! Kischt!
BAR. [Outside.] All that yelling makes the rooster afraid.
KNEIR. Afraid! He takes after you, then! Kischt!
CLEM. Hahaha! Hahaha! Say, he's enjoying himself there on Ari's roof.
JO. [Coming through the door at left. Brown apron--gold head pieces
on the black band around her head.] Good day.
KNEIR. The chickens are out again! The rooster is sitting on Ari's
roof.
JO. [Laughing merrily.] Hahaha! He's not going to lay eggs there!
KNEIR. [Crossly.] Hear her talk! She knows well enough we almost came
to blows with Ari because the hens walked in his potato patch.
JO. I let them out myself, old cross patch--Truus dug their potatoes
yesterday.
KNEIR. Why didn't you say so then?
JO. What am I doing now? Oh, Miss--she would die if she couldn't
grumble; she even keeps it up in her sleep. Last night she swore out
loud in her dreams. Hahaha! Never mind! scold all you like; you're a
good old mother just the same. [To Barend, who enters the room.] Ach,
you poor thing! Is the rooster setting on the roof? And does he refuse
to come down?
BAR. You quit that now!
JO. I'll wager if you pet the hens he will come down of himself from
jealousy. Hahaha! He looks pale with fear.
CLEM. Now, now.
JO. Say, Aunt, you should make a baker of him. His little bare feet
in the rye flour. Hahaha!
BAR. You can all----[Goes angrily off at left.]
JO. [Calling after him.] The poor little fellow!
CLEM. Now, stop teasing him. Are you digging potatoes?
JO. Tja; since four o'clock this morning. Nothing--Aunt--all rotten.
KNEIR. We poor people are surely cursed--rain--rain--the crops had
to rot--they couldn't be saved--and so we go into the winter--the
cruel winter--Ach,--Ach,--Ach!
JO. There! You're worrying again. Come, Mother, laugh. Am I ever
sad? Geert may return at any moment.
KNEIR. Geert--and what then?
JO. What then? Then--then--then, nothing! Cheer up! You don't add
to your potatoes by fretting and grumbling. I have to talk like this
all day to keep up her spirits--See, I caught a rabbit!
CLEM. In a trap?
JO. As neat as you please. The rascal was living on our poverty--the
trap went snap as I was digging. A fat one--forty cents at the least.
CLEM. That came easy--I must go now.
BOS. [At door.] Hello! Are you going to stay all day--May I come in?
KNEIR. [Friendly manner.] Of course you may, Meneer; come in, Meneer.
BOS. My paws are dirty, children.
KNEIR. That's nothing. A little dry sand doesn't matter--will you
sit down?
BOS. Glad to do so--Yes, Kneir, my girl, we're getting older every
day--Good day, little niece.
JO. Good day, Meneer. [Points, laughing, to her hands.] You see----
BOS. Have you put on gloves for the dance?
JO. [Nods saucily.] The hornpipe and the Highland fling, hey?
BOS. Hahaha! Saucy black eye. [To Clementine.] Come, let me have
a look.
CLEM. [Petulantly.] No, you don't understand it, anyway.
BOS. Oh, thanks!--You educate a daughter. Have her take drawing
lessons, but must not ask to see--come! Don't be so childish!
CLEM. [With spoiled petulance.] No. When it is finished.
BOS. Just one look.
CLEM. Hey, Pa, don't bother me.
BOS. Another scolding, ha ha ha!
[Barend enters.]
BAR. [Bashfully.] Good day, Meneer.
BOS. Well, Barend, you come as if you were called.
BAR. [Surprised laugh.] I?
BOS. We need you, my boy.
BAR. Yes, Meneer.
BOS. The deuce! How you have grown.
BAR. Yes, Meneer.
BOS. You're quite a man, now--How long have you been out of a job?
BAR. [Shyly.] Nine months.
KNEIR. That's a lie--It's more than a year.
BAR. No, it isn't.
JO. Well, just count up--November, December--
BOS. That'll do, children. No quarreling. Life is too short. Well,
Barend, how would the forty-seven suit you?--Eh, what?----
BAR. [Anxiously.] The forty-seven----
BOS. The Good Hope----
CLEM. [Surprised.] Are you going to send out the Good Hope?----
BOS. [Sharply.] You keep out of this! Keep out, I say!
CLEM. And this morning----
BOS. [Angrily.] Clementine!
CLEM. But Pa----
BOS. [Angrily stamping his foot.] Will you please go on?
CLEM. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Hey! How contemptible, to get mad--how
small--Bonjour! [Exits.]
KNEIR. Good day, Miss.
BOS. [Smiling.] A cat, eh! Just like her Mama, I have to raise the
devil now and then,--hahaha!--or my wife and daughter would run
the business--and I would be in the kitchen peeling the potatoes,
hahaha! Not but what I've done it in my youth.
KNEIR. And don't I remember----
BOS. [Smacking his lips.] Potatoes and fresh herring! but what's
past is gone. With a fleet of eight luggers your mind is on other
things--[Smiling.] Even if I do like the sight of saucy black
eyes--Don't mind me, I'm not dangerous--there was a time.----Hahaha!
KNEIR. Go on, Meneer. Don't mind us.
BOS. Well, our little friend here, what does he say?
KNEIR. Open your mouth, speak!
BAR. I would rather----
KNEIR. [Angrily.] Rather--rather!
JO. Hey! What a stupid!----
BOS. Children! No quarreling. Boy, you must decide for yourself. Last
year at the herring catch the Good Hope made the sum of fourteen
hundred guilders in four trips. She is fully equipped, Hengst is
skipper--all the sailors but one--and the boys--Hengst spoke of you
for oldest boy.
BAR. [Nervously.] No, no, Meneer----
KNEIR. Ah, the obstinate beast! All my beating won't drive him aboard.
JO. If I were a man----
BOS. Yes, but you're not; you're a pretty girl--ha, ha, ha! We can't
use such sailors. Well, Daddy! And why don't you want to go? Afraid
of seasickness? You've already made one trip as middle boy----
KNEIR. And as play boy.
JO. He'd rather loaf and beg. Ah! what a big baby.
BOS. You are foolish, boy. I sailed with your grandfather. Yes, I,
too, would rather have sat by Mother's pap-pot than held eels with
my ice cold hands; rather bitten into a slice of bread and butter
than bitten off the heads of the bait. And your father----
BAR. [Hoarsely.] My father was drowned--and brother Hendrick--and
Josef--no, I won't go!
BOS. [Rising.] Well--if he feels that way--better not force him,
Mother Kneirtje; I understand how he feels, my father didn't die
in his bed, either--but if you begin to reason that way the whole
fishery goes up the spout.
KNEIR. [Angrily.] It's enough to----
BOS. Softly--softly--You don't catch tipsy herrings with force----
JO. [Laughing.] Tipsy herring, I would like to see that!
BOS. [Laughing.] She doesn't believe it, Kneir! We know better! Eh,
what!
KNEIR. Ach--it's no joking matter, Meneer, that miserable bad
boy talks as if--as if--I had forgotten my husband--and my good
Josef--and--and--but I have not. [Ends in low sobbing.]
JO. Come, foolish woman! please, Aunty dear!--Good-for-nothing Torment!
BOS. Don't cry, Kneir! Tears will not restore the dead to life----
KNEIR. No, Meneer--I know that, Meneer. Next month it will be twelve
years since the Clementine went down.
BOS. Yes, it was the Clementine.
KNEIR. November--'88--He was a monkey of seven then, and yet he
pretends to feel more than I do about it.
BAR. [Nervously.] I didn't say that. I don't remember my father,
nor my brothers--but--but----
BOS. Well, then?
BAR. I want another trade--I don't want to go to sea--no--no----
KNEIR. Another trade--What else can you do? Can't even read or
write----
BAR. Is that my fault?
KNEIR. No--it is mine, of course! Three years I had an allowance--the
first year three--the second two twenty-five--and the third one
dollar--the other nine I had to root around for myself.
BOS. Have you forgotten me entirely?
KNEIR. I shall always be grateful to you, Meneer. If you and the
priest hadn't given me work and a warm bite now and then to take
home--then--then--and that booby even reproaches me!----
BAR. I don't reproach--I--I----
JO. Out with it! The gentleman is looking for a place to live off
his income.
BAR. Shut up!--I will do anything--dig sand--plant broom--salting
down--I'll be a mason, or a carpenter--or errand boy----
JO. Or a burgomaster! Or a policeman! Hahaha! And walk about dark
nights to catch thieves--Oh!--Oh!--what a brave man!
BOS. Little vixen!
BAR. You make me tired!--Did I complain when the salt ate the flesh
off my paws so I couldn't sleep nights with the pain?
KNEIR. Wants to be a carpenter--the boy is insane--A mason--see the
accidents that happen to masons. Each trade has something.
BOS. Yes, Barendje--There are risks in all trades--my boy. Just think
of the miners, the machinists, the stokers--the--the--How often do
not I, even now, climb the man rope, or row out to a lugger? Fancies,
my boy! You must not give way to them.
KNEIR. And we have no choice. God alone knows what the winter will
be. All the potatoes rotted late this fall, Meneer.
BOS. Yes, all over the district. Well, boy?
BAR. No, Meneer.
KNEIR. [Angrily.] Get out of my house, then--sponger!
BAR. [Faintly.] Yes, Mother.
KNEIR. March! Or I'll----[Threatening.]
BOS. Come, come. [A pause during which Barend walks timidly away.]
JO. If I had a son like that----
BOS. Better get a lover first----
JO. [Brightly.] I've already got one!--If I had a son like that I'd
bang him right and left! Bah! A man that's afraid! [Lightly.] A sailor
never knows that sooner or later--He never thinks of that--If Geert
were that way--there, I know--Aunt, imagine--Geert----
BOS. Geert?----
JO. He'd face the devil--eh, Aunt? Now, I'm going to finish the
potatoes. Good bye, Meneer.
BOS. Say, black eyes--do you laugh all the time?
JO. [With burst of laughter.] No, I'm going to cry. [Calls back from
the opened door.] Aunt--speak of Geert. [Goes off.]
BOS. Geert?--Is that your son, who----
KNEIR. Yes, Meneer.
BOS. Six months?
KNEIR. Yes, Meneer.
BOS. Insubordination?
KNEIR. Yes, Meneer--Couldn't keep his hands at
home.
BOS. The stupid blockhead!
KNEIR. I think they must have teased him----
BOS. That's nonsense! They don't tease the marines. A fine state
of affairs. Discipline would be thrown overboard to the sharks if
sailors could deal out blows every time things didn't go to suit them.
KNEIR. That's so, Meneer, but----
BOS. And is she--smitten with that good-for-nothing?
KNEIR. She's crazy about him, and well she may be. He's a handsome
lad, takes after his father--and strong--there is his photograph--he
still wore the uniform then--first class--now he is----
BOS. Degraded?----
KNEIR. No, discharged--when he gets out. He's been to India twice--it
is hard--if he comes next week--or in two weeks--or tomorrow, I don't
know when--I'll have him to feed, too--although--I must say it of
him, he won't let the grass grow under his feet--A giant like him
can always find a skipper.
BOS. A sweet beast--I tell you right now, Kneir, I'd rather not take
him--dissatisfied scoundrels are plenty enough these days--All that
come from the Navy, I'm damned if it isn't so--are unruly and I have
no use for that kind--Am I not right?
KNEIR. Certainly, Meneer, but my boy----
BOS. There was Jacob--crooked Jacob, the skipper had to discharge
him. He was, God save him, dissatisfied with everything--claimed
that I cheated at the count--yes--yes--insane. Now he's trying it at
Maassluis. We don't stand for any nonsense.
KNEIR. May I send him to the skipper then--or direct to the water
bailiff's office?
BOS. Yes, but you tell him----
KNEIR. Yes, Meneer.
BOS. If he comes in time, he can go out on the Good Hope. She's just
off the docks. They are bringing the provisions and casks aboard
now. She'll come back with a full cargo--You know that.
KNEIR. [Glad.] Yes, Meneer.
BOS. Well--Good bye! [Murmur of voices outside.] What's that?
KNEIR. People returning from the harbor. There's a corpse aboard
the Anna.
BOS. Pieterse's steam trawler--The deuce! Who is it?
KNEIR. I don't know. I'm going to find out.
[Both go off--the stage remains empty--a vague murmur of voices
outside. Fishermen, in conversation, pass the window. Sound of
a tolling church bell. Geert sneaks inside through the door at
left. Throws down a bundle tied in a red handkerchief. Looks cautiously
into the bedsteads, the cooking shed, peers through the window, then
muttering he plumps down in a chair by the table, rests his head on
his hand, rises again; savagely takes a loaf of bread from the back
cupboard, cuts off a hunk. Walks back to chair, chewing, lets the
bread fall; wrathfully stares before him. The bell ceases to toll.]
BAR. [From the cooking shed.] Who's there?--Geert!--[Entering.]
GEERT. [Curtly.] Yes--it's me--Well, why don't you give me a paw.
BAR. [Shaking hands.] Have you--have you seen Mother yet?
GEERT. [Curtly.] No, where is she----
BAR. Mother, she--she----
GEERT. What are you staring at?
BAR. You--you--Have you been sick?
GEERT. Sick? I'm never sick.
BAR. You look so--so pale----
GEERT. Give me the looking-glass. I'll be damned. What a mug! [Throws
the mirror roughly down.]
BAR. [Anxiously.] Was it bad in prison?
GEERT. No, fine!--What a question--They feed you on beefsteaks! Is
there any gin in the house?
BAR. No.
GEERT. Go and get some then--if I don't have a swallow, I'll keel over.
BAR. [Embarrassed.] I haven't any money.
GEERT. I have. [Peers in his pocket, throws a handful of coins on
the table.] Earned that in prison--There!----
BAR. At the "Red" around the corner?
GEERT. I don't care a damn--so you hurry. [Calling after him.] Is--is
Mother well? [A pause.]--and Jo?
BAR. [At door.] She is digging potatoes.
GEERT. Are they mad at me?
BAR. Why?
GEERT. Because I--[Savagely.] Don't stare so, stupid----
BAR. [Embarrassed.] I can't get used to your face--it's so queer.
GEERT. Queer face, eh! I must grow a beard at once!--Say, did they
make a devil of a row? [Gruffly.] Well?----
BAR. I don't know.
GEERT. Go to the devil! You don't know anything.
[A pause, Barend slips out. Jo enters, a dead rabbit in her hand.]
JO. Jesus! [Lets the rabbit fall.]--Geert! [Rushes to him, throws
her arms about his neck, sobbing hysterically.]
GEERT. [In a muffled voice.] Stop it! Stop your damned bawling--stop!
JO. [Continuing to sob.] I am so happy--so happy, dear Geert----
GEERT. [Irritated.] Now! Now!
JO. I can't help it. [Sobs harder.]
GEERT. [Pulling her arms from his neck.]--Now then! My head can't
stand such a lot of noise----
JO. [Startled.] A lot of noise?
GEERT. [Grumbling.] You don't understand it of course--six months
solitary--in a dirty, stinking cell. [Puts his hand before his eyes
as if blinded by the light.] Drop the curtain a bit--This sunshine
drives me mad!
JO. My God--Geert----
GEERT. Please!--that's better.
JO. Your beard----
GEERT. They didn't like my beard--The government took that--become
ugly, haven't I?--Look as if I'd lost my wits? Eh?
JO. [With hesitating laugh.] You? No--What makes you think that? You
don't show it at all. [Sobs again softly.]
GEERT. Well, damn it! Is that all you have to say. [She laughs
hysterically. He points to his temples.] Become grey, eh?
JO. No, Geert.
GEERT. You lie. [Kicking away the mirror.] I saw it myself. The
beggars; to shut up a sailor in a cage where you can't walk, where you
can't speak, where you--[Strikes wildly upon the table with his fist.]
BAR. Here is the gin.
JO. The gin?
BAR. For Geert.
GEERT. Don't you meddle with this--Where is a glass?--Never
mind--[Swallows eagerly.]--That's a bracer! What time is it?
BAR. Half past four.
JO. Did you take bread? Were you hungry?
GEERT. Yes, no--no, yes. I don't know. [Puts the bottle again to
his lips.]
JO. Please, Geert--no more--you can't stand it.
GEERT. No more? [Swallows.] Ripping!--Hahaha! That's the best way
to tan your stomach. [Swallows.] Ripping! Don't look so unhappy,
girl--I won't get drunk! Bah! It stinks! Not accustomed to it--Are
there any provisions on board?
JO. Look--a fat one, eh? Trapped him myself. [Picks up the rabbit.] Not
dead an hour.
GEERT. That will do for tomorrow--Here, you, go and lay in a
supply--some ham and some meat----
BAR. Meat, Geert?
JO. No--that's extravagance--If you want to buy meat, keep your money
till Sunday.
GEERT. Sunday--Sunday--If you hadn't eaten anything for six months but
rye bread, rats, horse beans--I'm too weak to set one foot before the
other. Stop your talk--Hurry up! and--and a piece of cheese--I feel
like eating myself into a colic. Hahaha! Shall I take another wee drop?
[Barend goes off.]
JO. No.
GEERT. Good, not another drop. Is there any tobacco?
JO. God!--I'm glad to see you cheerful again. Yes, there's some
tobacco left--in the jar.
GEERT. That's good. Fine! Is that my old pipe?
JO. I saved it for you.
GEERT. Who did you flirt with, while I sat----
JO. [Merrily.] With Uncle Cobus!
GEERT. You women are all trash. [Fills his pipe; smokes.] Haven't
had the taste in my mouth for half a year. This isn't tobacco;
[Exhales.] tastes like hay--Bah! The gin stinks and the pipe stinks.
JO. Eat something first----
GEERT. [Laying down the pipe.] Say, do you still sleep with Mother?
JO. Yes, next to the pig stye.
GEERT. [Laughing.] And must I sleep under the roof again?
JO. You'll sleep nice and warm up there, dear.
KNEIR. [Outside.] Why is the window curtain down?
JO. [Finger on her lips.] Sst! [Goes and stands before Geert.]
KNEIR. [Inside.] What's going on here? Why is the looking-glass on
the floor? Who sits----
GEERT. [Rising.] Well, little old one!
KNEIR. God almighty!
GEERT. No--it's me--Geert----
KNEIR. [Dropping into a chair.] Oh!--Oh!--My heart beats so!
GEERT. Hahaha! That's damned good! [Tries to embrace her.]
KNEIR. No--no--not yet--later.
GEERT. Not yet?--Why later?
KNEIR. [Reproachfully.] You--what have you done to make me happy!
JO. [Coaxingly.] Never mind that now----
GEERT. I've got enough in my head now. If you intend to reproach
me?--I shall----
KNEIR. You shall----
GEERT. Pack my bundle!----
KNEIR. And this is his home-coming!
GEERT. Do you expect me to sit on the sinner's bench? No, thank you.
KNEIR. [Anxious; almost crying.] The whole village talked about you--I
couldn't go on an errand but----
GEERT. [Curtly.] Let them that talk say it to my face. I'm no thief
or burglar.
KNEIR. No, but you raised your hand against your superior.
GEERT. [Fiercely.] I should have twisted my fingers in his throat.
KNEIR. Boy--boy; you make us all unhappy.
[Begins to sob.]
GEERT. [Stamping.] Treated like a beast, then I get the devil
besides. [Grabs his bundle.] I'm in no mood to stand it. [At the door,
hesitates, throws down his bundle.] Now! [Lower voice.] Don't cry,
Mother--I would rather--Damn it!
JO. Please--Auntie dear----
KNEIR. Your father lies somewhere in the sea. Never would he have
looked at you again--And he also had a great deal to put up with.
GEERT. I'm glad I'm different--not so submissive--It's a great honor
to let them walk over you! I have no fish blood in me--Now then,
is it to go on raining?
KNEIR. [Embracing him.] If you would only repent.
GEERT. [Flaring up.] I'd knock the teeth out of his jaw tomorrow.
KNEIR. How did it happen?
JO. Hey! Yes--tell us all about it. Come, now, sit down peaceably.
GEERT. I've sat long enough, hahaha!--Let me walk to get the hang of
it. [Lighting his pipe again.] Bah!
JO. Stop smoking then, donkey!
GEERT. Now I'll--But for you it would never have happened----
JO. [Laughing.] But for me?--that's a good
one!
GEERT. I warned you against him.
JO. Against who--What are you talking about?
GEERT. That cad--Don't you remember dancing with him at the tavern
van de Rooie?
JO. I?--Danced?----
GEERT. The night before we sailed.
JO. With that cross-eyed quartermaster?--I don't understand a word
of it--was it with him?--And you yourself wanted me to----
GEERT. You can't refuse a superior--On board ship he had stories. I
overheard him tell the skipper that he----
JO. [Angrily.] What?
GEERT. That he--never mind what--He spoke of you as if you were any
sailor's girl.
JO. I!--The low down----
GEERT. When he came into the hold after the dog watch, I hammered
him on the jaw with a marlin spike. Five minutes later I sat in
irons. Kept in them six days--[Sarcastically.] the provost was full;
then two weeks provost; six months solitary; and suspended from the
navy for ten years; that, damn me, is the most--I'd chop off my two
hands to get back in; to be nigger-driven again; cursed as a beggar
again; ruled as a slave again----
KNEIR. Geert--Geert--Don't speak such words. In the Bible it stands
written----
GEERT. [Grimly.] Stands written--If there was only something written
for us----
KNEIR. Shame on you----
JO. Well, wasn't he in the right?
KNEIR. If he had gone politely to the Commander----
GEERT. Hahaha! You should have been a sailor,
Mother--Hahaha! Politely? They were too glad of the chance to clip and
shear me. While I was in the provost they found newspapers in my bag I
was not allowed to read--and pamphlets I was not allowed to read--that
shut the door--otherwise they would have given me only third class----
KNEIR. Newspapers you were not allowed to read? Then why did you
read them?
GEERT. Why--simple soul--Ach!--when I look at your submissive face I
see no way to tell why--Why do men desert?--Why, ten days before this
happened to me, did Peter the stoker cut off his two fingers?--Just
for a joke? No, on purpose! I can't blame you people--you knew no
better--and I admired the uniform--But now that I've got some brains
I would like to warn every boy that binds himself for fourteen years
to murder.
KNEIR. To murder? Boy, don't say such dreadful things--you are
excited----
GEERT. Excited? No--not at all--worn out, in fact--in Atjeh I fought
with the rest--stuck my bayonet into the body of a poor devil till the
blood spurted into my eyes--For that they gave me the Atjeh medal. I
have it still in my bundle. Hand it here. [Jo picks up the bundle;
Barend looks on.] Where is the thing? [Jerks the medal from his
jacket, throws it out of the window.] Away! you have dangled on my
breast long enough!
KNEIR. Geert! Geert! Who has made you like this! I no longer know
you----
GEERT. Who--who took an innocent boy, that couldn't count ten, and
kidnaped him for fourteen years? Who drilled and trained him for a
dog's life? Who put him in irons when he defended his girl? Irons--you
should have seen me walking in them, groaning like an animal. Near me
walked another animal with irons on his leg, because of an insolent
word to an officer of the watch. Six days with the damned irons on
your claws and no power to break them. Six days lower than a beast.
JO. Don't talk about it any more, you are still so tired----
GEERT. [Wrapped in the grimness of his story.] Then the provost,
that stinking, dark cage; your pig stye is a palace to it. A cage
with no windows--no air--a cage where you can't stand or lie down. A
cage where your bread and water is flung to you with a "there, dog,
eat!" There was a big storm in those days,--two sloops were battered to
pieces;--when you expected to go to the bottom any moment. Never again
to see anyone belongin' to me--neither you--nor you--nor you. To go
down in that dark, stinking hole with no one to talk to--no comrade's
hand!--No, no, let me talk--it lightens my chest! Another drop. [Drinks
quickly.] From the provost to the court martial. A fellow has lots to
bring in there. Your mouth shut. Sit up; mouth shut some more. Gold
epaulettes sitting in judgment on the trash God has kicked into the
world to serve, to salute, to----
KNEIR. Boy--boy----
GEERT. Six months--six months in a cell for reformation. To be reformed
by eating food you could not swallow;--rye bread, barley, pea soup,
rats! Three months I pasted paper bags, and when I saw the chance I
ate the sour paste from hunger. Three months I sorted peas; you'll
not believe it, but may I never look on the sea again if I lie. At
night, over my gas light, I would cook the peas I could nip in my
slop pail. When the handle became too hot to hold any longer, I ate
them half boiled--to fill my stomach. That's to reform you--reform
you--for losing your temper and licking a blackguard that called your
girl a vile name, and reading newspapers you were not allowed to read.
KNEIR. [Anxiously.] That was unjust.
GEERT. Unjust! How dare you say it! Fresh from the sea--in a cell--no
wind and no water, and no air--one small high window with grating like
a partridge cage. The foul smell and the nights--the damned nights,
when you couldn't sleep. When you sprang up and walked, like an insane
man, back and forth--back and forth--four measured paces. The nights
when you sat and prayed not to go insane--and cursed everything,
everything, everything! [Drops his head upon his hands.]
JO. [After a long pause goes to him and throws her arms about his
neck. Kneirtje weeps, Barend stands dazed.] Geert!
GEERT. Now! Don't let us--[Forcibly controlling his tears.] A
light! [Smokes.] Now, Mother! [Goes to the window--says to Barend.] Lay
out the good things--[Draws up the curtain.] I'll be damned! if the
rooster isn't sitting on the roof again, ha, ha, ha! will you believe
it? I would like to sail at once--two days on the Sea! the Sea! the
Sea!--and I'm my old self again. What?--Why is Truus crying as she
walks by? Truus! [Calling.]
KNEIR. Ssst!--Don't call after her. The Anna has just come in without
her husband. [A few sad-looking, low-speaking women walk past the
window.] Poor thing! Six children----
GEERT. Is Ari--[She nods.] That's damned sad! [Drops the window
curtain, stands in somber thought.]
CURTAIN.