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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14347-0.txt b/14347-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..17a4ad4 --- /dev/null +++ b/14347-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9817 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14347 *** + +PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG + +SECOND SERIES + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +MISS JULIA +THE STRONGER +CREDITORS +PARIAH + +TRANSLATED WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN + +AUTHORIZED EDITION + + + +CONTENTS + +Introduction to "There Are Crimes and Crimes" +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES + +Introduction to "Miss Julia" +Author's Preface +MISS JULIA + +Introduction to "The Stronger" +THE STRONGER + +Introduction to "Creditors" +CREDITORS + +Introduction to "Pariah" +PARIAH + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +INTRODUCTION + + +Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There Are Crimes and +Crimes." In the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finest +historical dramas: "The Saga of the Folkungs," "Gustavus Vasa," +and "Eric XIV." Just before, he had finished "Advent," which he +described as "A Mystery," and which was published together with +"There Are Crimes and Crimes" under the common title of "In a +Higher Court." Back of these dramas lay his strange confessional +works, "Inferno" and "Legends," and the first two parts of his +autobiographical dream-play, "Toward Damascus"--all of which were +finished between May, 1897, and some time in the latter part of +1898. And back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, +when, at Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by the +transmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spirit +was travelling through all the seven hells in its search for the +heaven promised by the great mystics of the past. + +"There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as his +first definite step beyond that crisis, of which the preceding +works were at once the record and closing chord. When, in 1909, he +issued "The Author," being a long withheld fourth part of his +first autobiographical series, "The Bondwoman's Son," he prefixed +to it an analytical summary of the entire body of his work. +Opposite the works from 1897-8 appears in this summary the +following passage: "The great crisis at the age of fifty; +revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings, +Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells." But concerning "There Are Crimes +and Crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year he +writes triumphantly: "Light after darkness; new productivity, with +recovered Faith, Hope and Love--and with full, rock-firm +Certitude." + +In its German version the play is named "Rausch," or +"Intoxication," which indicates the part played by the champagne +in the plunge of _Maurice_ from the pinnacles of success to the +depths of misfortune. Strindberg has more and more come to see +that a moderation verging closely on asceticism is wise for most +men and essential to the man of genius who wants to fulfil his +divine mission. And he does not scorn to press home even this +comparatively humble lesson with the naive directness and fiery +zeal which form such conspicuous features of all his work. + +But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their joint +publication we have a better clue to what the author himself +undoubtedly regards as the most important element of his work--its +religious tendency. The "higher court," in which are tried the +crimes of _Maurice_, _Adolphe_, and _Henriette_, is, of course, +the highest one that man can imagine. And the crimes of which they +have all become guilty are those which, as _Adolphe_ remarks, "are +not mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes against the +spirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against God. +The play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritual +change, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the waters +of life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled. + +There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramatic +revelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order-- +for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress is +implied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all in our +growing modern conviction that _any_ vital faith is better than none +at all. One of the currents in question refers to the means rather +than the end, to the road rather than the goal. It brings us back +to those uncanny soul-adventures by which Strindberg himself won +his way to the "full, rock-firm Certitude" of which the play in +its entirety is the first tangible expression. The elements +entering into this current are not only mystical, but occult. They +are derived in part from Swedenborg, and in part from that +picturesque French dreamer who signs himself "Sar Péladan"; but +mostly they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences in +moments of abnormal tension. + +What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris in 1895, +and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude in +his "Inferno" and "Legends," all this is here presented in +dramatic form, but a little toned down, both to suit the needs of +the stage and the calmer mood of the author. Coincidence is law. +It is the finger-point of Providence, the signal to man that he +must beware. Mystery is the gospel: the secret knitting of man to +man, of fact to fact, deep beneath the surface of visible and +audible existence. Few writers could take us into such a realm of +probable impossibilities and possible improbabilities without +losing all claim to serious consideration. If Strindberg has thus +ventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his success can be +explained only by the presence in the play of that second, +parallel current of thought and feeling. + +This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface is +fantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm Certitude" +to which I have already referred. And nothing will bring us nearer +to it than Strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his +"Speeches to the Swedish Nation" two years ago. In that pamphlet +there is a chapter headed "Religion," in which occurs this +passage: "Since 1896 I have been calling myself a Christian. I am +not a Catholic, and have never been, but during a stay of seven +years in Catholic countries and among Catholic relatives, I +discovered that the difference between Catholic and Protestant +tenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial, and that +the division which once occurred was merely political or else +concerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane to +the religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain, +but I can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but come +nearest to being a Swedenborgian. I use my Bible Christianity +internally and privately to tame my somewhat decivilized nature-- +decivilised by that veterinary philosophy and animal science +(Darwinism) in which, as student at the university, I was reared. +And I assure my fellow-beings that they have no right to complain +because, according to my ability, I practise the Christian +teachings. For only through religion, or the hope of something +better, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life as +that of an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it be +possible to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation." + +Here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg's +religiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself to +morality. At bottom he is first and last, and has always been, a +moralist--a man passionately craving to know what is RIGHT and to +do it. During the middle, naturalistic period of his creative +career, this fundamental tendency was in part obscured, and he +engaged in the game of intellectual curiosity known as "truth for +truth's own sake." One of the chief marks of his final and +mystical period is his greater courage to "be himself" in this +respect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance, to a +position which the late William James undoubtedly would have +acknowledged as "pragmatic." To combat the assertion of +over-developed individualism that we are ends in ourselves, +that we have certain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure +and happiness merely because we happen to appear here in human +shape, this is one of Strindberg's most ardent aims in all his +later works. + +As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives must +be held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may be another life. +He calls it God. And the code of service he finds in the tenets of +all the Christian churches, but principally in the Commandments. +The plain and primitive virtues, the faith that implies little +more than square dealing between man and man--these figure +foremost in Strindberg's ideals. In an age of supreme self-seeking +like ours, such an outlook would seem to have small chance of +popularity, but that it embodies just what the time most needs is, +perhaps, made evident by the reception which the public almost +invariably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes" when it is staged. + +With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly called +realism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use of +methods generally held superseded--such as the casual introduction +of characters at whatever moment they happen to be needed on the +stage--it has, from the start, been among the most frequently +played and most enthusiastically received of Strindberg's later +dramas. At Stockholm it was first taken up by the Royal Dramatic +Theatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the Intimate +Theatre, then devoted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It was +one of the earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was still +experimenting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has also +been given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna. + +Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a word of +explanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris. Not only the +scenery, but the people and the circumstances are French. Yet he +has made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect French +manners of speaking or ways of thinking. As he has given it to us, +the play is French only in its most superficial aspect, in its +setting--and this setting he has chosen simply because he needed a +certain machinery offered him by the Catholic, but not by the +Protestant, churches. The rest of the play is purely human in its +note and wholly universal in its spirit. For this reason I have +retained the French names and titles, but have otherwise striven +to bring everything as close as possible to our own modes of +expression. Should apparent incongruities result from this manner +of treatment, I think they will disappear if only the reader will +try to remember that the characters of the play move in an +existence cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeral +reality in order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduring +one. + + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +A COMEDY +1899 + + +CHARACTERS + +MAURICE, a playwright +JEANNE, his mistress +MARION, their daughter, five years old +ADOLPHE, a painter +HENRIETTE, his mistress +EMILE, a workman, brother of Jeanne +MADAME CATHERINE +THE ABBÉ +A WATCHMAN +A HEAD WAITER +A COMMISSAIRE +TWO DETECTIVES +A WAITER +A GUARD +SERVANT GIRL + + + +ACT I, SCENE 1. THE CEMETERY + 2. THE CRÊMERIE + +ACT II, SCENE 1. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS + 2. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE + +ACT III, SCENE 1. THE CRÊMERIE + 2. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS + +ACT IV, SCENE 1. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS + 2. THE CRÊMERIE + +(All the scenes are laid in Paris) + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES + + +ACT I FIRST SCENE + +(The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery at +Paris. The background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses on +which are inscribed "O Crux! Ave Spes Unica!" and the ruins of a +wind-mill covered with ivy.) + +(A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and muttering +prayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers.) + +(JEANNE is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody.) + +(MARION is playing with some withered flowers picked from a +rubbish heap on the ground.) + +(The ABBÉ is reading his breviary while walking along the further +end of the avenue.) + +WATCHMAN. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Look here, this is no +playground. + +JEANNE. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody who'll soon +be here-- + +WATCHMAN. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers. + +JEANNE. [To MARION] Drop the flowers, dear. + +ABBÉ. [Comes forward and is saluted by the WATCHMAN] Can't the +child play with the flowers that have been thrown away? + +WATCHMAN. The regulations don't permit anybody to touch even the +flowers that have been thrown away, because it's believed they may +spread infection--which I don't know if it's true. + +ABBÉ. [To MARION] In that case we have to obey, of course. What's +your name, my little girl? + +MARION. My name is Marion. + +ABBÉ. And who is your father? + +(MARION begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer.) + +ABBÉ. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention--I was just +talking to keep the little one quiet. + +(The WATCHMAN has gone out.) + +JEANNE. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish you would say +something to quiet me also. I feel very much disturbed after +having waited here two hours. + +ABBÉ. Two hours--for him! How these human beings torture each +other! O Crux! Ave spes unica! + +JEANNE. What do they mean, those words you read all around here? + +ABBÉ. They mean: O cross, our only hope! + +JEANNE. Is it the only one? + +ABBÉ. The only certain one. + +JEANNE. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father. + +ABBÉ. May I ask why? + +JEANNE. You have already guessed it. When he lets the woman and +the child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not far +off. + +ABBÉ. And when he has left you, what then? + +JEANNE. Then we have to go into the river. + +ABBÉ. Oh, no, no! + +JEANNE. Yes, yes! + +MARION. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry. + +JEANNE. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home. + +ABBÉ. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil. + +JEANNE. What is that woman doing at the grave over there? + +ABBÉ. She seems to be talking to the dead. + +JEANNE. But you cannot do that? + +ABBÉ. She seems to know how. + +JEANNE. This would mean that the end of life is not the end of our +misery? + +ABBÉ. And you don't know it? + +JEANNE. Where can I find out? + +ABBÉ. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to learn about +this well-known matter, you can look me up in Our Lady's Chapel at +the Church of St. Germain--Here comes the one you are waiting for, +I guess. + +JEANNE. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know him. + +ABBÉ. [To MARION] Good-bye, little Marion! May God take care of +you! [Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Germain des Prés. + +EMILE. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you doing here? + +JEANNE. I am waiting for Maurice. + +EMILE. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for I saw +him on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with some +friends. [Kissing the child] Good morning, Marion. + +JEANNE. Ladies also? + +EMILE. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He writes plays, +and his latest one has its first performance tonight. I suppose he +had with him some of the actresses. + +JEANNE. Did he recognise you? + +EMILE. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as well. I +know my place as a workman, and I don't care for any condescension +from those that are above me. + +JEANNE. But if he leaves us without anything to live on? + +EMILE. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose I +shall have to introduce myself. But you don't expect anything of +the kind, do you--seeing that he is fond of you and very much +attached to the child? + +JEANNE. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something dreadful +is in store for me. + +EMILE. Has he promised to marry you? + +JEANNE. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes. + +EMILE. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the start: don't +hope for anything, for those above us don't marry downward. + +JEANNE. But such things have happened. + +EMILE. Yes, they have happened. But, would you feel at home in his +world? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand what +they were talking of. Now and then I take my meals where he is +eating--out in the kitchen is my place, of course--and I don't +make out a word of what they say. + +JEANNE. So you take your meals at that place? + +EMILE. Yes, in the kitchen. + +JEANNE. And think of it, he has never asked me to come with him. + +EMILE. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has some +respect for the mother of his child. The women over there are a +queer lot. + +JEANNE. Is that so? + +EMILE. But Maurice never pays any attention to the women. There is +something _square_ about that fellow. + +JEANNE. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as there is +a woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer. + +EMILE. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you hard up +for money? + +JEANNE. No, nothing of that kind. + +EMILE. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet--Look! Over there! +There he comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye, little girl. + +JEANNE. Is he coming? Yes, that's him. + +EMILE. Don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, Jeanne! [Goes +out.] + +JEANNE. No, I won't. + +(MAURICE enters.) + +MARION. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] Papa, +papa! + +MAURICE. My little girl! [Greets JEANNE] Can you forgive me, +Jeanne, that I have kept you waiting so long? + +JEANNE. Of course I can. + +MAURICE. But say it in such a way that I can hear that you are +forgiving me. + +JEANNE. Come here and let me whisper it to you. + +(MAURICE goes up close to her.) + +(JEANNE kisses him on the cheek.) + +MAURICE. I didn't hear. + +(JEANNE kisses him on the mouth.) + +MAURICE. Now I heard! Well--you know, I suppose that this is the +day that will settle my fate? My play is on for tonight, and there +is every chance that it will succeed--or fail. + +JEANNE. I'll make sure of success by praying for you. + +MAURICE. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least do no +harm--Look over there, down there in the valley, where the haze is +thickest: there lies Paris. Today Paris doesn't know who Maurice +is, but it is going to know within twenty-four hours. The haze, +which has kept me obscured for thirty years, will vanish before my +breath, and I shall become visible, I shall assume definite shape +and begin to be somebody. My enemies--which means all who would +like to do what I have done--will be writhing in pains that shall +be my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that I have +suffered. + +JEANNE. Don't talk that way, don't! + +MAURICE. But that's the way it is. + +JEANNE. Yes, but don't speak of it--And then? + +MAURICE. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and Marion will +bear the name I have made famous. + +JEANNE. You love me then? + +MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion a +little more. + +JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not of +her. + +MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you? + +JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid of +something terrible-- + +MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, which +once more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of? + +JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without having +any particular reason to do so. + +MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasons +for doing so: the keen instincts of the management and their +knowledge of the public, not to speak of their personal +acquaintance with the critics. So now you must be in good spirits-- + +JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbé here a +while ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith--which you +haven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on a +window to clean it--I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, but +this old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the light +came through, and it was possible again to see that the people +within were at home--To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain. + +MAURICE. Now I am getting scared. + +JEANNE. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. + +MAURICE. God? What is that? Who is he? + +JEANNE. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to your +manhood. And it is he who will carry us through the terrors that +lie ahead of us. + +MAURICE. What is lying ahead of us? What do you know? Where have +you learned of this? This thing that I don't know? + +JEANNE. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heard +nothing. But during these two dreadful hours I have experienced +such an infinity of pain that I am ready for the worst. + +MARION. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am hungry. + +MAURICE. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [Takes her +into his arms.] + +MARION. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa! + +JEANNE. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye then, Maurice. +And good luck to you! + +MAURICE. [To MARION] How did I hurt you? Doesn't my little girl +know that I always want to be nice to her? + +MARION. If you are nice, you'll come home with us. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] When I hear the child talk like that, you +know, I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But then reason +and duty protest--Good-bye, my dear little girl! [He kisses the +child, who puts her arms around his neck.] + +JEANNE. When do we meet again? + +MAURICE. We'll meet tomorrow, dear. And then we'll never part +again. + +JEANNE. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again! [She makes the +sign of the cross on his forehead] May God protect you! + +MAURICE. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved Jeanne! + +(JEANNE and MARION go toward the right; MAURICE toward the left. +Both turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other.) + +MAURICE. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself. I am always +forgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. Here +are the tickets for tonight. + +JEANNE. Thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post of +duty alone, and so I have to take up mine--with Marion. + +MAURICE. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. +Yes, I am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure to +serve her husband--I must have my hands free tonight, and there is +no place for women and children on the battle-field--and this you +understood! + +JEANNE. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, and +then you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll see that I +can be as forgetful as you--I have bought you a tie and a pair of +gloves which I thought you might wear for my sake on your day of +honour. + +MAURICE. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear. + +JEANNE. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, +as you do all the time. I want you to be good-looking, so that +others will like you too. + +MAURICE. There is no jealousy in _you_! + +JEANNE. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it. + +MAURICE. Just now I feel as if I could give up this evening's +victory--for I am going to win-- + +JEANNE. Hush, hush! + +MAURICE. And go home with you instead. + +JEANNE. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny is waiting +for you. + +MAURICE. Good-bye then! And may that happen which must happen! +[Goes out.] + +JEANNE. [Alone with MARION] O Crux! Ave spes unica! + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Crêmerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placed +an aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit, +preserves, etc. In the background is a door leading to the +kitchen, where workmen are taking their meals. At the other end of +the kitchen can be seen a door leading out to a garden. On the +left, in the background, stands a counter on a raised platform, +and back of it are shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On the +right, a long table with a marble top is placed along the wall, +and another table is placed parallel to the first further out on +the floor. Straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. The +walls are covered with oil-paintings.) + +(MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter.) + +(MAURICE stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and is +smoking a cigarette.) + +MME. CATHERINE. So it's tonight the great event comes off, +Monsieur Maurice? + +MAURICE. Yes, tonight. + +MME. CATHERINE. Do you feel upset? + +MAURICE. Cool as a cucumber. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you have +deserved it, Monsieur Maurice, after having had to fight against +such difficulties as yours. + +MAURICE. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have been very kind to +me, and without your help I should probably have been down and out +by this time. + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't let us talk of that now. I help along where +I see hard work and the right kind of will, but I don't want to be +exploited--Can we trust you to come back here after the play and +let us drink a glass with you? + +MAURICE. Yes, you can--of course, you can, as I have already +promised you. + +(HENRIETTE enters from the right.) + +(MAURICE turns around, raises his hat, and stares at HENRIETTE, +who looks him over carefully.) + +HENRIETTE. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, madame. But he'll soon be here now. Won't you +sit down? + +HENRIETTE. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him outside. [Goes +out.] + +MAURICE. Who--was--that? + +MME. CATHERINE. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend. + +MAURICE. Was--that--her? + +MME. CATHERINE. Have you never seen her before? + +MAURICE. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he was +afraid I might take her away from him. + +MME. CATHERINE. Ha-ha!--Well, how did you think she looked? + +MAURICE. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell--I didn't see +her, for it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at once +and come so close to me that I couldn't make out her features at +all. And she left her impression on the air behind her. I can +still see her standing there. [He goes toward the door and makes a +gesture as if putting his arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes a +gesture as if he had pricked his finger] There are pins in her +waist. She is of the kind that stings! + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies! + +MAURICE. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do you know, +Madame Catherine, I am going before she comes back, or else, or +else--Oh, that woman is horrible! + +MME. CATHERINE. Are you afraid? + +MAURICE. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some others. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, go then. + +MAURICE. She seemed to suck herself out through the door, and in +her wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--Yes, you +may laugh, but can't you see that the palm over there on the +buffet is still shaking? She's the very devil of a woman! + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all your +reason. + +MAURICE. I want to go, but I cannot--Do you believe in fate, +Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, I believe in a good God, who protects us +against evil powers if we ask Him in the right way. + +MAURICE. So there are evil powers after all! I think I can hear +them in the hallway now. + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tears +off a piece of linen for you. Get away now--through the kitchen. + +(MAURICE rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps into +EMILE.) + +EMILE. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came.] + +ADOLPHE. [Comes in first; after him HENRIETTE] Why, there's +Maurice. How are you? Let me introduce this lady here to my oldest +and best friend. Mademoiselle Henriette--Monsieur Maurice. + +MAURICE. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you. + +HENRIETTA. We have seen each other before. + +ADOLPHE. Is that so? When, if I may ask? + +MAURICE. A moment ago. Right here. + +ADOLPHE. O-oh!--But now you must stay and have a chat with us. + +MAURICE. [After a glance at MME. CATHERINE] If I only had time. + +ADOLPHE. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here very long. + +HENRIETTE. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business. + +MAURICE. The only business we have is so bad that we don't want to +talk of it. + +HENRIETTE. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the hat away +from MAURICE and hangs it up] Now be nice, and let me become +acquainted with the great author. + +MME. CATHERINE signals to MAURICE, who doesn't notice her. + +ADOLPHE. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him. [They +seat themselves at one of the tables.] + +HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] You certainly have a good friend in +Adolphe, Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of anything but you, and +in such a way that I feel myself rather thrown in the background. + +ADOLPHE. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side never +leaves me in peace about you, Maurice. She has read your works, +and she is always wanting to know where you got this and where +that. She has been questioning me about your looks, your age, your +tastes. I have, in a word, had you for breakfast, dinner, and +supper. It has almost seemed as if the three of us were living +together. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Heavens, why didn't you come over here and +have a look at this wonder of wonders? Then your curiosity could +have been satisfied in a trice. + +HENRIETTE. Adolphe didn't want it. + +(ADOLPHE looks embarrassed.) + +HENRIETTE. Not that he was jealous-- + +MAURICE. And why should he be, when he knows that my feelings are +tied up elsewhere? + +HENRIETTE. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings. + +MAURICE. I can't understand that, seeing that I am notorious for +my constancy. + +ADOLPHE. Well, it wasn't that-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because you have not +faced the fiery ordeal-- + +ADOLPHE. Oh, you don't know-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld a +faithful man. + +MAURICE. Then it's going to behold one. + +HENRIETTE. Where? + +MAURICE. Here. + +(HENRIETTE laughs.) + +ADOLPHE. Well, that's going it-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him and directing herself continuously to +MAURICE] Do you think I ever trust my dear Adolphe more than a +month at a time? + +MAURICE. I have no right to question your lack of confidence, but +I can guarantee that Adolphe is faithful. + +HENRIETTE. You don't need to do so--my tongue is just running away +with me, and I have to take back a lot--not only for fear of +feeling less generous than you, but because it is the truth. It is +a bad habit I have of only seeing the ugly side of things, and I +keep it up although I know better. But if I had a chance to be +with you two for some time, then your company would make me good +once more. Pardon me, Adolphe! [She puts her hand against his +cheek.] + +ADOLPHE. You are always wrong in your talk and right in your +actions. What you really think--that I don't know. + +HENRIETTE. Who does know that kind of thing? + +MAURICE. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who could +then clear himself? + +HENRIETTE. Do you also have evil thoughts? + +MAURICE. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of cruelties +in my dreams. + +HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course--Just think of it—- +No, I am ashamed of telling-- + +MAURICE. Go on, go on! + +HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting the +muscles on Adolphe's breast--you see, I am a sculptor--and he, +with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me instead +with the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than I. + +MAURICE. Was he dead? + +HENRIETTE. No, he was living. + +MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer? + +HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I am +rather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, +Adolphe? + +ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not the +least when animals are concerned. + +MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward the +sufferings both of myself and others. + +ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what do +you say, Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart than +Monsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because I +didn't give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on the +buffet. Just look at them: it is as if they could hear what I am +saying. + +MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, +and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind of +polite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--So +you are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette? + +HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one of +you--which has long been my cherished dream--I hold myself quite +capable. + +MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in coming +true. + +HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind until +this evening's success is over. Not until then will you have +become what you should be. + +MAURICE. How sure you are of victory! + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going to +win this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself. + +MAURICE. Why do you think so? + +HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, you +know, and now I am well. + +(ADOLPHE begins to look depressed.) + +MAURICE. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left--only +one. I place it at your disposal, Adolphe. + +ADOLPHE. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette. + +HENRIETTE. But that wouldn't do? + +ADOLPHE. Why not? And I never go to the theatre anyhow, as I +cannot stand the heat. + +HENRIETTE. But you will come and take us home at least after the +show is over. + +ADOLPHE. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to come back +here, where we shall all be waiting for him. + +MAURICE. You can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. In +fact, I ask, I beg you to do so--And if you don't want to wait +outside the theatre, you can meet us at the Auberge des Adrets-- +That's settled then, isn't it? + +ADOLPHE. Wait a little. You have a way of settling things to suit +yourself, before other people have a chance to consider them. + +MAURICE. What is there to consider--whether you are to see your +lady home or not? + +ADOLPHE. You never know what may be involved in a simple act like +that, but I have a sort of premonition. + +HENRIETTE. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks while the sun is +shining. Let him come or not, as it pleases him. We can always +find our way back here. + +ADOLPHE. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you--model, you know. +Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you, Maurice. To-morrow +you will be out on the right side. Good-bye, Henriette. + +HENRIETTE. Do you really have to go? + +ADOLPHE. I must. + +MAURICE. Good-bye then. We'll meet later. + +(ADOLPHE goes out, saluting MME. CATHERINE in passing.) + +HENRIETTE. Think of it, that we should meet at last! + +MAURICE. Do you find anything remarkable in that? + +HENRIETTE. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe has done +his best to prevent it. + +MAURICE. Has he? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, you must have noticed it. + +MAURICE. I have noticed it, but why should you mention it? + +HENRIETTE. I had to. + +MAURICE. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted to run +away through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and was +stopped by a guest who closed the door in front of me. + +HENRIETTE. Why do you tell me about it now? + +MAURICE. I don't know. + +(MME. CATHERINE upsets a number of glasses and bottles.) + +MAURICE. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's nothing to be +afraid of. + +HENRIETTE. Was that meant as a signal or a warning? + +MAURICE. Probably both. + +HENRIETTE. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to have +flagmen ahead of it? + +MAURICE. And switchmen! The danger is always greatest at the +switches. + +HENRIETTE. How nasty you can be! + +MME. CATHERINE. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all. So far nobody +has been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him. + +MAURICE. Sh, sh, sh! + +HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] The old lady is rather impertinent. + +MAURICE. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so. + +HENRIETTE. With pleasure. This is not the place for me. I can just +feel their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out.] + +MAURICE. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine. + +MME. CATHERINE. A moment! May I speak a word to you, Monsieur +Maurice? + +MAURICE. [Stops unwillingly] What is it? + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! Don't do it! + +MAURICE. What? + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! + +MAURICE. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind, but she +interests me. Or hardly that even. + +MME. CATHERINE, Don't trust yourself! + +MAURICE. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out.] + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT II + +FIRST SCENE + +(The Auberge des Adrets: a café in sixteenth century style, with a +suggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are scattered +in corners and nooks. The walls are decorated with armour and +weapons. Along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses and +jugs.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are in evening dress and sit facing each +other at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and three +filled glasses. The third glass is placed at that side of the +table which is nearest the background, and there an easy-chair is +kept ready for the still missing "third man.") + +MAURICE. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table] If he +doesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming at +all. And suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [Touches +the third glass with the rim of his own.] + +HENRIETTE. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe! + +MAURICE. He won't come. + +HENRIETTE. He will come. + +MAURICE. He won't. + +HENRIETTE. He will. + +MAURICE. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I can hardly grasp +that a new life has begun. Think only: the manager believes that I +may count on no less than one hundred thousand francs. I'll spend +twenty thousand on a villa outside the city. That leaves me eighty +thousand. I won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for I +am tired, tired, tired. [Sinks back into the chair] Have you ever +felt really happy? + +HENRIETTE. Never. How does it feel? + +MAURICE. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot express it, +but I seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. It +isn't nice, but that's the way it is. + +HENRIETTE. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies? + +MAURICE. Why, the victor has to count his killed and wounded +enemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory. + +HENRIETTE. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that? + +MAURICE. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pressure of other +people's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant to +shake off the enemy and draw a full breath at last. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you find it strange that yon are sitting here, +alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you-- +and on an evening like this, when you ought to have a craving to +show yourself like a triumphant hero to all the people, on the +boulevards, in the big restaurants? + +MAURICE. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to be +here, and your company is all I care for. + +HENRIETTE. You don't look very hilarious. + +MAURICE. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep a +little. + +HENRIETTE. What is the meaning of that? + +MAURICE. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness and +waiting for misfortune to appear. + +HENRIETTE. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing anyhow? + +MAURICE. I miss the only thing that gives value to life. + +HENRIETTE. So you love her no longer then? + +MAURICE. Not in the way I understand love. Do you think she has +read my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh, she is so good, so +self-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for a +night's fun she would regard as sinful. Once I treated her to +champagne, you know, and instead of feeling happy over it, she +picked up the wine list to see what it cost. And when she read the +price, she wept--wept because Marion was in need of new stockings. +It is beautiful, of course: it is touching, if you please. But I +can get no pleasure out of it. And I do want a little pleasure +before life runs out. So far I have had nothing but privation, but +now, now--life is beginning for me. [The clock strikes twelve] Now +begins a new day, a new era! + +HENRIETTE. Adolphe is not coming. + +MAURICE. No, now he won't, come. And now it is too late to go back +to the Crêmerie. + +HENRIETTE. But they are waiting for you. + +MAURICE. Let them wait. They have made me promise to come, and I +take back my promise. Are you longing to go there? + +HENRIETTE. On the contrary! + +MAURICE. Will you keep me company then? + +HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me. + +MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, you +know, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't place +it at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless when +you have not a woman. + +HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you? + +MAURICE. Well, that's the question. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hour +of success and fame? + +MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it. + +HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are the +most envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps your +conscience is troubling you because you have neglected that +invitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at the +milk shop? + +MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and +even here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, +their well-grounded anger. My comrades in distress had the right +to demand my presence this evening. The good Madame Catherine had +a privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope was +to spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. And I +have robbed them of their faith in me. I can hear the vows they +have been making: "Maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; he +doesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his word." Now I +have made them forswear themselves. + +(While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begun +to play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. +3). The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and at +last passionately, violently, with complete abandon.) + +MAURICE. Who can be playing at this time of the night? + +HENRIETTE. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. But +listen! Your presentation of the case is not correct. Remember +that Adolphe promised to meet us here. We waited for him, and he +failed to keep his promise. So that you are not to blame-- + +MAURICE. You think so? While you are speaking, I believe you, but +when you stop, my conscience begins again. What have you in that +package? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send up +to the stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me give it to you +now--it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. +[She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him on +the forehead] Hail to the victor! + +MAURICE. Don't! + +HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King! + +MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me. + +HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid of +fortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you +into a dwarf? + +MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in the +clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my +weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You think +that my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. On the +contrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I am +afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over +there and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which you +don't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glass +off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--you +absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. You +stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself +already beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I will +crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no +longer yours. + +HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero! + +MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful +helper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied? + +HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think you +love me, Maurice. + +MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man's +courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do +you lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when I +heard them speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, your +soul poured itself into mine. And when you left, I could still +feel your presence in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, but +something held me back, and this evening we have been driven +together as the prey is driven into the hunter's net. Whose is the +fault? Your friend's, who pandered for us! + +HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what does +it mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together +before. He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, +to which he had no right himself. I am jealous of him on your +behalf. I hate him because he has cheated you out of your +mistress. I should like to blot him from the host of the living, +and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make him +unmade, unborn! + +MAURICE. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. We'll +cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and +then we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will never +look up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is sealed. Woe unto +us! What will come next? + +HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package? + +MAURICE. I cannot remember. + +HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of +gloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fifty +centimes. + +MAURICE. [Snatching the things away from her] Don't you touch +them! + +HENRIETTE. They are from her? + +MAURICE. Yes, they are. + +HENRIETTE. Give them to me. + +MAURICE. No, she's better than we, better than everybody else. + +HENRIETTE. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider and +stingier. One who weeps because you order champagne-- + +MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a good +woman. + +HENRIETTE. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I am an +artist, and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's cap +instead of the laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne? + +MAURICE. How do you know? + +HENRIETTE. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers. + +MAURICE. Henriette! + +(HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into the +fireplace.) + +MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. +You shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, +then I'll send you packing. + +HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me? + +MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. But +I believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. I +believe that the evil within you draws me with the irresistible +lure of novelty. + +HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime? + +MAURICE. No real one. Have you? + +HENRIETTE. Yes. + +MAURICE. Well, how did you find it? + +HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by that +we are placed on equality with others; it was greater than to +perform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised above +others and rewarded. That crime placed me outside and beyond life, +society, and my fellow-beings. Since then I am living only a +partial life, a sort of dream life, and that's why reality never +gets a hold on me. + +MAURICE. What was it you did? + +HENRIETTE. I won't tell, for then you would get scared again. + +MAURICE. Can you never be found out? + +HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, +frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where the +scaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open a +pack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds. + +MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind. + +MAURICE. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. Have you +no conscience? + +HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk of +something else. + +MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love? + +HENRIETTE. Of that you don't talk until it is over. + +MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe? + +HENRIETTE. I don't know. The goodness of his nature drew me like +some beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet there +was much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had to +spend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, +before I could make a presentable figure of him. When he talked, I +could notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson was +often badly digested and awkwardly applied. You can imagine then +how miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted to +study the original. That's why he was afraid of having us two +meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his time +was up. + +MAURICE. Poor Adolphe! + +HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must be +suffering beyond all bounds-- + +MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming. + +HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he? + +MAURICE. That would be unbearable. + +HENRIETTE. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you think +the situation would have shaped itself? + +MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you because +he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried to +find us in several other cafes--but his soreness would have +changed into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had not +deceived him. And in the joy at having wronged us by his +suspicions, he would love both of us. And so it would make him +happy to notice that we had become such good friends. It had +always been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dream +that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the +world a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, I +trust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly +because your feelings are tied up elsewhere." + +HENRIETTE. Bravo! You must have been in a similar situation +before, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. Do you +know that Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannot +enjoy his mistress without having his friend along? + +MAURICE. That's why I had to be called in to entertain you--Hush! +There is somebody outside--It must be he. + +HENRIETTE. No, don't you know these are the hours when ghosts +walk, and then you can see so many things, and hear them also. To +keep awake at night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me the +same charm as a crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond the +laws of nature. + +MAURICE. But the punishment is fearful--I am shivering or +quivering, with cold or with fear. + +HENRIETTE. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this on. It will +make you warm. + +MAURICE. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your skin, as +if my body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were being +remoulded in your shape. I can feel the moulding process going on. +But I am also growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, where +your bosom has left an impression, I can feel my own beginning to +bulge. + +(During this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has been +practicing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimes +wildly fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a little +while, and at other times nothing has been heard but a part of the +finale: bars 96 to 107.) + +MAURICE. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing on the +piano. It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know what I propose? Let +us drive out to the Bois de Boulogne and take breakfast in the +Pavilion, and see the sun rise over the lakes. + +HENRIETTE. Bully! + +MAURICE. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail and the +morning papers sent out by messenger to the Pavilion. Tell me, +Henriette: shall we invite Adolphe? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that's going too far! But why not? The ass can also +be harnessed to the triumphal chariot. Let him come. [They get +up.] + +MAURICE. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring. + +HENRIETTE. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms.] + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois de +Boulogne. It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, +and divans. There are glass doors in the background, and beside +them windows overlooking the lakes. In the foreground a table is +spread, with flowers in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine in +decanters, oysters on platters, many different kinds of wine +glasses, and two lighted candelabra. On the right there is a round +table full of newspapers and telegrams.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are sitting opposite each other at this +small table.) + +(The sun is just rising outside.) + +MAURICE. There is no longer any doubt about it. The newspapers +tell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on my +success. This is the beginning of a new life, and my fate is +wedded to yours by this night, when you were the only one to share +my hopes and my triumph. From your hand I received the laurel, and +it seems to me as if everything had come from you. + +HENRIETTE. What a wonderful night! Have we been dreaming, or is +this something we have really lived through? + +MAURICE. [Rising] And what a morning after such a night! I feel as +if it were the world's first day that is now being illumined by +the rising sun. Only this minute was the earth created and +stripped of those white films that are now floating off into +space. There lies the Garden of Eden in the rosy light of dawn, +and here is the first human couple--Do you know, I am so happy I +could cry at the thought that all mankind is not equally happy--Do +you hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves beating against a +rocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest? Do you know +what it is? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the columns +of smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands? +They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, +then it must become so, for I will it. At this moment all the +telegraph instruments of Europe are clicking out my name. The +Oriental Express is carrying the newspapers to the Far East, +toward the rising sun; and the ocean steamers are carrying them to +the utmost West. The earth is mine, and for that reason it is +beautiful. Now I should like to have wings for us two, so that we +might rise from here and fly far, far away, before anybody can +soil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out of my +dream--for it is probably a dream! + +HENRIETTE. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can feel that +you are not dreaming. + +MAURICE. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a poor young +man, you know, when I was walking in the woods down there, and +looked up to this Pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, +and always my thoughts carried me up to this room, with the +balcony outside and the heavy curtains, as to a place of supreme +bliss. To be sitting here in company with a beloved woman and see +the sun rise while the candles were still burning in the +candelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my youth. Now it +has come true, and now I have no more to ask of life--Do you want +to die now, together with me? + +HENRIETTE. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living. + +MAURICE. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes reality. I +can hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting with alarm, and +his heart is beating with dread of having lost what it holds most +precious. Can you believe me if I tell you that Adolphe is under +this roof? Within a minute he will be standing in the middle of +this floor. + +HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him to come +here, and I am already regretting it--Well, we shall see anyhow if +your forecast of the situation proves correct. + +MAURICE. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings. + +(The HEAD WAITER enters with a card.) + +MAURICE. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To HENRIETTE] I am afraid +we'll regret this. + +HENRIETTE. Too late to think of that now--Hush! + +(ADOLPHE enters, pale and hollow-eyed.) + +MAURICE. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are! What +became of you last night? + +ADOLPHE. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and waited a +whole hour. + +MAURICE. So you went to the wrong place. We were waiting several +hours for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and we are still waiting +for you, as you see. + +ADOLPHE. [Relieved] Thank heaven! + +HENRIETTE. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always expecting the +worst and worrying yourself needlessly. I suppose you imagined +that we wanted to avoid your company. And though you see that we +sent for you, you are still thinking yourself superfluous. + +ADOLPHE. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was dreadful. + +(They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows.) + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Well, are you not going to congratulate +Maurice on his great success? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and envy itself +cannot deny it. Everything is giving way before you, and even I +have a sense of my own smallness in your presence. + +MAURICE. Nonsense!--Henriette, are you not going to offer Adolphe +a glass of wine? + +ADOLPHE. Thank you, not for me--nothing at all! + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] What's the matter with you? Are you ill? + +ADOLPHE. Not yet, but-- + +HENRIETTE. Your eyes-- + +ADOLPHE. What of them? + +MAURICE. What happened at the Crêmerie last night? I suppose they +are angry with me? + +ADOLPHE. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused a +depression which it hurt me to watch. But nobody was angry with +you, believe me. Your friends understood, and they regarded your +failure to come with sympathetic forbearance. Madame Catherine +herself defended you and proposed your health. We all rejoiced in +your success as if it had been our own. + +HENRIETTE. Well, those are nice people! What good friends you +have, Maurice. + +MAURICE. Yes, better than I deserve. + +ADOLPHE. Nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are a +man greatly blessed in his friends--Can't you feel how the air is +softened to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that stream +toward you from a thousand breasts? + +(MAURICE rises in order to hide his emotion.) + +ADOLPHE. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of the +nightmare that had been crushing them during a lifetime. Humanity +had been slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why men +feel grateful toward you. To-day they are once more holding their +heads high and saying: You see, we are a little better than our +reputation after all. And that thought makes them better. + +(HENRIETTE tries to hide her emotion.) + +ADOLPHE. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a little in your +sunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go. + +MAURICE. Why should you go when you have only just arrived? + +ADOLPHE. Why? Because I have seen what I need not have seen; +because I know now that my hour is past. [Pause] That you sent for +me, I take as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of what +has happened, a frankness that hurts less than deceit. You hear +that I think well of my fellow-beings, and this I have learned +from you, Maurice. [Pause] But, my friend, a few moments ago I +passed through the Church of St. Germain, and there I saw a woman +and a child. I am not wishing that you had seen them, for what has +happened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought or a word to +them before you set them adrift on the waters of the great city, +then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. And now I bid you +good-by. + +HENRIETTE. Why must you go? + +ADOLPHE. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell you? + +HENRIETTE. No, I don't. + +ADOLPHE. Good-by then! [Goes out.] + +MAURICE. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked." + +HENRIETTE. What a difference between this scene and the one we +imagined! He is better than we. + +MAURICE. It seems to me now as if all the rest were better than +we. + +HENRIETTE. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, and +that the woods have lost their rose colour? + +MAURICE. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black. Let us +flee to some place where the sky is always blue and the trees are +always green. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, let us--but without any farewells. + +MAURICE. No, with farewells. + +HENRIETTE. We were to fly. You spoke of wings--and your feet are +of lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and get +two pairs of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourself +away. + +MAURICE. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little arms +is needed to hold me fast. + +HENRIETTE. It is the child that holds you then, and not the woman? + +MAURICE. It is the child. + +HENRIETTE. The child! Another woman's child! And for the sake of +it I am to suffer. Why must that child block the way where I want +to pass, and must pass? + +MAURICE. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never existed. + +HENRIETTE. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But now it +does exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in the +ground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage. + +MAURICE. The triumphal chariot!--The ass is driven to death, but +the rock remains. Curse it! [Pause.] + +HENRIETTE. There is nothing to do. + +MAURICE. Yes, we must get married, and then our child will make us +forget the other one. + +HENRIETTE. This will kill this! + +MAURICE. Kill! What kind of word is that? + +HENRIETTE. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love. + +MAURICE. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, +but it will not be killed. + +HENRIETTE. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] Look +at it! Five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! Can it be possible +that our fates are determined in advance? That our thoughts are +guided as if through pipes to the spot for which they are bound, +without chance for us to stop them? But I don't want it, I don't +want it!--Do you realise that I must go to the scaffold if my +crime should be discovered? + +MAURICE. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time for it. + +HENRIETTE. No, I should regret it afterward, and you would despise +me--no, no, no!--Have you ever heard that a person could be hated +to death? Well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and my +sisters, and he melted away like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let us +talk of something else. And, above all, let us get away. The air +is poisoned here. To-morrow your laurels will be withered, the +triumph will be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant hero +will hold the public attention. Away from here, to work for new +victories! But first of all, Maurice, you must embrace your child +and provide for its immediate future. You don't have to see the +mother at all. + +MAURICE. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour, and I love +you doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide. + +HENRIETTE. And then you go to the Crêmerie and say good-by to the +old lady and your friends. Leave no unsettled business behind to +make your mind heavy on our trip. + +MAURICE. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at the +railroad station. + +HENRIETTE. Agreed! And then: away from here--away toward the sea +and the sun! + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT III + +FIRST SCENE + +(In the Crêmerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at the +counter, ADOLPHE at a table.) + +MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young ones +are always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubber +over it afterward. + +ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond as +ever of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick at +heart. You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; so +much that I wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give him +pleasure--but now I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the +loss of her. I have lost both of them, and so my loneliness is +made doubly painful. And then there is still something else which +I have not yet been able to clear up. + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't brood so much. Work and divert yourself. +Now, for instance, do you ever go to church? + +ADOLPHE. What should I do there? + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, there's so much to look at, and then there is +the music. There is nothing commonplace about it, at least. + +ADOLPHE. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold, I guess, +for it never stirs me to any devotion. And then, Madame Catherine, +faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven't got it yet. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, wait till you get it--But what is this I +heard a while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture in +London for a high price, and that you have got a medal? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, it's true. + +MME. CATHERINE. Merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say about +it? + +ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost +worthless to me at this moment. I am afraid of it as of a spectre: +it brings disaster to speak of having seen it. + +MME. CATHERINE. You're a queer fellow, and that's what you have +always been. + +ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune come +in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings out +true friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of +success--You asked me if I ever went to church, and I answered +evasively. This morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germain +without really knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I were +looking for somebody in there--somebody to whom I could silently +offer my gratitude. But I found nobody. Then I dropped a gold coin +in the poor-box. It was all I could get out of my church-going, +and that was rather commonplace, I should say. + +MME. CATHERINE. It was always something; and then it was fine to +think of the poor after having heard good news. + +ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something I +did because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurred +while I was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, +and her child. Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they +seemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shape +you keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful and +considerate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden desert +a woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain. + +ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understand +it himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quite +natural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagine +anything else. It was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction +of a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, +Madame Catherine, that we cannot explain, and for this reason it +is not for us to judge. And besides, you saw how it happened. +Maurice felt the danger in the air. I foresaw it and tried to +prevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run away from it, but +nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid by some +invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile into +each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this case, but +I wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty." + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that's +what I call religion. + +ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowing +it. + +MME. CATHERINE. But then, to _let_ oneself be driven or tempted +into evil, as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or bad +character. And if you feel your strength failing you, then you ask +for help, and then you get it. But he was too conceited to do +that--Who is this coming? The Abbé, I think. + +ADOLPHE. What does he want here? + +ABBÉ. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening, Monsieur. + +MME. CATHERINE. Can I be of any service? + +ABBÉ. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here to-day? + +MME. CATHERINE. Not to-day. His play has just been put on, and +that is probably keeping him busy. + +ABBÉ. I have--sad news to bring him. Sad in several respects. + +MME. CATHERINE. May I ask of what kind? + +ABBÉ. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that girl, +Jeanne, is dead. + +MME. CATHERINE. Dead! + +ADOLPHE. Marion dead! + +ABBÉ. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previous +illness. + +MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways! + +ABBÉ. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Maurice +look after her, so we must try to find him. But first a question +in confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond of +the child, or was indifferent to it? + +MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know how +he loved her. + +ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that. + +ABBÉ. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as I +am concerned. + +MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it? + +ABBÉ. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in the +neighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its mother in +order to go away with a strange woman. In a few hours this rumour +has grown into definite accusations, and at the same time the +feeling against him has risen to such a point that his life is +threatened and he is being called a murderer. + +MME. CATHERINE. Good God, what is _this_? What does it mean? + +ABBÉ. Now I'll tell you my opinion--I am convinced that the man is +innocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about it +as I do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I think +he will find it rather hard to clear himself when the police come +to question him. + +ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter? + +ABBÉ. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him against +all those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably the +Commissaire will be here soon. + +MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a man +cannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when he +trifles with vice. God will punish! + +ADOLPHE. Then he is more merciless than man. + +ABBÉ. What do you know about that? + +ADOLPHE. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what happens-- + +ABBÉ. And you understand it also? + +ADOLPHE. Not yet perhaps. + +ABBÉ. Let us look more closely at the matter--Oh, here comes the +Commissaire. + +COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have to +trouble you for a moment with a few questions concerning Monsieur +Maurice. As you have probably heard, he has become the object of a +hideous rumour, which, by the by, I don't believe in. + +MME. CATHERINE. None of us believes in it either. + +COMMISSAIRE. That strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sake +I must give him a chance to defend himself. + +ABBÉ. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although it +may come hard. + +COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I have +seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocence +was discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. The +little girl, Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretly +visited by the father, who seems to have made sure of the time +when the child was to be found alone. Fifteen minutes after his +visit the mother returned home and found the child dead. All this +makes the position of the accused man very unpleasant--The post- +mortem examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison, +but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that leave +no traces behind them. To me all this is mere coincidence of the +kind I frequently come across. But here's something that looks +worse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge des +Adrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, +they were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and the +scaffold were both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for a +pair of lovers of good breeding and good social position! But even +this may be passed over, as we know by experience that people who +have been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to dig +up all the worst that lies at the bottom of their souls. Far more +serious is the evidence given by the head waiter as to their +champagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this morning. He says +that he heard them wish the life out of a child. The man is said +to have remarked that, "It would be better if it had never +existed." To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it does +exist." And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "This +will kill this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word is +that?" And also: "The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, the +Place de Roquette." All this, you see, will be hard to get out of, +and so will the foreign journey planned for this evening. These +are serious matters. + +ADOLPHE. He is lost! + +MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what to +believe. + +ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on him! + +ADOLPHE. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it. + +MME. CATHERINE. He had no business to get in. + +ADOLPHE. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes and no. I have got beyond having an opinion in +this matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as you +turn your hand, and then become angels again? + +COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have to +wait and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judged +unheard. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Madame Catherine. +[Goes out.] + +ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. + +ADOLPHE. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for the +undoing of man. + +ABBÉ. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is a +terrible test. + +JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me for +asking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, madame, but I think he may be here any minute. +You haven't met him then since-- + +JEANNE. Not since this morning. + +MME. CATHERINE. Let me tell you that I share in your great sorrow. + +JEANNE. Thank you, madame. [To the ABBÉ] So you are here, Father. + +ABBÉ. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use to you. And +it was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to the +Commissaire. + +JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he? + +ABBÉ. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances are +against him in a most appalling manner. + +JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--it +means nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Maurice +had had a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimes +and their punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman in +his company who dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should like +to have a look into that woman's eyes. + +ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman may +have done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, she +had no intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of her +nature. I know her to be a good soul and one who can very well +bear being looked straight in the eye. + +JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value to +me, and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot hold +anybody but myself responsible for what has happened. It is my +carelessness that is now being punished. [She begins to cry.] + +ABBÉ. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the serious +spirit in which you have regarded your motherhood. That your +assumption of this responsibility had not been sanctioned by +religion and the civil law was not your fault. No, we are here +facing something quite different. + +ADOLPHE. What then? + +ABBÉ. Who can tell? + +(HENRIETTE enters, dressed in travelling suit.) + +ADOLPHE. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to meet +HENRIETTE] You here? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice? + +ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you? + +HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but I +was ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. +[To ADOLPHE] Who is that woman?--Oh! + +(HENRIETTE and JEANNE stare at each other.) + +(EMILE appears in the kitchen door.) + +HENRIETTE. [To JEANNE] I ought to say something, but it matters +very little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or a +mockery. But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deep +sorrow as much as anybody standing closer to you, then you must +not turn away from me. You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if not +your forbearance. [Holds out her hand.] + +JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the next +moment I don't. [Takes HENRIETTE'S hand.] + +HENRIETTE. [Kisses JEANNE'S hand] Thank you! + +JEANNE. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't deserve it! I +don't deserve it! + +ABBÉ. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems to +prevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, +shed some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surrounding +the main point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend among +friends, to tell us what you meant with all that talk about +killing, and crime, and the Place de Roquette. That your words had +no connection with the death of the child, we have reason to +believe, but it would give us added assurance to hear what you +were really talking about. Won't you tell us? + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I cannot! + +ADOLPHE. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will relieve us +all. + +HENRIETTE. I cannot! Don't ask me! + +ABBÉ. This is not the work of man! + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in this manner! +[To JEANNE] Madame, I swear that I am not guilty of your child's +death. Is that enough? + +JEANNE. Enough for us, but not for Justice. + +HENRIETTE. Justice! If you knew how true your words are! + +ABBÉ. [To HENRIETTE] And if you knew what you were saying just +now! + +HENRIETTE. Do you know that better than I? + +ABBÉ. Yes, I do. + +(HENRIETTE looks fixedly at the ABBÉ.) + +ABBÉ. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will not +be exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, but +a great deal with divine mercy. + +MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't look +at the others, who are standing in the background, but goes +straight up to the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting.] You +are not angry at me, Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. I +have come now to apologise to you before I start for the South at +eight o'clock this evening. + +(MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word.) + +MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does all +this mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see that +it is all real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, +looking like a statue and dressed in black--And Henriette looking +like a corpse--What does it mean? + +(All remain silent.) + +MAURICE. Nobody answers. It must mean something dreadful. +[Silence] But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my friend, what is +it? [Pointing to EMILE] And there is a detective! + +ADOLPHE. [Comes forward] You don't know then? + +MAURICE. Nothing at all. But I must know! + +ADOLPHE. Well, then--Marion is dead. + +MAURICE. Marion--dead? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, she died this morning. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] So that's why you are in mourning. Jeanne, +Jeanne, who has done this to us? + +JEANNE. He who holds life and death in his hand. + +MAURICE. But I saw her looking well and happy this morning. How +did it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyes +seek HENRIETTE.] + +ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none to +he found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion in +a direction where none ought to exist. + +MAURICE. What direction is that? + +ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk last +night and this morning has placed you in a light that is anything +but favourable. + +MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were we +saying--I remember!--Then I am lost! + +ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believe +you. + +MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, but +it doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead! And I have killed her! + +(General consternation.) + +ADOLPHE. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your words! Do you +realise what you said just now? + +MAURICE. What did I say? + +ADOLPHE. You said that you had killed Marion. + +MAURICE. Is there a human being here who could believe me a +murderer, and who could hold me capable of taking my own child's +life? You who know me, Madame Catherine, tell me: do you believe, +can you believe-- + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't know any longer what to believe. What the +heart thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spoken +evil words. + +MAURICE. She doesn't believe me! + +ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant by +saying that "your love would kill everything that stood in its +way." + +MAURICE. So they know that too--Are you willing to explain it, +Henriette? + +HENRIETTE. No, I cannot do that. + +ABBÉ. There is something wrong behind all this and you have lost +our sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that you +were innocent, and I wouldn't do that now. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me than +anything else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who was +it you cursed during that orgie out there? + +MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet I +am guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed of +myself, and I have done more wrong than I can forgive myself. + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't do +himself any harm. + +ADOLPHE. Shall I--? + +HENRIETTE. Who else? + +ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! A +carriage is stopping outside. + +MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen of +life, I could never have believed that success and fame were such +short-lived things. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrol +wagon! + +JEANNE. [Simply] And the ass--who was that? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, that must have been me. + +COMMISSAIRE. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons to Police +Headquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gérard--and +for Mademoiselle Henrietta Mauclerc--both here? + +MAURICE and HENRIETTE. Yes. + +MAURICE. Is this an arrest? + +COMMISSAIRE. Not yet. Only a summons. + +MAURICE. And then? + +COMMISSAIRE. We don't know yet. + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE go toward the door.) + +MAURICE. Good-bye to all! + +(Everybody shows emotion. The COMMISSAIRE, MAURICE, and HENRIETTE +go out.) + +EMILE. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Now I'll take you home, +sister. + +JEANNE. And what do you think of all this? + +EMILE. The man is innocent. + +ABBÉ. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, something +despicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonable +when a woman and her child are involved. + +EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when it +concerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented from +throwing the first stone because I have done the same thing +myself. + +ABBÉ. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am not +throwing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is +punished by its consequences. + +JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them! + +ABBÉ. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence +to want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happened +here is, indeed, not the work of man. + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at the +same table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the second +act. A cup of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE has +ordered nothing.) + +ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here? + +HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack of +evidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets before +it was dark. + +ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to me +since yesterday. + +HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardly +breathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody is +spying not only on my words but on my thoughts. + +ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't find +you? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame when +I think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, +stuff than he or I-- + +ADOLPHE. Sh, sh, sh! + +HENRIETTE. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made me stay here? I +was lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched +me--I cannot explain it. But if you had come, it would never have +happened. And to-day you are great, and he is small--less than the +least of all. Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-day +he has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And public +opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will be +judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that see +farthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he was +responsible for it anyhow. + +ADOLPHE. You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, +but I should like to know that both of you are spotless. Won't you +tell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be a +chance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so +largely with killing and the scaffold. + +HENRIETTE. It was no chance. It was something that had to be said, +something I cannot tell you--probably because I have no right to +appear spotless in your eyes, seeing that I am not spotless. + +ADOLPHE. All this is beyond me. + +HENRIETTE. Let us talk of something else--Do you believe there are +many unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may even +be our intimate friends? + +ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean? + +HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some time +or another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fall +under the law if it were discovered? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapes +being punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises and +unbuttons his coat] And--nobody is really good who has not erred. +[Breathing heavily] For in order to know how to forgive, one must +have been in need of forgiveness--I had a friend whom we used to +regard as a model man. He never spoke a hard word to anybody; he +forgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with a +strange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. At last, late in +life, he gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent! [He +sits down again.] + +(HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise.) + +ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes not +mentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, for +they have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be more +severe than we are against our own selves. + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he find +peace? + +ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree of +composure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. He +never dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared to +feel himself entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise: +in a word, he could never quite forgive himself. + +HENRIETTE. Never? What had he done then? + +ADOLPHE. He had wished the life out of his father. And when his +father suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. +Those imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, +and he was sent to an asylum. From this he was discharged after a +time as wholly recovered--as they put it. But the sense of guilt +remained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for his +evil thoughts. + +HENRIETTE. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill? + +ADOLPHE. You mean in some mystic way? + +HENRIETTE. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my own family--I +am sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with their +hatred. You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all our +tastes and inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, he +tried to root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance that +accumulated until it became like an electrical battery charged +with hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished away, +became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came to +wish himself dead. + +ADOLPHE. And your conscience never troubled you? + +HENRIETTE. No, and furthermore, I don't know what conscience is. + +ADOLPHE. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn. [Pause] How do +you believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you think +he will say? + +HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make the +same kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you. + +ADOLPHE. Well? + +HENRIETTE. We guessed entirely wrong. + +ADOLPHE. Can you tell me why you sent for me? + +HENRIETTE. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty! + +ADOLPHE. How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yet +not repent of them. + +HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible for +them. They are like the dirt left behind by things handled during +the day and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do you +really think so highly of humanity as you profess to do? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and a +little worse. + +HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer. + +ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me frankly +when I ask you: do you still love Maurice? + +HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment I +feel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well live +without him. + +ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chained +to his fate--Sh! Here he comes. + +HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is the +same, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting you +yesterday. + +MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, +my dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cell +changed me into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE and +ADOLPHE.] + +ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk +things over. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Perhaps I am in the way? + +ADOLPHE. Now, don't get bitter. + +MAURICE. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, and +suspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And who +wants to keep company with a murderer? + +HENRIETTE. But you have been cleared of the charge. + +MAURICE. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not by +public opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gérard, once a +playwright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc-- + +HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters--my mother! Jesus have +mercy! + +MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? And +then it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't a +vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of my +own, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and +he is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, +Solon! Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate, +Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded. + +HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great success +in London and carried off the first prize? + +MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe? + +ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize. + +HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are also +prevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend? + +ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes! + +MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still +farther apart. + +ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonely +with my success as you with your adversity. Think of it--that +people feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive! + +MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyes +had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape +of all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the room +I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise both +of you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here and +search for words because I don't know what to say to you. I ought +to defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it +protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass +right through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don't +love me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you. To- +day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive. + +(Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a +table in the background.) + +ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That you +have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in +some of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the whole +matter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the +worst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and let +everything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind will +be exonerated yourself. + +MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha! + +ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, if +I ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of +looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. When +I, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what +must then be the wretchedness of the rest? + +ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and then +we'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different +way. + +MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!--It means +that I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myself +away by careless talking. + +ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. I +recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.] + +MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette and +I may come to open explanations. + +ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Try +to keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goes +out.] + +HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt or +guiltlessness? + +MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot of +nonsense while I was drunk. But it is your crime that comes back, +and that crime you have grafted on to me. + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--Was it not you +who cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, and +wanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was it +not I who made you visit Marion and show yourself to Madame +Catherine? + +MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself more +human than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But all +the same I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which I +can never free myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yet +guilty! Oh, it is driving me mad--Look, now they sit over there +and listen to us--And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll go +out and order a cup of tea. Do you want anything? + +HENRIETTE. Nothing. + +(MAURICE goes out.) + +FIRST DETECTIVE. [Goes up to HENRIETTE] Let me look at your +papers. + +HENRIETTE. How dare you speak to me? + +DETECTIVE. Dare? I'll show you! + +HENRIETTE. What do you mean? + +DETECTIVE. It's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. Yesterday +you came here with one man, and today with another. That's as good +as walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anything +here. So you'd better get out and come along with me. + +HENRIETTE. My escort will be back in a moment. + +DETECTIVE. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kind +that doesn't help a girl a bit! + +HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!--I am of good family, I +tell you. + +DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too well +known through the papers. Come along! + +HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean? + +DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nice +little card and a license that brings you free medical care. + +HENRIETTE. O Lord Jesus, you don't mean it! + +DETECTIVE. [Grabbing HENRIETTE by the arm] Don't I mean it? + +HENRIETTE. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice! Help! + +DETECTIVE. Shut up, you fool! + +(MAURICE enters, followed by WAITER.) + +WAITER. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here. You just pay +and get out! And take the girl along! + +MAURICE. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] Henriette, +pay for me, and let us get away from this place. I haven't a sou +left. + +WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Do +you know what that is? + +HENRIETTE. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful heavens! +I have no money either!--Why doesn't Adolphe come back? + +DETECTIVE. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out of here, +and put up something as security. That kind of ladies generally +have their fingers full of rings. + +MAURICE. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low? + +HENRIETTE. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the WAITER] The Abbé +was right: this is not the work of man. + +MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!--But if we leave before Adolphe +returns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away. + +HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest--But we'll go +into the river now, won't we? + +MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together] +Into the river--yes! + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT IV + +FIRST SCENE + +(In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The wind +is shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, and +pieces of paper from the ground.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are seated on a bench.) + +HENRIETTE. So you don't want to die? + +MAURICE. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going to be very +cold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and a +few shavings to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as if +there were still some task waiting for me, but I cannot make out +what it is. + +HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is. + +MAURICE. Tell me. + +HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanne +and Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such a +revenge on a rival none but a woman could devise. + +MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that my +suspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings during +these last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, for +instance, why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the head +waiter from the Pavilion were not called to testify at the +hearing? + +HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. They +had nothing to tell, because they had not been listening. + +MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had been +saying? + +HENRIETTE. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He was guessing, +and he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to deal with some similar +case before. + +MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had been +saying. There are those who can read other people's thoughts-- +Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we should +have called him an ass. It's the rule, I understand, although it's +varied at times by the use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearer +at hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages and +triumphal chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourth +fact, when you have three known ones to start from. + +HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so +completely. + +MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellow +beings. This is all you get out of it. But do you know, _I_ +suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, +must be a full-fledged scoundrel. + +HENRIETTE. You mean the Abbé, who was taking the part of a private +detective. + +MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds of +confessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been at +the Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there? +He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then the +priest put the questions together for the Commissaire. + +HENRIETTE. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe? + +MAURICE. I trust no human being any longer. + +HENRIETTE. Not even Adolphe? + +MAURICE. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy--a man from +whom I have taken away his mistress? + +HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'll +give you some data about our friend. You heard he had returned +that medal from London. Do you know his reason for doing so? + +MAURICE. No. + +HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a +penitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction. + +MAURICE. Can that he possible? But what has he done? + +HENRIETTE. He has committed a crime of the kind that is not +punishable under the law. That's what he gave me to understand +indirectly. + +MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, who +never speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything. + +HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse than +others. And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils +were after us. + +MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered--But if he +has been capable of _one_ crime, then you may expect anything of +him. Perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. +Coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us when +he saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insisted +that those fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you may +expect anything from a deceived lover. + +HENRIETTE. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is impossible, +impossible! + +MAURICE. Why so? If he is a scoundrel?--What were you two talking +of yesterday, before I came? + +HENRIETTE. He had nothing but good to say of you. + +MAURICE. That's a lie! + +HENRIETTE. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen. +There is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever-- +for what reason, I don't know. Have you thought of Madame +Catherine's wavering attitude in this matter? Didn't she say +finally that she believed you capable of anything? + +MAURICE. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is. +To think evil of other people without reason, you must be a +villain yourself. + +(HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause.) + +HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villain +yourself. + +MAURICE. What do you mean? + +HENRIETTE. What I said. + +MAURICE. Do you mean that I--? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here! Did you meet +anybody but Marion when you called there yesterday morning? + +MAURICE. Why do you ask? + +HENRIETTE. Guess! + +MAURICE. Well, as you seem to know--I met Jeanne, too. + +HENRIETTE. Why did you lie to me? + +MAURICE. I wanted to spare you. + +HENRIETTE. And now you want me to believe in one who has been +lying to me? No, my boy, now I believe you guilty of that murder. + +MAURICE. Wait a moment! We have now reached the place for which my +thoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as long +as possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last of +all, and what one doesn't _want_ to believe cannot be believed--Tell +me something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we parted +in the Bois? + +HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why? + +MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe--which you couldn't do, as he +was attending a lesson--or you went to--Marion! + +HENRIETTE. Now I am convinced that you are the murderer. + +MAURICE. And I, that you are the murderess! You alone had an +interest in getting the child out of the way--to get rid of the +rock on the road, as you so aptly put it. + +HENRIETTE. It was you who said that. + +MAURICE. And the one who had an interest in it must have committed +the crime. + +HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around in +this tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we get +to the point of sheer madness. + +MAURICE. You have reached that point already. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you think it's time for us to part, before we +drive each other insane? + +MAURICE. Yes, I think so. + +HENRIETTE. [Rising] Good-bye then! + +(Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background.) + +HENRIETTE. [Turns and comes back to MAURICE] There they are again! + +MAURICE. The dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden. + +HENRIETTE. And force us back upon each other as if we were chained +together. + +MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are we +really to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able to +close the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last? + +HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to +death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage +portion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and I +getting back at you with Jeanne--and Marion. + +MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you know +that she was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps? + +HENRIETTE. And you are not there? What does that mean? + +MAURICE. It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned me +against the rage of the people. + +HENRIETTE. A coward, too? + +MAURICE. All the vices! How could you ever have cared for me? + +HENRIETTE. Because two days ago you were another person, well +worthy of being loved-- + +MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth! + +HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt bad +qualities which are not your own. + +MAURICE. But yours? + +HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feel +myself at once a little better. + +MAURICE. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self- +respect. + +HENRIETTE. And how vulgar you have become, too! + +MAURICE. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myself +since that night in the cell. They put in one person and let out +another through that gate which separates us from the rest of +society. And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I should +like to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing +less than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour. + +HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widow +of a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of +honour and that kind of thing. Do you want to read the letter? No, +you don't!--Do you know that I am an outcast? My respectable +acquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I show +myself on the streets alone the police will take me. Do you +realise now that we have to get married? + +MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that is +hell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite our +destinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on more +equal terms. + +HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got into +trouble--you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole future +was at stake--and she died! + +MAURICE. That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, +too. + +HENRIETTE. You say so now, but the next time you lose your temper +you will accuse me of it. + +MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken my +faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is her +lover still alive, and does he know to what extent you were +responsible? + +HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I. + +MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him--such +things do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: then +you would be lost. + +HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has made +me rush from one dissipation to another--so that I should never +have time to wake up to full consciousness. + +MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out of +your dread. That's asking a little too much. + +HENRIETTE. But when I shared the shame of Maurice the murderer-- + +MAURICE. Oh, let's come to an end with it! + +HENRIETTE. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my hold +until I have put you where you belong. For you can't go around +thinking yourself better than I am. + +MAURICE. So you want to fight me then? All right, as you please! + +HENRIETTE. A fight on life and death! + +(The rolling of drums is heard in the distance.) + +MAURICE. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the ground for thy +sake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." + +HENRIETTE. "And the Lord God said unto the woman--" + +A GUARD. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but the +garden has to be closed. + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Crêmerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter making +entries into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at +a table.) + +ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurance +that I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought you +had played me false, this ought to convince you. + +HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellows +were not policemen? + +ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wanted +to reassure you. + +HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must also +believe me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you. + +ADOLPHE. Go on. + +HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk of +fancies and delusions. + +ADOLPHE. You seem to have reason to fear that I may. + +HENRIETTE. I fear nothing, but I know you and your scepticism-- +Well, and then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me! + +ADOLPHE. I promise. + +HENRIETTE. Now think of it, although I must say it's something +terrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or at +least, I have reasonable suspicions-- + +ADOLPHE. You don't mean it! + +HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me in +the Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the mother +was out. And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet the +mother. So that he has been lying to me. + +ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may have +been the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is +guilty of a murder? + +HENRIETTE. Can't you see that?--Don't you understand? + +ADOLPHE. Not at all. + +HENRIETTE. Because you don't want to!--Then there is nothing left +for me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove an +alibi. + +ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, +have reached the border line of--insanity. The demons of distrust +have got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of +partial guilt to wound the other with. Let me see if I can make a +straight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing his +child? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, he's mad enough to do so. + +ADOLPHE. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own. + +HENRIETTE. You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspect +him unjustly. + +ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Marion +died of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannot +recall just now. + +HENRIETTE. Is it true? + +ADOLPHE. The official report is printed in today's paper. + +HENRIETTE. I don't take any stock in it. They can make up that +kind of thing. + +ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette--or you may, without knowing it, pass +across that border line. Beware especially of throwing out +accusations that may put you into prison. Beware! [He places his +hand on her head] You hate Maurice? + +HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds! + +ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted +from the start. + +HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you who +are the only one that understands me. + +ADOLPHE. But you don't want any sermons. + +HENRIETTE. Have you nothing else to offer me? + +ADOLPHE. Nothing else. But they have helped me. + +HENRIETTE. Preach away then! + +ADOLPHE. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put the knife +to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that _your_ trouble +roots. + +HENRIETTE. Explain yourself. + +ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse +your qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as an +artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for +freedom and fun--as they call it. And you have seen now how much +fun there is in it. Then go home to your mother. + +HENRIETTE. Never! + +ADOLPHE. Some other place then. + +HENRIETTE. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed your +secret and why you wouldn't accept the prize? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told +story. + +HENRIETTE. Well--what did you do to get peace? + +ADOLPHE. What I have suggested: I became conscious of my guilt, +repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my life +like that of a penitent. + +HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have no +conscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith +is? + +ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless you +seek it--Seek! + +(HENRIETTE remains silent.) + +ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you may +harden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable. + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment? + +ADOLPHE. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by the +misdeeds of our lower selves. + +HENRIETTE. Then I must have a conscience also? + +ADOLPHE. Of course you have, but-- + +HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious? + +ADOLPHE. Not the least bit. + +HENRIETTE. It's all so queer--What is religion? + +ADOLPHE. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't think anybody +else can tell you. Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, +for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. +Good-bye, Adolphe! + +ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, I am going--to where you said. Good-bye my friend! +Good-bye, Madame Catherine! + +MME. CATHERINE. Have you to go in such a hurry? + +HENRIETTE. Yes. + +ADOLPHE. Do you want me to go with you? + +HENRIETTE. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone as I came +here, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don't +belong, and believing there was something called freedom, which +does not exist. Good-bye! [Goes out.] + +MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish she +had never come here at all! + +ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fill +here? And at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity. + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that. + +ADOLPHE. And she has even done less wrong than the rest of us. + +MME. CATHERINE. That's possible, but not probable. + +ADOLPHE. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine. Tell me: have +you never done anything wrong? + +MME. CATHERINE. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful human creature. +But if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right to +tell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severe +or uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that lady +entered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in. Just +like a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he has +to have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster. + +ADOLPHE. Well, hasn't he had his spanking? + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, as +he is still going around complaining. + +ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the whole +intricate question. + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise about +your vices, and while you are still at it the police come along +and solve the riddle. Now please leave me alone with my accounts! + +ADOLPHE. There's Maurice now. + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, God bless him! + +MAURICE. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat near +ADOLPHE] Good evening. + +(MME. CATHERINE nods and goes on figuring.) + +ADOLPHE. Well, how's everything with you? + +MAURICE. Oh, beginning to clear up. + +ADOLPHE. [Hands him a newspaper, which MAURICE does not take] So +you have read the paper? + +MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothing +but infamies in them. + +ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first-- + +MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies--But listen: I have +found a new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder? + +ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody! + +MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hour +when the child was left alone?--She was _there_! And it is she who +has done it! + +ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man. + +MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and has +threatened to report me. + +ADOLPHE. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used the self- +same words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it has been proved +by a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, +the name of which I have forgotten. + +MAURICE. It isn't true! + +ADOLPHE. That's what she said also. But the official report is +printed in the paper. + +MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up! + +ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you are +suffering from the same mental trouble. But with her I got far +enough to make her realise her own condition. + +MAURICE. Where did she go? + +ADOLPHE. She went far away from here to begin a new life. + +MAURICE. Hm, hm!--Did you go to the funeral? + +ADOLPHE. I did. + +MAURICE. Well? + +ADOLPHE. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard word +to say about you. + +MAURICE. She is a good woman. + +ADOLPHE. Why did you desert her then? + +MAURICE. Because I _was_ crazy--blown up with pride especially--and +then we had been drinking champagne-- + +ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drank +champagne? + +MAURICE. Yes, I understand now--And for that reason I have already +written to her and asked her to forgive me--Do you think she will +forgive me? + +ADOLPHE. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody. + +MAURICE. Do you think she will forgive me completely, so that she +will come back to me? + +ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about _that_. You have shown yourself so +poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust +her fate to you any longer. + +MAURICE. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, +and I know she will come back to me. + +ADOLPHE. How can you know that? How can you believe it? Didn't you +even suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sent +the police after Henriette out of revenge? + +MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer--that is to say, I +guess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer. + +MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of Monsieur +Emile? Of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybody +kept as straight as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot of +sense and tact. + +EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gérard? + +MAURICE. That's me. + +EMILE. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you in private. + +MAURICE. Go right on. We are all friends here. + +(The ABBÉ enters and sits down.) + +EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBÉ] Perhaps after-- + +MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbé is also a friend, although he and I +differ. + +EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gérard? My sister has asked me +to give you this package as an answer to your letter. + +(MAURICE takes the package and opens it.) + +EMILE. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way my +sister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, I +acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tie +between you does not exist any longer. + +MAURICE. But you must have a grudge against me? + +EMILE. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I should like +to have a declaration from you, here in the presence of your +friends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable of +such a meanness as to send the police after Mademoiselle +Henriette. + +MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you my +apology, if you will accept it. + +EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goes +out.] + +EVERYBODY. Good evening! + +MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for the +opening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into the +fireplace. Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up; +everything comes back!--And when she gave them to me in the +cemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, so +that other people would like me also--And she herself stayed at +home--This hurt her too deeply, and well it might. I have no right +to keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have I done this? +Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrifice +offered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order to +get--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that +would have belonged in the pillory--Abbé, now I come over to you. + +ABBÉ. Welcome! + +MAURICE. Give me the word that I need. + +ABBÉ. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and +inform you that you have done nothing wrong? + +MAURICE. Speak the right word! + +ABBÉ. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found your +behaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself. + +MAURICE. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this? + +ABBÉ. You know as well as I do. + +MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, +my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever. + +ABBÉ. And so you are looking for a new existence in some better +world, which you are now beginning to believe in? + +MAURICE. Yes, that's it. + +ABBÉ. You have been living in the flesh and you want now to live +in the spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no more +attractions for you? + +MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry +leaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind your +consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled +two days and lasted two eternities. + +ABBÉ. All right! But this is not the place to go into the matter +more closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nine +o'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach to +the inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step along +the hard road of penitence. + +MAURICE. Penitence? + +ABBÉ. Well, didn't you wish-- + +MAURICE. Yes, yes! + +ABBÉ. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock. + +MAURICE. That will be splendid! + +ABBÉ. Give me your hand that you will not look back. + +MAURICE. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand, and my will +goes with it. + +SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call for +Monsieur Maurice. + +MAURICE. From whom? + +SERVANT GIRL. From the theatre. + +(MAURICE tries to get away, but the ABBÉ holds on to his hand.) + +ABBÉ. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is. + +SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going to +attend the performance tonight. + +ABBÉ. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let you +go. + +MAURICE. What performance is that? + +ADOLPHE. Why don't you read the paper? + +MME. CATHERINE and the ABBÉ. He hasn't read the paper? + +MAURICE. It's all lies and slander. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Tell +them that I am engaged for this evening: I am going to church. + +(The SERVANT GIRL goes out into the kitchen.) + +ADOLPHE. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall have to tell +you that your play has been put on again, now when you are +exonerated. And your literary friends have planned a demonstration +for this evening in recognition of your indisputable talent. + +MAURICE. It isn't true. + +EVERYBODY. It is true. + +MAURICE. [After a pause] I have not deserved it! + +ABBÉ. Good! + +ADOLPHE. And furthermore, Maurice-- + +MAURICE. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore! + +MME. CATHERINE. One hundred thousand francs! Do you see now that +they come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everything +is coming back except Mademoiselle Henriette. + +ABBÉ. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little more +seriously, Madame Catherine. + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot--I just can't keep serious any +longer! + +[She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smother +with her handkerchief.] + +ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight. + +ABBÉ. But the church services are at nine. + +ADOLPHE. Maurice! + +MME. CATHERINE. Let us hear what the end is going to be, Monsieur +Maurice. + +(MAURICE drops his head on the table, in his arms.) + +ADOLPHE. Loose him, Abbé! + +ABBÉ. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do that +himself. + +MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbé. + +ABBÉ. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but a +scolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty to +yourself and to your good name. That you have got through with +this as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have suffered +your punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. And +when Providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add. + +MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I was +innocent? + +ABBÉ. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we have +to stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. +And in your thought you became a murderer when your evil self +wished the life out of your child. + +MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I will +meet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself-- +but to-morrow evening I go to the theatre. + +MME. CATHERINE. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice. + +ADOLPHE. Yes, that is the solution. Whew! + +ABBÉ. Yes, so it is! + +(Curtain.) + + + + +MISS JULIA + +INTRODUCTION + +The volume containing the translation of "There Are Crimes and +Crimes" had barely reached the public when word came across the +ocean that August Strindberg had ended his long fight with life. +His family had long suspected some serious organic trouble. Early +in the year, when lie had just recovered from an illness of +temporary character, their worst fears became confirmed. An +examination disclosed a case of cancer in the stomach, and the +disease progressed so rapidly that soon all hope of recovery was +out of the question. On May 14, 1912, Strindberg died. + +With his death peace came in more senses than one. All the fear and +hatred which he had incurred by what was best as well as worst in +him seemed to be laid at rest with his own worn-out body. The love +and the admiration which he had son in far greater measure were +granted unchecked expression. His burial, otherwise as simple as he +himself had prescribed, was a truly national event. At the grave of +the arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representative +of the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous members of +the Riksdag. Thousands of men and women representing the best of +Sweden's intellectual and artistic life went to the cemetery, +though the hour of the funeral was eight o'clock in the morning. It +was an event in which the masses and the classes shared a common +sorrow, the standards of student organizations mingling with the +banners of labour unions. And not only the capital, but the whole +country, observed the day as one of mourning. + +A thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on Strindberg's +death by the European press was that, in some mysterious manner, +he, more than any other writer, appeared to be the incarnation of +the past century, with its nervous striving after truth, its fear +of being duped, and its fretting dread that evolution and progress +might prove antagonistic terms. And at that simple grave in +Stockholm more than one bareheaded spectator must have heard the +gravel rattle on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only a +great individual, but a whole human period--great in spite of all +its weaknesses--was being laid away for ever. + + +Among more than half a hundred plays produced by Strindberg during +his lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "Miss +Julia," both on account of its masterful construction and its +gripping theme. Whether liking or disliking it, critics have +repeatedly compared it with Ibsen's "Ghosts," and not always to the +advantage of the latter work. It represents, first of all, its +author's most determined and most daring endeavour to win the +modern stage for Naturalism. If he failed in this effort, it must +be recalled to his honour that he was among the first to proclaim +his own failure and to advocate the seeking of new paths. When the +work was still hot from his hands, however, he believed in it with +all the fervour of which his spirit was capable, and to bring home +its lesson the more forcibly, he added a preface, a sort of +dramatic creed, explaining just what he had tried to do, and why. +This preface, which has become hardly less famous than the play +itself, is here, as I believe, for the first time rendered into +English. The acuteness and exhaustiveness of its analysis serves +not only to make it a psychological document of rare value, but +also to save me much of the comment which without it might be +deemed needful. + +Years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the exclusive +performance of his own plays at Stockholm, Strindberg formulated a +new dramatic creed--that of his mystical period, in which he was +wont to sign himself "the author of 'Gustavus Vasa,' 'The Dream +Play,' 'The Last Knight,' etc." It took the form of a pamphlet +entitled "A Memorandum to the Members of the Intimate Theatre from +the Stage Director" (Stockholm, 1908). There he gave the following +data concerning "Miss Julia," and the movement which that play +helped to start: + +"In the '80's the new time began to extend its demands for reform +to the stage also. Zola declared war against the French comedy, +with its Brussels carpets, its patent-leather shoes and +patent-leather themes, and its dialogue reminding one of the +questions and answers of the Catechism. In 1887 Antoine opened his +Théâtre Libre at Paris, and 'Thérèse Raquin,' although nothing but +an adapted novel, became the dominant model. It was the powerful +theme and the concentrated form that showed innovation, although +the unity of time was not yet observed, and curtain falls were +retained. It was then I wrote my dramas: 'Miss Julia,' 'The +Father,' and 'Creditors.' + +"'Miss Julia,' which was equipped with a now well-known preface, +was staged by Antoine, but not until 1892 or 1893, having previously +been played by the Students' Association of the Copenhagen +University in 1888 or 1889. In the spring of 1893 'Creditors' was +put on at the Théâtre L'OEuvre, in Paris, and in the fall of the +same year 'The Father' was given at the same theatre, with Philippe +Garnier in the title part. + +"But as early as 1889 the Freie Bühne had been started at Berlin, +and before 1893 all three of my dramas had been performed. 'Miss +Julia' was preceded by a lecture given by Paul Schlenther, now +director of the Hofburg Theater at Vienna. The principal parts were +played by Rosa Bertens, Emanuel Reicher, Rittner and Jarno. And +Sigismund Lautenburg, director of the Residenz Theater, gave more +than one hundred performances of 'Creditors.' + +"Then followed a period of comparative silence, and the drama sank +back into the old ruts, until, with the beginning of the new +century, Reinhardt opened his Kleines Theater. There I was played +from the start, being represented by the long one-act drama 'The +Link,' as well as by 'Miss Julia' (with Eysoldt in the title part), +and 'There Are Crimes and Crimes.'" + +He went on to tell how one European city after another had got its +"Little," or "Free," or "Intimate" theatre. And had he known of it, +he might have added that the promising venture started by Mr. +Winthrop Ames at New York comes as near as any one of its earlier +rivals in the faithful embodiment of those theories which, with +Promethean rashness, he had flung at the head of a startled world in +1888. For the usual thing has happened: what a quarter-century ago +seemed almost ludicrous in its radicalism belongs to-day to the +established traditions of every progressive stage. + +Had Strindberg been content with his position of 1888, many honours +now withheld might have fallen to his share. But like Ibsen, he was +first and last--and to the very last!--an innovator, a leader of +human thought and human endeavour. And so it happened that when the +rest thought to have overtaken him, he had already hurried on to a +more advanced position, heedless of the scorn poured on him by +those to whom "consistency" is the foremost of all human virtues. +Three years before his death we find him writing as follows in +another pamphlet "An Open Letter to the Intimate Theatre," +Stockholm, 1909--of the position once assumed so proudly and so +confidently by himself: + +"As the Intimate Theatre counts its inception from the successful +performance of 'Miss Julia' in 1900, it was quite natural that the +young director (August Falck) should feel the influence of the +Preface, which recommended a search for actuality. But that was +twenty years ago, and although I do not feel the need of attacking +myself in this connection, I cannot but regard all that pottering +with stage properties as useless." + + +It has been customary in this country to speak of the play now +presented to the public as "Countess Julie." The noble title is, of +course, picturesque, but incorrect and unwarranted. It is, I fear, +another outcome of that tendency to exploit the most sensational +elements in Strindberg's art which has caused somebody to translate +the name of his first great novel as "The Scarlet Room,"--instead +of simply "The Red Room,"--thus hoping to connect it in the reader's +mind with the scarlet woman of the Bible. + +In Sweden, a countess is the wife or widow of a count. His daughter +is no more a countess than is the daughter of an English earl. Her +title is that of "Fröken," which corresponds exactly to the German +"Fräulein" and the English "Miss." Once it was reserved for the +young women of the nobility. By an agitation which shook all Sweden +with mingled fury and mirth, it became extended to all unmarried +women. + +The French form of _Miss Julia's_ Christian name is, on the other +hand, in keeping with the author's intention, aiming at an +expression of the foreign sympathies and manners which began to +characterize the Swedish nobility in the eighteenth century, and +which continued to assert themselves almost to the end of the +nineteenth. But in English that form would not have the same +significance, and nothing in the play makes its use imperative. The +valet, on the other hand, would most appropriately be named _Jean_ +both in England and here, and for that reason I have retained this +form of his name. + +Almost every one translating from the Scandinavian languages +insists on creating a difficulty out of the fact that the three +northern nations--like the Germans and the French--still use the +second person singular of the personal pronoun to indicate a closer +degree of familiarity. But to translate the Swedish "du" with the +English "thou" is as erroneous as it is awkward. Tytler laid down +his "Principles of Translation" in 1791--and a majority of +translators are still unaware of their existence. Yet it ought to +seem self-evident to every thinking mind that idiomatic +equivalence, not verbal identity, must form the basis of a good and +faithful translation. When an English mother uses "you" to her +child, she establishes thereby the only rational equivalent for the +"du" used under similar circumstances by her Swedish sister. + +Nobody familiar with the English language as it actually springs +from the lips of living men and women can doubt that it offers ways +of expressing varying shades of intimacy no less effective than any +found in the Swedish tongue. Let me give an illustration from the +play immediately under discussion. Returning to the stage after the +ballet scene, _Jean_ says to _Miss Julia_: "I love you--can you +doubt it?" And her reply, literally, is: "You?--Say thou!" I have +merely made him say: "Can you doubt it, Miss Julia?" and her +answer: "Miss?--Call me Julia!" As that is just what would happen +under similar circumstances among English-speaking people, I +contend that not a whit of the author's meaning or spirit has been +lost in this translation. + +If ever a play was written for the stage, it is this one. And on +the stage there is nothing to take the place of the notes and +introductory explanations that so frequently encumber the printed +volume. On the stage all explanations must lie within the play +itself, and so they should in the book also, I believe. The +translator is either an artist or a man unfit for his work. As an +artist he must have a courage that cannot even be cowed by his +reverence for the work of a great creative genius. If, mistakenly, +he revere the letter of that work instead of its spirit, then he +will reduce his own task to mere literary carpentry, and from his +pen will spring not a living form, like the one he has been set to +transplant, but only a death mask! + + +AUTHOR'S PREFACE + +Like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed to me +a sort of _Biblia Pauperum_, or a Bible in pictures for those who +cannot read what is written or printed. And in the same way the +playwright has seemed to me a lay preacher spreading the thoughts +of his time in a form so popular that the middle classes, from +which theatrical audiences are mainly drawn, can know what is being +talked about without troubling their brains too much. For this +reason the theatre has always served as a grammar-school to young +people, women, and those who have acquired a little knowledge, all +of whom retain the capacity for deceiving themselves and being +deceived--which means again that they are susceptible to illusions +produced by the suggestions of the author. And for the same reason +I have had a feeling that, in our time, when the rudimentary, +incomplete thought processes operating through our fancy seem to be +developing into reflection, research, and analysis, the theatre +might stand on the verge of being abandoned as a decaying form, for +the enjoyment of which we lack the requisite conditions. The +prolonged theatrical crisis now prevailing throughout Europe speaks +in favour of such a supposition, as well as the fact that, in the +civilised countries producing the greatest thinkers of the age, +namely, England and Germany, the drama is as dead as are most of +the other fine arts. + +In some other countries it has, however, been thought possible to +create a new drama by filling the old forms with the contents of a +new time. But, for one thing, there has not been time for the new +thoughts to become so popularized that the public might grasp the +questions raised; secondly, minds have been so inflamed by party +conflicts that pure and disinterested enjoyment has been excluded +from places where one's innermost feelings are violated and the +tyranny of an applauding or hissing majority is exercised with the +openness for which the theatre gives a chance; and, finally, there +has been no new form devised for the new contents, and the new wine +has burst the old bottles. + +In the following drama I have not tried to do anything new--for +that cannot be done--but I have tried to modernize the form in +accordance with the demands which I thought the new men of a new +time might be likely to make on this art. And with such a purpose +in view, I have chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme that +might well be said to lie outside the partisan strife of the day: +for the problem of social ascendancy or decline, of higher or +lower, of better or worse, of men or women, is, has been, and will +be of lasting interest. In selecting this theme from real life, as +it was related to me a number of years ago, when the incident +impressed me very deeply, I found it suited to a tragedy, because +it can only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individual +perish, and this must be the case in still higher degree when we +see an entire family die out. But perhaps a time will arrive when +we have become so developed, so enlightened, that we can remain +indifferent before the spectacle of life, which now seems so +brutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have closed up those +lower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call feelings, +and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harmful by +the final growth of our reflective organs. + +The fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on our +weakness in not being able to resist the sense of fear that the +same fate could befall ourselves. And yet it is possible that a +very sensitive spectator might fail to find satisfaction in this +kind of pity, while the man believing in the future might demand +some positive suggestion for the abolition of evil, or, in other +words, some kind of programme. But, first of all, there is no +absolute evil. That one family perishes is the fortune of another +family, which thereby gets a chance to rise. And the alternation of +ascent and descent constitutes one of life's main charms, as +fortune is solely determined by comparison. And to the man with a +programme, who wants to remedy the sad circumstance that the hawk +eats the dove, and the flea eats the hawk, I have this question to +put: why should it be remedied? Life is not so mathematically +idiotic that it lets only the big eat the small, but it happens +just as often that the bee kills the lion, or drives it to madness +at least. + +That my tragedy makes a sad impression on many is their own fault. +When we grow strong as were the men of the first French revolution, +then we shall receive an unconditionally good and joyful impression +from seeing the national forests rid of rotting and superannuated +trees that have stood too long in the way of others with equal +right to a period of free growth--an impression good in the same +way as that received from the death of one incurably diseased. + +Not long ago they reproached my tragedy "The Father" with being too +sad--just as if they wanted merry tragedies. Everybody is clamouring +arrogantly for "the joy of life," and all theatrical managers are +giving orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in being +silly and picturing all human beings as so many sufferers from St. +Vitus' dance or idiocy. I find the joy of life in its violent and +cruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in knowing something and +learning something. And for this reason I have selected an unusual +but instructive case--an exception, in a word--but a great +exception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke all +lovers of the commonplace. And what also will offend simple brains +is that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, that +the view-point is not always the same. An event in real life--and +this discovery is quite recent--springs generally from a whole +series of more or less deep-lying motives, but of these the +spectator chooses as a rule the one his reason can master most +easily, or else the one reflecting most favourably on his power of +reasoning. A suicide is committed. Bad business, says the merchant. +Unrequited love, say the ladies. Sickness, says the sick man. +Crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. But now it may be that the +motive lay in all or none of these directions. It is possible that +the one who is dead may have hid the main motive by pushing forward +another meant to place his memory in a better light. + +In explanation of _Miss Julia's_ sad fate I have suggested many +factors: her mother's fundamental instincts; her father's mistaken +upbringing of the girl; her own nature, and the suggestive influence +of her fiancé on a weak and degenerate brain; furthermore, and more +directly: the festive mood of the Midsummer Eve; the absence of her +father; her physical condition; her preoccupation with the animals; +the excitation of the dance; the dusk of the night; the strongly +aphrodisiacal influence of the flowers; and lastly the chance +forcing the two of them together in a secluded room, to which must +be added the aggressiveness of the excited man. + +Thus I have neither been one-sidedly physiological nor one-sidedly +psychological in my procedure. Nor have I merely delivered a moral +preachment. This multiplicity of motives I regard as praiseworthy +because it is in keeping with the views of our own time. And if +others have done the same thing before me, I may boast of not being +the sole inventor of my paradoxes--as all discoveries are named. + +In regard to the character-drawing I may say that I have tried to +make my figures rather "characterless," and I have done so for +reasons I shall now state. + +In the course of the ages the word character has assumed many +meanings. Originally it signified probably the dominant ground-note +in the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused with +temperament. Afterward it became the middle-class term for an +automaton, so that an individual whose nature had come to a stand +still, or who had adapted himself to a certain part in life--who +had ceased to grow, in a word--was named a character; while one +remaining in a state of development--a skilful navigator on life's +river, who did not sail with close-tied sheets, but knew when to +fall off before the wind and when to luff again--was called lacking +in character. And he was called so in a depreciatory sense, of +course, because he was so hard to catch, to classify, and to keep +track of. This middle-class notion about the immobility of the soul +was transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element has +always held sway. There a character became synonymous with a +gentleman fixed and finished once for all--one who invariably +appeared drunk, jolly, sad. And for the purpose of characterisation +nothing more was needed than some physical deformity like a +clubfoot, a wooden leg, a red nose; or the person concerned was +made to repeat some phrase like "That's capital!" or "Barkis is +willin'," or something of that kind. This manner of regarding human +beings as homogeneous is preserved even by the great Molière. +_Harpagon_ is nothing but miserly, although _Harpagon_ might as +well have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a fine +father, and a public-spirited citizen. What is worse yet, his +"defect" is of distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, +who are his heirs, and for that reason should not find fault with +him, even if they have to wait a little for their wedding. I do not +believe, therefore, in simple characters on the stage. And the +summary judgments of the author upon men--this one stupid, and that +one brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy--should be +challenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of the +soul-complex, and who realise that "vice" has a reverse very much +resembling virtue. + +Because they are modern characters, living in a period of transition +more hysterically hurried than its immediate predecessor at least, +I have made my figures vacillating, out of joint, torn between the +old and the new. And I do not think it unlikely that, through +newspaper reading and overheard conversations, modern ideas may +have leaked down to the strata where domestic servants belong. + +My souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past and +present stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off pieces +of Sunday clothing turned into rags--all patched together as is the +human soul itself. And I have furthermore offered a touch of +evolutionary history by letting the weaker repeat words stolen from +the stronger, and by letting different souls accept "ideas"--or +suggestions, as they are called--from each other. + +_Miss Julia_ is a modern character, not because the man-hating +half-woman may not have existed in all ages, but because now, after +her discovery, she has stepped to the front and begun to make a +noise. The half-woman is a type coming more and more into +prominence, selling herself nowadays for power, decorations, +distinctions, diplomas, as formerly for money, and the type +indicates degeneration. It is not a good type, for it does not +last, but unfortunately it has the power of reproducing itself and +its misery through one more generation. And degenerate men seem +instinctively to make their selection from this kind of women, so +that they multiply and produce indeterminate sexes to whom life is +a torture. Fortunately, however, they perish in the end, either +from discord with real life, or from the irresistible revolt of +their suppressed instincts, or from foiled hopes of possessing the +man. The type is tragical, offering us the spectacle of a desperate +struggle against nature. It is also tragical as a Romantic +inheritance dispersed by the prevailing Naturalism, which wants +nothing but happiness: and for happiness strong and sound races are +required. + +But _Miss Julia_ is also a remnant of the old military nobility +which is now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain. +She is a victim of the discord which a mother's "crime" produces in +a family, and also a victim of the day's delusions, of the +circumstances, of her defective constitution--all of which may be +held equivalent to the old-fashioned fate or universal law. The +naturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe out +the results of an action--punishment, prison, or fear--and for the +simple reason that they remain without regard to his verdict. For +fellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured as +those on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can be +without cost to themselves. + +Even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, the +father should forego his vengeance, the daughter would take +vengeance upon herself, just as she does in the play, and she would +be moved to it by that innate or acquired sense of honour which the +upper classes inherit--whence? From the days of barbarism, from the +original home of the Aryans, from the chivalry of the Middle Ages? +It is beautiful, but it has become disadvantageous to the +preservation of the race. It is this, the nobleman's _harakiri_--or +the law of the inner conscience compelling the Japanese to cut open +his own abdomen at the insult of another--which survives, though +somewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the nobility. +For this reason the valet, _Jean_, continues to live, but _Miss +Julia_ cannot live on without honour. In so far as he lacks this +life—endangering superstition about honour, the serf takes +precedence of the earl, and in all of us Aryans there is something +of the nobleman, or of Don Quixote, which makes us sympathise with +the man who takes his own life because he has committed a +dishonourable deed and thus lost his honour. And we are noblemen to +the extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with the +living corpse of one who was once great--yes, even if the one thus +fallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds. + +_Jean_, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock--one in +whom the differentiation is clearly noticeable. He was a cotter's +child, and he has trained himself up to the point where the future +gentleman has become visible. He has found it easy to learn, having +finely developed senses (smell, taste, vision) and an instinct for +beauty besides. He has already risen in the world, and is strong +enough not to be sensitive about using other people's services. He +has already become a stranger to his equals, despising them as so +many outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing them because +they know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise with +envy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure. From this +relationship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating +between love of distinction and hatred of those who have already +achieved it. He says himself that he is an aristocrat, and has +learned the secrets of good company. He is polished on the outside +and coarse within. He knows already how to wear the frock-coat with +ease, but the cleanliness of his body cannot be guaranteed. + +He feels respect for the young lady, but he is afraid of _Christine_, +who has his dangerous secrets in her keeping. His emotional +callousness is sufficient to prevent the night's happenings from +exercising a disturbing influence on his plans for the future. +Having at once the slave's brutality and the master's lack of +squeamishness, he can see blood without fainting, and he can also +bend his back under a mishap until able to throw it off. For this +reason he will emerge unharmed from the battle, and will probably +end his days as the owner of a hotel. And if he does not become a +Roumanian count, his son will probably go to a university, and may +even become a county attorney. + +Otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant information as +to the way in which the lower classes look at life from beneath—- +that is, when he speaks the truth, which is not often, as he +prefers what seems favourable to himself to what is true. When +_Miss Julia_ suggests that the lower classes must feel the pressure +from above very heavily, _Jean_ agrees with her, of course, because +he wants to gain her sympathy. But he corrects himself at once, the +moment he realises the advantage of standing apart from the herd. + +And _Jean_ stands above _Miss Julia_ not only because his fate is in +ascendancy, but because he is a man. Sexually he is the aristocrat +because of his male strength, his more finely developed senses, and +his capacity for taking the initiative. His inferiority depends +mainly on the temporary social environment in which he has to live, +and which he probably can shed together with the valet's livery. + +The mind of the slave speaks through his reverence for the count +(as shown in the incident with the boots) and through his religious +superstition. But he reveres the count principally as a possessor +of that higher position toward which he himself is striving. And +this reverence remains even when he has won the daughter of the +house, and seen that the beautiful shell covered nothing but +emptiness. + +I don't believe that any love relation in a "higher" sense can +spring up between two souls of such different quality. And for this +reason I let _Miss Julia_ imagine her love to be protective or +commiserative in its origin. And I let _Jean_ suppose that, under +different social conditions, he might feel something like real love +for her. I believe love to be like the hyacinth, which has to +strike roots in darkness _before_ it can bring forth a vigorous +flower. In this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossom +and seed at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon. + +_Christine_, finally, is a female slave, full of servility and +sluggishness acquired in front of the kitchen fire, and stuffed +full of morality and religion that are meant to serve her at once +as cloak and scapegoat. Her church-going has for its purpose to +bring her quick and easy riddance of all responsibility for her +domestic thieveries and to equip her with a new stock of +guiltlessness. Otherwise she is a subordinate figure, and therefore +purposely sketched in the same manner as the minister and the +doctor in "The Father," whom I designed as ordinary human beings, +like the common run of country ministers and country doctors. And +if these accessory characters have seemed mere abstractions to some +people, it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certain +extent impersonal in the exercise of their callings. This means +that they are without individuality, showing only one side of +themselves while at work. And as long as the spectator does not +feel the need of seeing them from other sides, my abstract +presentation of them remains on the whole correct. + +In regard to the dialogue, I want to point out that I have departed +somewhat from prevailing traditions by not turning my figures into +catechists who make stupid questions in order to call forth witty +answers. I have avoided the symmetrical and mathematical +construction of the French dialogue, and have instead permitted the +minds to work irregularly as they do in reality, where, during +conversation, the cogs of one mind seem more or less haphazardly to +engage those of another one, and where no topic is fully exhausted. +Naturally enough, therefore, the dialogue strays a good deal as, in +the opening scenes, it acquires a material that later on is worked +over, picked up again, repeated, expounded, and built up like the +theme in a musical composition. + +The plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is concerned +only with two persons, I have concentrated my attention on these, +introducing only one subordinate figure, the cook, and keeping the +unfortunate spirit of the father hovering above and beyond the +action. I have done this because I believe I have noticed that the +psychological processes are what interest the people of our own day +more than anything else. Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot +rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how it +comes to happen! What we want to see are just the wires, the +machinery. We want to investigate the box with the false bottom, +touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into the +cards to discover how they are marked. + +In this I have taken for models the monographic novels of the +brothers de Goncourt, which have appealed more to me than any other +modern literature. + +Turning to the technical side of the composition, I have tried to +abolish the division into acts. And I have done so because I have +come to fear that our decreasing capacity for illusion might be +unfavourably affected by intermissions during which the spectator +would have time to reflect and to get away from the suggestive +influence of the author-hypnotist. My play will probably last an +hour and a half, and as it is possible to listen that length of +time, or longer, to a lecture, a sermon, or a debate, I have +imagined that a theatrical performance could not become fatiguing +in the same time. As early as 1872, in one of my first dramatic +experiments, "The Outlaw," I tried the same concentrated form, but +with scant success. The play was written in five acts and wholly +completed when I became aware of the restless, scattered effect it +produced. Then I burned it, and out of the ashes rose a single, +well-built act, covering fifty printed pages, and taking hour for +its performance. Thus the form of the present play is not new, but +it seems to be my own, and changing aesthetical conventions may +possibly make it timely. + +My hope is still for a public educated to the point where it can +sit through a whole-evening performance in a single act. But that +point cannot be reached without a great deal of experimentation. In +the meantime I have resorted to three art forms that are to provide +resting-places for the public and the actors, without letting the +public escape from the illusion induced. All these forms are +subsidiary to the drama. They are the monologue, the pantomime, and +the dance, all of them belonging originally to the tragedy of +classical antiquity. For the monologue has sprung from the monody, +and the chorus has developed into the ballet. + +Our realists have excommunicated the monologue as improbable, but +if I can lay a proper basis for it, I can also make it seem +probable, and then I can use it to good advantage. It is probable, +for instance, that a speaker may walk back and forth in his room +practising his speech aloud; it is probable that an actor may read +through his part aloud, that a servant-girl may talk to her cat, +that a mother may prattle to her child, that an old spinster may +chatter to her parrot, that a person may talk in his sleep. And in +order that the actor for once may have a chance to work independently, +and to be free for a moment from the author's pointer, it is better +that the monologues be not written out, but just indicated. As it +matters comparatively little what is said to the parrot or the cat, +or in one's sleep--because it cannot influence the action--it is +possible that a gifted actor, carried away by the situation and the +mood of the occasion, may improvise such matters better than they +could be written by the author, who cannot figure out in advance +how much may be said, and how long the talk may last, without +waking the public out of their illusions. + +It is well known that, on certain stages, the Italian theatre has +returned to improvisation and thereby produced creative actors— +who, however, must follow the author's suggestions--and this may be +counted a step forward, or even the beginning of a new art form +that might well be called _productive_. + +Where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem unreal, I have +used the pantomime, and there I have left still greater scope for +the actor's imagination--and for his desire to gain independent +honours. But in order that the public may not be tried beyond +endurance, I have permitted the music--which is amply warranted by +the Midsummer Eve's dance--to exercise its illusory power while the +dumb show lasts. And I ask the musical director to make careful +selection of the music used for this purpose, so that incompatible +moods are not induced by reminiscences from the last musical comedy +or topical song, or by folk-tunes of too markedly ethnographical +distinction. + +The mere introduction of a scene with a lot of "people" could not +have taken the place of the dance, for such scenes are poorly acted +and tempt a number of grinning idiots into displaying their own +smartness, whereby the illusion is disturbed. As the common people +do not improvise their gibes, but use ready-made phrases in which +stick some double meaning, I have not composed their lampooning +song, but have appropriated a little known folk-dance which I +personally noted down in a district near Stockholm. The words don't +quite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it, and this is +intentional, for the cunning (i. e., weakness) of the slave keeps +him from any direct attack. There must, then, be no chattering +clowns in a serious action, and no coarse flouting at a situation +that puts the lid on the coffin of a whole family. + +As far as the scenery is concerned, I have borrowed from +impressionistic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abruptness, +and have thereby in my opinion strengthened the illusion. Because +the whole room and all its contents are not shown, there is a +chance to guess at things--that is, our imagination is stirred into +complementing our vision. I have made a further gain in getting rid +of those tiresome exits by means of doors, especially as stage +doors are made of canvas and swing back and forth at the lightest +touch. They are not even capable of expressing the anger of an +irate _pater familias_ who, on leaving his home after a poor +dinner, slams the door behind him "so that it shakes the whole +house." (On the stage the house sways.) I have also contented +myself with a single setting, and for the double purpose of making +the figures become parts of their surroundings, and of breaking +with the tendency toward luxurious scenery. But having only a +single setting, one may demand to have it real. Yet nothing is more +difficult than to get a room that looks something like a room, +although the painter can easily enough produce waterfalls and +flaming volcanoes. Let it go at canvas for the walls, but we might +be done with the painting of shelves and kitchen utensils on the +canvas. We have so much else on the stage that is conventional, and +in which we are asked to believe, that we might at least be spared +the too great effort of believing in painted pans and kettles. + +I have placed the rear wall and the table diagonally across the +stage in order to make the actors show full face and half profile +to the audience when they sit opposite each other at the table. In +the opera "Aïda" I noticed an oblique background, which led the eye +out into unseen prospects. And it did not appear to be the result +of any reaction against the fatiguing right angle. + +Another novelty well needed would be the abolition of the foot-lights. +The light from below is said to have for its purpose to make the +faces of the actors look fatter. But I cannot help asking: why must +all actors be fat in the face? Does not this light from below tend +to wipe out the subtler lineaments in the lower part of the face, +and especially around the jaws? Does it not give a false appearance +to the nose and cast shadows upward over the eyes? If this be not +so, another thing is certain: namely, that the eyes of the actors +suffer from the light, so that the effective play of their glances +is precluded. Coming from below, the light strikes the retina in +places generally protected (except in sailors, who have to see the +sun reflected in the water), and for this reason one observes +hardly anything but a vulgar rolling of the eyes, either sideways +or upwards, toward the galleries, so that nothing but the white of +the eye shows. Perhaps the same cause may account for the tedious +blinking of which especially the actresses are guilty. And when +anybody on the stage wants to use his eyes to speak with, no other +way is left him but the poor one of staring straight at the public, +with whom he or she then gets into direct communication outside of +the frame provided by the setting. This vicious habit has, rightly +or wrongly, been named "to meet friends." Would it not be possible +by means of strong side-lights (obtained by the employment of +reflectors, for instance) to add to the resources already possessed +by the actor? Could not his mimicry be still further strengthened +by use of the greatest asset possessed by the face: the play of the +eyes? + +Of course, I have no illusions about getting the actors to play +_for_ the public and not _at_ it, although such a change would be +highly desirable. I dare not even dream of beholding the actor's +back throughout an important scene, but I wish with all my heart +that crucial scenes might not be played in the centre of the +proscenium, like duets meant to bring forth applause. Instead, I +should like to have them laid in the place indicated by the +situation. Thus I ask for no revolutions, but only for a few minor +modifications. To make a real room of the stage, with the fourth +wall missing, and a part of the furniture placed back toward the +audience, would probably produce a disturbing effect at present. + +In wishing to speak of the facial make-up, I have no hope that the +ladies will listen to me, as they would rather look beautiful than +lifelike. But the actor might consider whether it be to his +advantage to paint his face so that it shows some abstract type +which covers it like a mask. Suppose that a man puts a markedly +choleric line between the eyes, and imagine further that some +remark demands a smile of this face fixed in a state of continuous +wrath. What a horrible grimace will be the result? And how can the +wrathful old man produce a frown on his false forehead, which is +smooth as a billiard ball? + +In modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest movements of the +soul are to be reflected on the face rather than by gestures and +noise, it would probably be well to experiment with strong side-light +on a small stage, and with unpainted faces, or at least with a +minimum of make-up. + +If, in additon, we might escape the visible orchestra, with its +disturbing lamps and its faces turned toward the public; if we +could have the seats on the main floor (the orchestra or the pit) +raised so that the eyes of the spectators would be above the knees +of the actors; if we could get rid of the boxes with their +tittering parties of diners; if we could also have the auditorium +completely darkened during the performance; and if, first and last, +we could have a small stage and a small house: then a new dramatic +art might rise, and the theatre might at least become an +institution for the entertainment of people with culture. While +waiting for this kind of theatre, I suppose we shall have to write +for the "ice-box," and thus prepare the repertory that is to come. + +I have made an attempt. If it prove a failure, there is plenty of +time to try over again. + + +MISS JULIA +A NATURALISTIC TRAGEDY +1888 + + +PERSONS + +MISS JULIA, aged twenty-five +JEAN, a valet, aged thirty +CHRISTINE, a cook, aged thirty-five + +The action takes place on Midsummer Eve, in the kitchen of the +count's country house. + + +MISS JULIA + +SCENE + +(A large kitchen: the ceiling and the side walls are hidden by +draperies and hangings. The rear wall runs diagonally across the +stage, from the left side and away from the spectators. On this +wall, to the left, there are two shelves full of utensils made of +copper, iron, and tin. The shelves are trimmed with scalloped +paper.) + +(A little to the right may be seen three fourths of the big arched +doorway leading to the outside. It has double glass doors, through +which are seen a fountain with a cupid, lilac shrubs in bloom, and +the tops of some Lombardy poplars.) + +(On the left side of the stage is seen the corner of a big cook +stove built of glazed bricks; also a part of the smoke-hood above +it.) + +(From the right protrudes one end of the servants' dining-table +of white pine, with a few chairs about it.) + +(The stove is dressed with bundled branches of birch. Twigs of +juniper are scattered on the floor.) + +(On the table end stands a big Japanese spice pot full of lilac +blossoms.) + +(An icebox, a kitchen-table, and a wash-stand.) + +(Above the door hangs a big old-fashioned bell on a steel spring, +and the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube appears at the left of the +door.) + +(CHRISTINE is standing by the stove, frying something in a pan. She +has on a dress of light-coloured cotton, which she has covered up +with a big kitchen apron.) + +(JEAN enters, dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurred +riding boots, which he places on the floor in such manner that they +remain visible to the spectators.) + +JEAN. To-night Miss Julia is crazy again; absolutely crazy. + +CHRISTINE. So you're back again? + +JEAN. I took the count to the station, and when I came back by the +barn, I went in and had a dance, and there I saw the young lady +leading the dance with the gamekeeper. But when she caught sight of +me, she rushed right up to me and asked me to dance the ladies' +waltz with her. And ever since she's been waltzing like--well, I +never saw the like of it. She's crazy! + + +CHRISTINE. And has always been, but never the way it's been this +last fortnight, since her engagement was broken. + +JEAN. Well, what kind of a story was that anyhow? He's a fine +fellow, isn't he, although he isn't rich? Ugh, but they're so full +of notions. [Sits down at the end of the table] It's peculiar +anyhow, that a young lady--hm!--would rather stay at home with the +servants--don't you think?--than go with her father to their +relatives! + +CHRISTINE. Oh, I guess she feels sort of embarrassed by that rumpus +with her fellow. + +JEAN. Quite likely. But there was some backbone to that man just +the same. Do you know how it happened, Christine? I saw it, +although I didn't care to let on. + +CHRISTINE. No, did you? + +JEAN. Sure, I did. They were in the stable-yard one evening, and +the young lady was training him, as she called it. Do you know what +that meant? She made him leap over her horse-whip the way you teach +a dog to jump. Twice he jumped and got a cut each time. The third +time he took the whip out of her hand and broke it into a thousand +bits. And then he got out. + +CHRISTINE. So that's the way it happened! You don't say! + +JEAN. Yes, that's how that thing happened. Well, Christine, what +have you got that's tasty? + +CHRISTINE. [Serves from the pan and puts the plate before Jean] Oh, +just some kidney which I cut out of the veal roast. + +JEAN. [Smelling the food] Fine! That's my great _délice_. [Feeling +the plate] But you might have warmed the plate. + +CHRISTINE. Well, if you ain't harder to please than the count +himself! [Pulls his hair playfully.] + +JEAN. [Irritated] Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am. + +CHRISTINE. Well, well, it was nothing but a love pull, you know. + +[JEAN eats.] + +[CHRISTINE opens a bottle of beer.] + +JEAN. Beer-on Midsummer Eve? No, thank you! Then I have something +better myself. [Opens a table-drawer and takes out a bottle of +claret with yellow cap] Yellow seal, mind you! Give me a glass—-and +you use those with stems when you drink it _pure_. + +CHRISTINE. [Returns to the stove and puts a small pan on the fire] +Heaven preserve her that gets you for a husband, Mr. Finicky! + +JEAN. Oh, rot! You'd be glad enough to get a smart fellow like me. +And I guess it hasn't hurt you that they call me your beau. +[Tasting the wine] Good! Pretty good! Just a tiny bit too cold. [He +warms the glass with his hand.] We got this at Dijon. It cost us +four francs per litre, not counting the bottle. And there was the +duty besides. What is it you're cooking--with that infernal smell? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, it's some deviltry the young lady is going to give +Diana. + +JEAN. You should choose your words with more care, Christine. But +why should you be cooking for a bitch on a holiday eve like this? +Is she sick? + +CHRISTINE. Ye-es, she is sick. She's been running around with the +gate-keeper's pug--and now's there's trouble--and the young lady +just won't hear of it. + +JEAN. The young lady is too stuck up in some ways and not proud +enough in others--just as was the countess while she lived. She was +most at home in the kitchen and among the cows, but she would never +drive with only one horse. She wore her cuffs till they were dirty, +but she had to have cuff buttons with a coronet on them. And +speaking of the young lady, she doesn't take proper care of herself +and her person. I might even say that she's lacking in refinement. +Just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she pulled the +gamekeeper away from Anna and asked him herself to come and dance +with her. We wouldn't act in that way. But that's just how it is: +when upper-class people want to demean themselves, then they grow—- +mean! But she's splendid! Magnificent! Oh, such shoulders! And--and +so on! + +CHRISTINE. Oh, well, don't brag too much! I've heard Clara talking, +who tends to her dressing. + +JEAN. Pooh, Clara! You're always jealous of each other. I, who have +been out riding with her--And then the way she dances! + +CHRISTINE. Say, Jean, won't you dance with me when I'm done? + +JEAN. Of course I will. + +CHRISTINE. Do you promise? + +JEAN. Promise? When I say so, I'll do it. Well, here's thanks for +the good food. It tasted fine! [Puts the cork back into the bottle.] + +JULIA. [Appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on the +outside] I'll be back in a minute. You go right on in the meantime. + +[JEAN slips the bottle into the table-drawer and rises +respectfully.] + +JULIA.[Enters and goes over to CHRISTINE by the wash-stand] Well, +is it done yet? + +[CHRISTINE signs to her that JEAN is present.] + +JEAN. [Gallantly] The ladies are having secrets, I believe. + +JULIA. [Strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] That's for +you, Mr. Pry! + +JEAN. Oh, what a delicious odor that violet has! + +JULIA. [With coquetry] Impudent! So you know something about +perfumes also? And know pretty well how to dance--Now don't peep! +Go away! + +JEAN. [With polite impudence] Is it some kind of witches' broth the +ladies are cooking on Midsummer Eve--something to tell fortunes by +and bring out the lucky star in which one's future love is seen? + +JULIA. [Sharply] If you can see that, you'll have good eyes, +indeed! [To CHRISTINE] Put it in a pint bottle and cork it well. +Come and dance a _schottische_ with me now, Jean. + +JEAN. [Hesitatingly] I don't want to be impolite, but I had +promised to dance with Christine this time—- + +JULIA. Well, she can get somebody else--can't you, Christine? Won't +you let me borrow Jean from you? + +CHRISTINE. That isn't for me to say. When Miss Julia is so +gracious, it isn't for him to say no. You just go along, and be +thankful for the honour, too! + +JEAN. Frankly speaking, but not wishing to offend in any way, I +cannot help wondering if it's wise for Miss Julia to dance twice in +succession with the same partner, especially as the people here are +not slow in throwing out hints-- + +JULIA. [Flaring up] What is that? What kind of hints? What do you +mean? + +JEAN. [Submissively] As you don't want to understand, I have to +speak more plainly. It don't look well to prefer one servant to all +the rest who are expecting to be honoured in the same unusual way-- + +JULIA. Prefer! What ideas! I'm surprised! I, the mistress of the +house, deign to honour this dance with my presence, and when it so +happens that I actually want to dance, I want to dance with one who +knows how to lead, so that I am not made ridiculous. + +JEAN. As you command, Miss Julia! I am at your service! + +JULIA. [Softened] Don't take it as a command. To-night we should +enjoy ourselves as a lot of happy people, and all rank should be +forgotten. Now give me your arm. Don't be afraid, Christine! I'll +return your beau to you! + +[JEAN offers his arm to MISS JULIA and leads her out.] + +*** + +PANTOMIME + +Must be acted as if the actress were really alone in the place. +When necessary she turns her back to the public. She should not +look in the direction of the spectators, and she should not hurry +as if fearful that they might become impatient. + +CHRISTINE is alone. A _schottische_ tune played on a violin is +heard faintly in the distance. + +While humming the tune, CHRISTINE clears o$ the table after JEAN, +washes the plate at the kitchen table, wipes it, and puts it away +in a cupboard. + +Then she takes of her apron, pulls out a small mirror from one of +the table-drawers and leans it against the flower jar on the table; +lights a tallow candle and heats a hairpin, which she uses to curl +her front hair. + +Then she goes to the door and stands there listening. Returns to +the table. Discovers the handkerchief which MISS JULIA has left +behind, picks it up, and smells it, spreads it out absent-mindedly +and begins to stretch it, smooth it, fold it up, and so forth. + +*** + +JEAN. [Enters alone] Crazy, that's what she is! The way she dances! +And the people stand behind the doors and grill at her. What do you +think of it, Christine? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, she has her time now, and then she is always a +little queer like that. But are you going to dance with me now? + +JEAN. You are not mad at me because I disappointed you? + +CHRISTINE. No!--Not for a little thing like that, you know! And +also, I know my place-- + +JEAN. [Putting his arm around her waist] You are a, sensible girl, +Christine, and I think you'll make a good wife-- + +JULIA. [Enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with forced +gayety] Yes, you are a fine partner--running away from your lady! + +JEAN. On the contrary, Miss Julia. I have, as you see, looked up +the one I deserted. + +JULIA. [Changing tone] Do you know, there is nobody that dances +like you!--But why do you wear your livery on an evening like this? +Take it off at once! + +JEAN. Then I must ask you to step outside for a moment, as my black +coat is hanging right here. [Points toward the right and goes in +that direction.] + +JULIA. Are you bashful on my account? Just to change a coat? Why +don't you go into your own room and come back again? Or, you can +stay right here, and I'll turn my back on you. + +JEAN. With your permission, Miss Julia. [Goes further over to the +right; one of his arms can be seen as he changes his coat.] + +JULIA [To CHRISTINE] Are you and Jean engaged, that he's so +familiar with you? + +CHRISTINE. Engaged? Well, in a way. We call it that. + +JULIA. Call it? + +CHRISTINE. Well, Miss Julia, you have had a fellow of your own, and-- + +JULIA. We were really engaged-- + +CHRISTINE. But it didn't come to anything just the same-- + +[JEAN enters, dressed in black frock coat and black derby.] + +JULIA. _Très gentil, Monsieur Jean! Très gentil!_ + +JEAN. _Vous voulez plaisanter, Madame!_ + +JULIA. _Et vous voulez parler français!_ Where did you learn it? + +JEAN. In Switzerland, while I worked as _sommelier_ in one of the +big hotels at Lucerne. + +JULIA. But you look like a real gentleman in your frock coat! +Charming! [Sits down at the table.] + +JEAN. Oh, you flatter me. + +JULIA. [Offended] Flatter--you! + +JEAN. My natural modesty does not allow me to believe that you +could be paying genuine compliments to one like me, and so I dare +to assume that you are exaggerating, or, as we call it, flattering. + +JULIA. Where did you learn to use your words like that? You must +have been to the theatre a great deal? + +JEAN. That, too. I have been to a lot of places. + +JULIA. But you were born in this neighbourhood? + +JEAN. My father was a cotter on the county attorney's property +right by here, and I can recall seeing you as a child, although +you, of course, didn't notice me. + +JULIA. No, really! + +JEAN. Yes, and I remember one time in particular--but of that I +can't speak. + +JULIA. Oh, yes, do! Why--just for once. + +JEAN. No, really, I cannot do it now. Another time, perhaps. + +JULIA. Another time is no time. Is it as bad as that? + +JEAN. It isn't bad, but it comes a little hard. Look at that one! +[Points to CHRISTINE, who has fallen asleep on a chair by the stove.] + +JULIA. She'll make a pleasant wife. And perhaps she snores, too. + +JEAN. No, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep. + +JULIA. [Cynically] How do you know? + +JEAN. [Insolently] I have heard it. + +[Pause during which they study each other.] + +JULIA. Why don't you sit down? + +JEAN. It wouldn't be proper in your presence. + +JULIA. But if I order you to do it? + +JEAN. Then I obey. + +JULIA. Sit down, then!--But wait a moment! Can you give me +something to drink first? + +JEAN. I don't know what we have got in the icebox. I fear it is +nothing but beer. + +JULIA. And you call that nothing? My taste is so simple that I +prefer it to wine. + +JEAN. [Takes a bottle of beer from the icebox and opens it; gets a +glass and a plate from the cupboard, and serves the beer] Allow me! + +JULIA. Thank you. Don't you want some yourself? + +JEAN. I don't care very much for beer, but if it is a command, of +course-- + +JULIA. Command?--I should think a polite gentleman might keep his +lady company. + +JEAN. Yes, that's the way it should be. [Opens another bottle and +takes out a glass.] + +JULIA. Drink my health now! + +[JEAN hesitates.] + +JULIA. Are you bashful--a big, grown-up man? + +JEAN. [Kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] To the +health of my liege lady! + +JULIA. Bravo!--And now you must also kiss my shoe in order to get +it just right. + +[JEAN hesitates a moment; then he takes hold of her foot and +touches it lightly with his lips.] + +JULIA. Excellent! You should have been on the stage. + +JEAN. [Rising to his feet] This won't do any longer, Miss Julia. +Somebody might see us. + +JULIA. What would that matter? + +JEAN. Oh, it would set the people talking--that's all! And if you +only knew how their tongues were wagging up there a while ago—- + +JULIA. What did they have to say? Tell me--Sit down now! + +JEAN. [Sits down] I don't want to hurt you, but they were using +expressions--which cast reflections of a kind that--oh, you know it +yourself! You are not a child, and when a lady is seen alone with a +man, drinking--no matter if he's only a servant--and at night-—then-- + +JULIA. Then what? And besides, we are not alone. Isn't Christine +with us? + +JEAN. Yes--asleep! + +JULIA. Then I'll wake her. [Rising] Christine, are you asleep? + +CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] Blub-blub-blub-blub! + +JULIA. Christine!--Did you ever see such a sleeper. + +CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] The count's boots are polished--put on +the coffee--yes, yes, yes--my-my--pooh! + +JULIA. [Pinches her nose] Can't you wake up? + +JEAN. [Sternly] You shouldn't bother those that sleep. + +JULIA. [Sharply] What's that? + +JEAN. One who has stood by the stove all day has a right to be +tired at night. And sleep should be respected. + +JULIA. [Changing tone] It is fine to think like that, and it does +you honour--I thank you for it. [Gives JEAN her hand] Come now and +pick some lilacs for me. + +[During the following scene CHRISTINE wakes up. She moves as if +still asleep and goes out to the right in order to go to bed.] + +JEAN. With you, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. With me! + +JEAN. But it won't do! Absolutely not! + +JULIA. I can't understand what you are thinking of. You couldn't +possibly imagine-- + +JEAN. No, not I, but the people. + +JULIA. What? That I am fond of the valet? + +JEAN. I am not at all conceited, but such things have happened--and +to the people nothing is sacred. + +JULIA. You are an aristocrat, I think. + +JEAN. Yes, I am. + +JULIA. And I am stepping down-- + +JEAN. Take my advice, Miss Julia, don't step down. Nobody will +believe you did it on purpose. The people will always say that you +fell down. + +JULIA. I think better of the people than you do. Come and see if I +am not right. Come along! [She ogles him.] + +JEAN. You're mighty queer, do you know! + +JULIA. Perhaps. But so are you. And for that matter, everything is +queer. Life, men, everything--just a mush that floats on top of the +water until it sinks, sinks down! I have a dream that comes back to +me ever so often. And just now I am reminded of it. I have climbed +to the top of a column and sit there without being able to tell how +to get down again. I get dizzy when I look down, and I must get +down, but I haven't the courage to jump off. I cannot hold on, and +I am longing to fall, and yet I don't fall. But there will be no +rest for me until I get down, no rest until I get down, down on the +ground. And if I did reach the ground, I should want to get still +further down, into the ground itself--Have you ever felt like that? + +JEAN. No, my dream is that I am lying under a tall tree in a dark +wood. I want to get up, up to the top, so that I can look out over +the smiling landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that I can +rob the nest in which lie the golden eggs. And I climb and climb, +but the trunk is so thick and smooth, and it is so far to the first +branch. But I know that if I could only reach that first branch, +then I should go right on to the top as on a ladder. I have not +reached it yet, but I am going to, if it only be in my dreams. + +JULIA. Here I am chattering to you about dreams! Come along! Only +into the park! [She offers her arm to him, and they go toward the +door.] + +JEAN. We must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night, Miss Julia—- +then our dreams will come true. + +[They turn around in the doorway, and JEAN puts one hand up to his +eyes.] + +JULIA. Let me see what you have got in your eye. + +JEAN. Oh, nothing--just some dirt--it will soon be gone. + +JULIA. It was my sleeve that rubbed against it. Sit down and let me +help you. [Takes him by the arm and makes him sit down; takes hold +of his head and bends it backwards; tries to get out the dirt with +a corner of her handkerchief] Sit still now, absolutely still! +[Slaps him on the hand] Well, can't you do as I say? I think you +are shaking—-a big, strong fellow like you! [Feels his biceps] And +with such arms! + +JEAN. [Ominously] Miss Julia! + +JULIA. Yes, Monsieur Jean. + +JEAN. _Attention! Je ne suis qu'un homme._ + +JULIA. Can't you sit still!--There now! Now it's gone. Kiss my hand +now, and thank me. + +JEAN. [Rising] Miss Julia, listen to me. Christine has gone to bed +now--Won't you listen to me? + +JULIA. Kiss my hand first. + +JEAN. Listen to me! + +JULIA. Kiss my hand first! + +JEAN. All right, but blame nobody but yourself! + +JULIA. For what? + +JEAN. For what? Are you still a mere child at twenty-five? Don't +you know that it is dangerous to play with fire? + +JULIA. Not for me. I am insured. + +JEAN. [Boldly] No, you are not. And even if you were, there are +inflammable surroundings to be counted with. + +JULIA. That's you, I suppose? + +JEAN. Yes. Not because I am I, but because I am a young man-- + +JULIA. Of handsome appearance--what an incredible conceit! A Don +Juan, perhaps. Or a Joseph? On my soul, I think you are a Joseph! + +JEAN. Do you? + +JULIA. I fear it almost. + +[JEAN goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist in order +to kiss her.] + +JULIA. [Gives him a cuff on the ear] Shame! + +JEAN. Was that in play or in earnest? + +JULIA. In earnest. + +JEAN. Then you were in earnest a moment ago also. Your playing is +too serious, and that's the dangerous thing about it. Now I am +tired of playing, and I ask to be excused in order to resume my +work. The count wants his boots to be ready for him, and it is +after midnight already. + +JULIA. Put away the boots. + +JEAN. No, it's my work, which I am bound to do. But I have not +undertaken to be your playmate. It's something I can never become—- +I hold myself too good for it. + +JULIA. You're proud! + +JEAN. In some ways, and not in others. + +JULIA. Have you ever been in love? + +JEAN. We don't use that word. But I have been fond of a lot of +girls, and once I was taken sick because I couldn't have the one I +wanted: sick, you know, like those princes in the Arabian Nights +who cannot eat or drink for sheer love. + +JULIA. Who was it? + +[JEAN remains silent.] + +JULIA. Who was it? + +JEAN. You cannot make me tell you. + +JULIA. If I ask you as an equal, ask you as--a friend: who was it? + +JEAN. It was you. + +JULIA. [Sits down] How funny! + +JEAN. Yes, as you say--it was ludicrous. That was the story, you +see, which I didn't want to tell you a while ago. But now I am +going to tell it. Do you know how the world looks from below--no, +you don't. No more than do hawks and falcons, of whom we never see +the back because they are always floating about high up in the sky. +I lived in the cotter's hovel, together with seven other children, +and a pig--out there on the grey plain, where there isn't a single +tree. But from our windows I could see the wall around the count's +park, and apple-trees above it. That was the Garden of Eden, and +many fierce angels were guarding it with flaming swords. +Nevertheless I and some other boys found our way to the Tree of +Life--now you despise me? + +JULIA. Oh, stealing apples is something all boys do. + +JEAN. You may say so now, but you despise me nevertheless. However—- +once I got into the Garden of Eden with my mother to weed the onion +beds. Near by stood a Turkish pavillion, shaded by trees and +covered with honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for, but I +had never seen a more beautiful building. People went in and came +out again, and one day the door was left wide open. I stole up and +saw the walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and the +windows were hung with red, fringed curtains--now you know what I +mean. I--[breaks off a lilac sprig and holds it under MISS JULIA's +nose]--I had never been inside the manor, and I had never seen +anything but the church--and this was much finer. No matter where +my thoughts ran, they returned always--to that place. And gradually +a longing arose within me to taste the full pleasure of--_enfin_! I +sneaked in, looked and admired. Then I heard somebody coming. There +was only one way out for fine people, but for me there was another, +and I could do nothing else but choose it. + +[JULIA, who has taken the lilac sprig, lets it drop on the table.] + +JEAN. Then I started to run, plunged through a hedge of raspberry +bushes, chased right across a strawberry plantation, and came out +on the terrace where the roses grow. There I caught sight of a pink +dress and pair of white stockings--that was you! I crawled under a +pile of weeds--right into it, you know--into stinging thistles and +wet, ill-smelling dirt. And I saw you walking among the roses, and +I thought: if it be possible for a robber to get into heaven and +dwell with the angels, then it is strange that a cotter's child, +here on God's own earth, cannot get into the park and play with the +count's daughter. + +JULIA. [Sentimentally] Do you think all poor children have the same +thoughts as you had in this case? + +JEAN. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] If _all_ poor—- +yes—-of course. Of course! + +JULIA. It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor. + +JEAN. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated +emphasis] Oh, Miss Julia! Oh!--A dog may lie on her ladyship's +sofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the young lady's hand, +but a servant--[changing his tone]--oh well, here and there you +meet one made of different stuff, and he makes a way for himself in +the world, but how often does it happen?--However, do you know what +I did? I jumped into the mill brook with my clothes on, and was +pulled out, and got a licking. But the next Sunday, when my father +and the rest of the people were going over to my grandmother's, I +fixed it so that I could stay at home. And then I washed myself +with soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and went to +church, where I could see you. I did see you, and went home +determined to die. But I wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, +without any pain. And then I recalled that it was dangerous to +sleep under an elder bush. We had a big one that was in full bloom. +I robbed it of all its flowers, and then I put them in the big box +where the oats were kept and lay down in them. Did you ever notice +the smoothness of oats? Soft to the touch as the skin of the human +body! However, I pulled down the lid and closed my eyes--fell +asleep and was waked up a very sick boy. But I didn't die, as you +can see. What I wanted--that's more than I can tell. Of course, +there was not the least hope of winning you—-but you symbolised the +hopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which I was +born. + +JULIA. You narrate splendidly, do you know! Did you ever go to +school? + +JEAN. A little. But I have read a lot of novels and gone to the +theatre a good deal. And besides, I have listened to the talk of +better-class people, and from that I have learned most of all. + +JULIA. Do you stand around and listen to what we are saying? + +JEAN. Of course! And I have heard a lot, too, when I was on the box +of the carriage, or rowing the boat. Once I heard you, Miss Julia, +and one of your girl friends-- + +JULIA. Oh!--What was it you heard then? + +JEAN. Well, it wouldn't be easy to repeat. But I was rather +surprised, and I couldn't understand where you had learned all +those words. Perhaps, at bottom, there isn't quite so much +difference as they think between one kind of people and another. + +JULIA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! We don't live as you do +when we are engaged. + +JEAN. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain?--Well, Miss Julia, it +won't pay to make yourself out so very innocent to me—- + +JULIA. The man on whom I bestowed my love was a scoundrel. + +JEAN. That's what you always say--afterwards. + +JULIA. Always? + +JEAN. Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words used +several times before, on similar occasions. + +JULIA. What occasions? + +JEAN. Like the one of which we were speaking. The last time-- + +JULIA. [Rising] Stop! I don't want to hear any more! + +JEAN. Nor did _she_--curiously enough! Well, then I ask permission +to go to bed. + +JULIA. [Gently] Go to bed on Midsummer Eve? + +JEAN. Yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really no +attraction for me. + +JULIA. Get the key to the boat and take me out on the lake--I want +to watch the sunrise. + +JEAN. Would that be wise? + +JULIA. It sounds as if you were afraid of your reputation. + +JEAN. Why not? I don't care to be made ridiculous, and I don't care +to be discharged without a recommendation, for I am trying to get +on in the world. And then I feel myself under a certain obligation +to Christine. + +JULIA. So it's Christine now + +JEAN. Yes, but it's you also--Take my advice and go to bed! + +JULIA. Am I to obey you? + +JEAN. For once--and for your own sake! The night is far gone. +Sleepiness makes us drunk, and the head grows hot. Go to bed! And +besides--if I am not mistaken—-I can hear the crowd coming this way +to look for me. And if we are found together here, you are lost! + +CHORUS. [Is heard approaching]: + Through the fields come two ladies a-walking, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + And one has her shoes full of water, + Treederee-derallah-lah. + + They're talking of hundreds of dollars, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + But have not between them a dollar + Treederee-derallah-lah. + + This wreath I give you gladly, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + But love another madly, + Treederee-derallah-lah. + +JULIA. I know the people, and I love them, just as they love me. +Let them come, and you'll see. + +JEAN. No, Miss Julia, they don't love you. They take your food and +spit at your back. Believe me. Listen to me--can't you hear what +they are singing?--No, don't pay any attention to it! + +JULIA. [Listening] What is it they are singing? + +JEAN. Oh, something scurrilous. About you and me. + +JULIA. How infamous! They ought to be ashamed! And the treachery of +it! + +JEAN. The mob is always cowardly. And in such a fight as this there +is nothing to do but to run away. + +JULIA. Run away? Where to? We cannot get out. And we cannot go into +Christine's room. + +JEAN. Oh, we cannot? Well, into my room, then! Necessity knows no +law. And you can trust me, for I am your true and frank and +respectful friend. + +JULIA. But think only-think if they should look for you in there! + +JEAN. I shall bolt the door. And if they try to break it I open, +I'll shoot!--Come! [Kneeling before her] Come! + +JULIA. [Meaningly] And you promise me--? + +JEAN. I swear! + +[MISS JULIA goes quickly out to the right. JEAN follows her +eagerly.] + +*** + +BALLET + +The peasants enter. They are decked out in their best and carry +flowers in their hats. A fiddler leads them. On the table they +place a barrel of small-beer and a keg of "brännvin," or white +Swedish whiskey, both of them decorated with wreathes woven out of +leaves. First they drink. Then they form in ring and sing and dance +to the melody heard before: + + "Through the fields come two ladies a-walking." + +The dance finished, they leave singing. + +*** + +JULIA. [Enters alone. On seeing the disorder in the kitchen, she +claps her hands together. Then she takes out a powder-puff and +begins to powder her face.] + +JEAN. [Enters in a state of exaltation] There you see! And you +heard, didn't you? Do you think it possible to stay here? + +JULIA. No, I don't think so. But what are we to do? + +JEAN. Run away, travel, far away from here. + +JULIA. Travel? Yes-but where? + +JEAN. To Switzerland, the Italian lakes--you have never been there? + +JULIA. No. Is the country beautiful? + +JEAN. Oh! Eternal summer! Orange trees! Laurels! Oh! + +JULIA. But then-what are we to do down there? + +JEAN. I'll start a hotel, everything first class, including the +customers? + +JULIA. Hotel? + +JEAN. That's the life, I tell you! Constantly new faces and new +languages. Never a minute free for nerves or brooding. No trouble +about what to do--for the work is calling to be done: night and +day, bells that ring, trains that whistle, 'busses that come and +go; and gold pieces raining on the counter all the time. That's the +life for you! + +JULIA. Yes, that is life. And I? + +JEAN. The mistress of everything, the chief ornament of the house. +With your looks--and your manners--oh, success will be assured! +Enormous! You'll sit like a queen in the office and keep the slaves +going by the touch of an electric button. The guests will pass in +review before your throne and timidly deposit their treasures on +your table. You cannot imagine how people tremble when a bill is +presented to them--I'll salt the items, and you'll sugar them with +your sweetest smiles. Oh, let us get away from here--[pulling a +time-table from his pocket]--at once, with the next train! We'll be +in Malmö at 6.30; in Hamburg at 8.40 to-morrow morning; in Frankfort +and Basel a day later. And to reach Como by way of the St. Gotthard +it will take us--let me see--three days. Three days! + +JULIA. All that is all right. But you must give me some courage— +Jean. Tell me that you love me. Come and take me in your arms. + +JEAN. [Reluctantly] I should like to--but I don't dare. Not in this +house again. I love you--beyond doubt--or, can you doubt it, Miss +Julia? + +JULIA. [With modesty and true womanly feeling] Miss? Call me Julia. +Between us there can be no barriers here after. Call me Julia! + +JEAN. [Disturbed] I cannot! There will be barriers between us as +long as we stay in this house--there is the past, and there is the +count-—and I have never met another person for whom I felt such +respect. If I only catch sight of his gloves on a chair I feel +small. If I only hear that bell up there, I jump like a shy horse. +And even now, when I see his boots standing there so stiff and +perky, it is as if something made my back bend. [Kicking at the +boots] It's nothing but superstition and tradition hammered into us +from childhood--but it can be as easily forgotten again. Let us +only get to another country, where they have a republic, and you'll +see them bend their backs double before my liveried porter. You +see, backs have to be bent, but not mine. I wasn't born to that +kind of thing. There's better stuff in me--character--and if I only +get hold of the first branch, you'll see me do some climbing. +To-day I am a valet, but next year I'll be a hotel owner. In ten +years I can live on the money I have made, and then I'll go to +Roumania and get myself an order. And I may--note well that I say +_may_--end my days as a count. + +JULIA. Splendid, splendid! + +JEAN. Yes, in Roumania the title of count can be had for cash, and +so you'll be a countess after all. My countess! + +JULIA. What do I care about all I now cast behind me! Tell me that +you love me: otherwise--yes, what am I otherwise? + +JEAN. I will tell you so a thousand times--later. But not here. And +above all, no sentimentality, or everything will be lost. We must +look at the matter in cold blood, like sensible people. [Takes out +a cigar, cuts of the point, and lights it] Sit down there now, and +I'll sit here, and then we'll talk as if nothing had happened. + +JULIA. [In despair] Good Lord! Have you then no feelings at all? + +JEAN. I? No one is more full of feeling than I am. But I know how +to control myself. + +JULIA. A while ago you kissed my shoe--and now! + +JEAN. [Severely] Yes, that was then. Now we have other things to +think of. + +JULIA. Don't speak harshly to me! + +JEAN. No, but sensibly. One folly has been committed--don't let us +commit any more! The count may be here at any moment, and before he +comes our fate must be settled. What do you think of my plans for +the future? Do you approve of them? + +JULIA. They seem acceptable, on the whole. But there is one +question: a big undertaking of that kind will require a big capital +have you got it? + +JEAN. [Chewing his cigar] I? Of course! I have my expert knowledge, +my vast experience, my familiarity with several languages. That's +the very best kind of capital, I should say. + +JULIA. But it won't buy you a railroad ticket even. + +JEAN. That's true enough. And that is just why I am looking for a +backer to advance the needful cash. + +JULIA. Where could you get one all of a sudden? + +JEAN. It's for you to find him if you want to become my partner. + +JULIA. I cannot do it, and I have nothing myself. [Pause.] + +JEAN. Well, then that's off-- + +JULIA. And—- + +JEAN. Everything remains as before. + +JULIA. Do you think I am going to stay under this roof as your +concubine? Do you think I'll let the people point their fingers at +me? Do you think I can look my father in the face after this? No, +take me away from here, from all this humiliation and disgrace!— +Oh, what have I done? My God, my God! [Breaks into tears.] + +JEAN. So we have got around to that tune now!--What you have done? +Nothing but what many others have done before you. + +JULIA. [Crying hysterically] And now you're despising me!--I'm +falling, I'm falling! + +JEAN. Fall down to me, and I'll lift you up again afterwards. + +JULIA. What horrible power drew me to you? Was it the attraction +which the strong exercises on the weak--the one who is rising on +one who is falling? Or was it love? This love! Do you know what +love is? + +JEAN. I? Well, I should say so! Don't you think I have been there +before? + +JULIA. Oh, the language you use, and the thoughts you think! + +JEAN. Well, that's the way I was brought up, and that's the way I +am. Don't get nerves now and play the exquisite, for now one of us +is just as good as the other. Look here, my girl, let me treat you +to a glass of something superfine. [He opens the table-drawer, +takes out the wine bottle and fills up two glasses that have +already been used.] + +JULIA. Where did you get that wine? + +JEAN. In the cellar. + +JULIA. My father's Burgundy! + +JEAN. Well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law? + +JULIA. And I am drinking beer--I! + +JEAN. It shows merely that I have better taste than you. + +JULIA. Thief! + +JEAN. Do you mean to tell on me? + +JULIA. Oh, oh! The accomplice of a house thief! Have I been drunk, +or have I been dreaming all this night? Midsummer Eve! The feast of +innocent games—- + +JEAN. Innocent--hm! + +JULIA. [Walking back and forth] Can there be another human being on +earth so unhappy as I am at this moment' + +JEAN. But why should you be? After such a conquest? Think of +Christine in there. Don't you think she has feelings also? + +JULIA. I thought so a while ago, but I don't think so any longer. +No, a menial is a menial-- + +JEAN. And a whore a whore! + +JULIA. [On her knees, with folded hands] O God in heaven, make an +end of this wretched life! Take me out of the filth into which I am +sinking! Save me! Save me! + +JEAN. I cannot deny that I feel sorry for you. When I was lying +among the onions and saw you up there among the roses--I'll tell +you now--I had the same nasty thoughts that all boys have. + +JULIA. And you who wanted to die for my sake! + +JEAN. Among the oats. That was nothing but talk. + +JULIA. Lies in other words! + +JEAN. [Beginning to feel sleepy] Just about. I think I read the +story in a paper, and it was about a chimney-sweep who crawled into +a wood-box full of lilacs because a girl had brought suit against +him for not supporting her kid—- + +JULIA. So that's the sort you are-- + +JEAN. Well, I had to think of something--for it's the high-faluting +stuff that the women bite on. + +JULIA. Scoundrel! + +JEAN. Rot! + +JULIA. And now you have seen the back of the hawk-- + +JEAN. Well, I don't know-- + +JULIA. And I was to be the first branch-- + +JEAN. But the branch was rotten-- + +JULIA. I was to be the sign in front of the hotel-- + +JEAN. And I the hotel-- + +JULIA. Sit at your counter, and lure your customers, and doctor +your bills-- + +JEAN. No, that I should have done myself-- + +JULIA. That a human soul can be so steeped in dirt! + +JEAN. Well, wash it off! + +JULIA. You lackey, you menial, stand up when I talk to you! + +JEAN. You lackey-love, you mistress of a menial--shut up and get +out of here! You're the right one to come and tell me that I am +vulgar. People of my kind would never in their lives act as +vulgarly as you have acted to-night. Do you think any servant girl +would go for a man as you did? Did you ever see a girl of my class +throw herself at anybody in that way? I have never seen the like of +it except among beasts and prostitutes. + +JULIA. [Crushed] That's right: strike me, step on me--I haven't +deserved any better! I am a wretched creature. But help me! Help +me out of this, if there be any way to do so! + +JEAN. [In a milder tone] I don't want to lower myself by a denial +of my share in the honour of seducing. But do you think a person in +my place would have dared to raise his eyes to you, if the +invitation to do so had not come from yourself? I am still sitting +here in a state of utter surprise-- + +JULIA. And pride-- + +JEAN. Yes, why not? Although I must confess that the victory was +too easy to bring with it any real intoxication. + +JULIA. Strike me some more! + +JEAN. [Rising] No! Forgive me instead what I have been saying. I +don't want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. +On one hand I cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover +that what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the +hawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on the +tender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polished +nails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smells +of perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to have discovered +that what I was striving to reach is neither better nor more +genuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far +beneath your own cook--it hurts me as it hurts to see the Fall +flowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud. + +JULIA. You speak as if you were already above me? + +JEAN. Well, so I am. Don't you see: I could have made a countess of +you, but you could never make me a count. + +JULIA. But I am born of a count, and that's more than you can ever +achieve. + +JEAN. That's true. But I might be the father of counts—if-- + +JULIA. But you are a thief--and I am not. + +JEAN. Thief is not the worst. There are other kinds still farther +down. And then, when I serve in a house, I regard myself in a sense +as a member of the family, as a child of the house, and you don't +call it theft when children pick a few of the berries that load +down the vines. [His passion is aroused once more] Miss Julia, you +are a magnificent woman, and far too good for one like me. You were +swept along by a spell of intoxication, and now you want to cover +up your mistake by making yourself believe that you are in love +with me. Well, you are not, unless possibly my looks might tempt +you-—in which case your love is no better than mine. I could never +rest satisfied with having you care for nothing in me but the mere +animal, and your love I can never win. + +JULIA. Are you so sure of that? + +JEAN. You mean to say that it might be possible? That I might love +you: yes, without doubt--for you are beautiful, refined, [goes up +to her and takes hold of her hand] educated, charming when you want +to be so, and it is not likely that the flame will ever burn out in +a man who has once been set of fire by you. [Puts his arm around +her waist] You are like burnt wine with strong spices in it, and +one of your kisses-- + +[He tries to lead her away, but she frees herself gently from his +hold.] + +JULIA. Leave me alone! In that way you cannot win me. + +JEAN. How then?--Not in that way! Not by caresses and sweet words! +Not by thought for the future, by escape from disgrace! How then? + +JULIA. How? How? I don't know--Not at all! I hate you as I hate +rats, but I cannot escape from you! + +JEAN. Escape with me! + +JULIA. [Straightening up] Escape? Yes, we must escape!--But I am so +tired. Give me a glass of wine. + +[JEAN pours out wine.] + +JULIA. [Looks at her watch] But we must have a talk first. We have +still some time left. [Empties her glass and holds it out for more.] + +JEAN. Don't drink so much. It will go to your head. + +JULIA. What difference would that make? + +JEAN. What difference would it make? It's vulgar to get drunk--What +was it you wanted to tell me? + +JULIA. We must get away. But first we must have a talk--that is, I +must talk, for so far you have done all the talking. You have told +me about your life. Now I must tell you about mine, so that we know +each other right to the bottom before we begin the journey together. + +JEAN. One moment, pardon me! Think first, so that you don't regret +it afterwards, when you have already given up the secrets of your +life. + +JULIA. Are you not my friend? + +JEAN. Yes, at times--but don't rely on me. + +JULIA. You only talk like that--and besides, my secrets are known +to everybody. You see, my mother was not of noble birth, but came +of quite plain people. She was brought up in the ideas of her time +about equality, and woman's independence, and that kind of thing. +And she had a decided aversion to marriage. Therefore, when my +father proposed to her, she said she wouldn't marry him--and then +she did it just the same. I came into the world--against my +mother's wish, I have come to think. Then my mother wanted to bring +me up in a perfectly natural state, and at the same time I was to +learn everything that a boy is taught, so that I might prove that a +woman is just as good as a man. I was dressed as a boy, and was +taught how to handle a horse, but could have nothing to do with the +cows. I had to groom and harness and go hunting on horseback. I was +even forced to learn something about agriculture. And all over the +estate men were set to do women's work, and women to do men's--with +the result that everything went to pieces and we became the +laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. At last my father must +have recovered from the spell cast over him, for he rebelled, and +everything was changed to suit his own ideas. My mother was taken +sick--what kind of sickness it was I don't know, but she fell often +into convulsions, and she used to hide herself in the garret or in +the garden, and sometimes she stayed out all night. Then came the +big fire, of which you have heard. The house, the stable, and the +barn were burned down, and this under circumstances which made it +look as if the fire had been set on purpose. For the disaster +occurred the day after our insurance expired, and the money sent +for renewal of the policy had been delayed by the messenger's +carelessness, so that it came too late. [She fills her glass again +and drinks.] + +JEAN. Don't drink any more. + +JULIA. Oh, what does it matter!--We were without a roof over our +heads and had to sleep in the carriages. My father didn't know +where to get money for the rebuilding of the house. Then my mother +suggested that he try to borrow from a childhood friend of hers, a +brick manufacturer living not far from here. My father got the +loan, but was not permitted to pay any interest, which astonished +him. And so the house was built up again. [Drinks again] Do you +know who set fire to the house? + +JEAN. Her ladyship, your mother! + +JULIA. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was? + +JEAN. Your mother's lover? + +JULIA. Do you know to whom the money belonged? + +JEAN. Wait a minute--no, that I don't know. + +JULIA. To my mother. + +JEAN. In other words, to the count, if there was no settlement. + +JULIA. There was no settlement. My mother possessed a small fortune +of her own which she did not want to leave in my father's control, +so she invested it with--her friend. + +JEAN. Who copped it. + +JULIA. Exactly! He kept it. All this came to my father's knowledge. +He couldn't bring suit; he couldn't pay his wife's lover; he +couldn't prove that it was his wife's money. That was my mother's +revenge because he had made himself master in his own house. At +that time he came near shooting himself--it was even rumoured that +he had tried and failed. But he took a new lease of life, and my +mother had to pay for what she had done. I can tell you that those +were five years I'll never forget! My sympathies were with my +father, but I took my mother's side because I was not aware of the +true circumstances. From her I learned to suspect and hate men--for +she hated the whole sex, as you have probably heard--and I promised +her on my oath that I would never become a man's slave. + +JEAN. And so you became engaged to the County Attorney. + +JULIA. Yes, in order that he should be my slave. + +JEAN. And he didn't want to? + +JULIA. Oh, he wanted, but I wouldn't let him. I got tired of him. + +JEAN. Yes, I saw it--in the stable-yard. + +JULIA. What did you see? + +JEAN. Just that--how he broke the engagement. + +JULIA. That's a lie! It was I who broke it. Did he say he did it, +the scoundrel? + +JEAN. Oh, he was no scoundrel, I guess. So you hate men, Miss +Julia? + +JULIA. Yes! Most of the time. But now and then--when the weakness +comes over me--oh, what shame! + +JEAN. And you hate me too? + +JULIA. Beyond measure! I should like to kill you like a wild beast-- + +JEAN. As you make haste to shoot a mad dog. Is that right? + +JULIA. That's right! + +JEAN. But now there is nothing to shoot with--and there is no dog. +What are we to do then? + +JULIA. Go abroad. + +JEAN. In order to plague each other to death? + +JULIA. No-in order to enjoy ourselves: a couple of days, a week, as +long as enjoyment is possible. And then--die! + +JEAN. Die? How silly! Then I think it's much better to start a +hotel. + +JULIA. [Without listening to JEAN]--At Lake Como, where the sun is +always shining, and the laurels stand green at Christmas, and the +oranges are glowing. + +JEAN. Lake Como is a rainy hole, and I could see no oranges except +in the groceries. But it is a good place for tourists, as it has a +lot of villas that can be rented to loving couples, and that's a +profitable business--do you know why? Because they take a lease for +six months--and then they leave after three weeks. + +JULIA. [Naïvely] Why after three weeks? + +JEAN. Because they quarrel, of course. But the rent has to be paid +just the same. And then you can rent the house again. And that way +it goes on all the time, for there is plenty of love--even if it +doesn't last long. + +JULIA. You don't want to die with me? + +JEAN. I don't want to die at all. Both because I am fond of living, +and because I regard suicide as a crime against the Providence +which has bestowed life on us. + +JULIA. Do you mean to say that you believe in God? + +JEAN. Of course, I do. And I go to church every other Sunday. +Frankly speaking, now I am tired of all this, and now I am going to +bed. + +JULIA. So! And you think that will be enough for me? Do you know +what you owe a woman that you have spoiled? + +JEAN. [Takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table] +You're welcome! I don't want to be in anybody's debt. + +JULIA. [Pretending not to notice the insult] Do you know what the +law provides-- + +JEAN. Unfortunately the law provides no punishment for a woman +who seduces a man. + +JULIA. [As before] Can you think of any escape except by our +going abroad and getting married, and then getting a divorce? + +JEAN. Suppose I refuse to enter into this _mésaillance_? + +JULIA. _Mésaillance_-- + +JEAN. Yes, for me. You see, I have better ancestry than you, for +nobody in my family was ever guilty of arson. + +JULIA. How do you know? + +JEAN. Well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep no +Pedigrees--except in the police bureau. But I have read about your +pedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. Do you +know who was your first ancestor? A miller who let his wife sleep +with the king one night during the war with Denmark. I have no such +ancestry. I have none at all, but I can become an ancestor myself. + +JULIA. That's what I get for unburdening my heart to one not worthy +of it; for sacrificing my family's honour-- + +JEAN. Dishonour! Well, what was it I told you? You shouldn't drink, +for then you talk. And you must not talk! + +JULIA. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret it! If at +least you loved me! + +JEAN. For the last time: what do you mean? Am I to weep? Am I to +jump over your whip? Am I to kiss you, and lure you down to Lake +Como for three weeks, and so on? What am I to do? What do you +expect? This is getting to be rather painful! But that's what comes +from getting mixed up with women. Miss Julia! I see that you are +unhappy; I know that you are suffering; but I cannot understand +you. We never carry on like that. There is never any hatred between +us. Love is to us a play, and we play at it when our work leaves us +time to do so. But we have not the time to do so all day and all +night, as you have. I believe you are sick--I am sure you are sick. + +JULIA. You should be good to me--and now you speak like a human +being. + +JEAN. All right, but be human yourself. You spit on me, and then +you won't let me wipe myself--on you! + +JULIA. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do--where I am +to turn? + +JEAN. O Lord, if I only knew that myself! + +JULIA. I have been exasperated, I have been mad, but there ought to +be some way of saving myself. + +JEAN. Stay right here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything. + +JULIA. Impossible! The people know, and Christine knows. + +JEAN. They don't know, and they would never believe it possible. + +JULIA. [Hesitating] But-it might happen again. + +JEAN. That's true. + +JULIA. And the results? + +JEAN. [Frightened] The results! Where was my head when I didn't +think of that! Well, then there is only one thing to do--you must +leave. At once! I can't go with you, for then everything would be +lost, so you must go alone--abroad--anywhere! + +JULIA. Alone? Where?--I can't do it. + +JEAN. You must! And before the count gets back. If you stay, then +you know what will happen. Once on the wrong path, one wants to +keep on, as the harm is done anyhow. Then one grows more and more +reckless--and at last it all comes out. So you must get away! Then +you can write to the count and tell him everything, except that it +was me. And he would never guess it. Nor do I think he would be +very anxious to find out. + +JULIA. I'll go if you come with me. + +JEAN. Are you stark mad, woman? Miss Julia to run away with her +valet! It would be in the papers in another day, and the count +could never survive it. + +JULIA. I can't leave! I can't stay! Help me! I am so tired, so +fearfully tired. Give me orders! Set me going, for I can no longer +think, no longer act—- + +JEAN. Do you see now what good-for-nothings you are! Why do you +strut and turn up your noses as if you were the lords of creation? +Well, I am going to give you orders. Go up and dress. Get some +travelling money, and then come back again. + +JULIA: [In an undertone] Come up with me! + +JEAN. To your room? Now you're crazy again! [Hesitates a moment] +No, you must go at once! [Takes her by the hand and leads her out.] + +JULIA. [On her way out] Can't you speak kindly to me, Jean? + +JEAN. An order must always sound unkind. Now you can find out how +it feels! + +[JULIA goes out.] + +[JEAN, alone, draws a sigh of relief; sits down at the table; takes +out a note-book and a pencil; figures aloud from time to time; dumb +play until CHRISTINE enters dressed for church; she has a false +shirt front and a white tie in one of her hands.] + +CHRISTINE. Goodness gracious, how the place looks! What have you +been up to anyhow? + +JEAN. Oh, it was Miss Julia who dragged in the people. Have you +been sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything at all? + +CHRISTINE. I have been sleeping like a log. + +JEAN. And dressed for church already? + +CHRISTINE. Yes, didn't you promise to come with me to communion +to-day? + +JEAN. Oh, yes, I remember now. And there you've got the finery. +Well, come on with it. [Sits down; CHRISTINE helps him to put on +the shirt front and the white tie.] + +[Pause.] + +JEAN. [Sleepily] What's the text to-day? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, about John the Baptist beheaded, I guess. + +JEAN. That's going to be a long story, I'm sure. My, but you choke +me! Oh, I'm so sleepy, so sleepy! + +CHRISTINE. Well, what has been keeping you up all night? Why, man, +you're just green in the face! + +JEAN. I have been sitting here talking with Miss Julia. + +CHRISTINE. She hasn't an idea of what's proper, that creature! + +[Pause.] + +JEAN. Say, Christine. + +CHRISTINE. Well? + +JEAN. Isn't it funny anyhow, when you come to think of it? Her! + +CHRISTINE. What is it that's funny? + +JEAN. Everything! + +[Pause.] + +CHRISTINE. [Seeing the glasses on the table that are only +half-emptied] So you've been drinking together also? + +JEAN. Yes. + +CHRISTINE. Shame on you! Look me in the eye! + +JEAN. Yes. + +CHRISTINE. Is it possible? Is it possible? + +JEAN. [After a moment's thought] Yes, it is! + +CHRISTINE. Ugh! That's worse than I could ever have believed. It's +awful! + +JEAN. You are not jealous of her, are you? + +CHRISTINE. No, not of her. Had it been Clara or Sophie, then I'd +have scratched your eyes out. Yes, that's the way I feel about it, +and I can't tell why. Oh my, but that was nasty! + +JEAN. Are you mad at her then? + +CHRISTINE. No, but at you! It was wrong of you, very wrong! Poor +girl! No, I tell you, I don't want to stay in this house any +longer, with people for whom it is impossible to have any respect. + +JEAN. Why should you have any respect for them? + +CHRISTINE. And you who are such a smarty can't tell that! You +wouldn't serve people who don't act decently, would you? It's to +lower oneself, I think. + +JEAN. Yes, but it ought to be a consolation to us that they are not +a bit better than we. + +CHRISTINE. No, I don't think so. For if they're no better, then +it's no use trying to get up to them. And just think of the count! +Think of him who has had so much sorrow in his day! No, I don't +want to stay any longer in this house--And with a fellow like you, +too. If it had been the county attorney--if it had only been some +one of her own sort-- + +JEAN. Now look here! + +CHRISTINE. Yes, yes! You're all right in your way, but there's +after all some difference between one kind of people and another—- +No, but this is something I'll never get over!--And the young lady +who was so proud, and so tart to the men, that you couldn't believe +she would ever let one come near her--and such a one at that! And +she who wanted to have poor Diana shot because she had been running +around with the gate-keeper's pug!--Well, I declare!--But I won't +stay here any longer, and next October I get out of here. + +JEAN. And then? + +CHRISTINE. Well, as we've come to talk of that now, perhaps it +would be just as well if you looked for something, seeing that +we're going to get married after all. + +JEAN. Well, what could I look for? As a married man I couldn't get +a place like this. + +CHRISTINE. No, I understand that. But you could get a job as a +janitor, or maybe as a messenger in some government bureau. Of +course, the public loaf is always short in weight, but it comes +steady, and then there is a pension for the widow and the children-- + +JEAN. [Making a face] That's good and well, but it isn't my style +to think of dying all at once for the sake of wife and children. I +must say that my plans have been looking toward something better +than that kind of thing. + +CHRISTINE. Your plans, yes--but you've got obligations also, and +those you had better keep in mind! + +JEAN. Now don't you get my dander up by talking of obligations! I +know what I've got to do anyhow. [Listening for some sound on the +outside] However, we've plenty of time to think of all this. Go in +now and get ready, and then we'll go to church. + +CHRISTINE. Who is walking around up there? + +JEAN. I don't know, unless it be Clara. + +CHRISTINE. [Going out] It can't be the count, do you think, who's +come home without anybody hearing him? + +JEAN. [Scared] The count? No, that isn't possible, for then he +would have rung for me. + +CHRISTINE. [As she goes out] Well, God help us all! Never have I +seen the like of it! + +[The sun has risen and is shining on the tree tops in the park. The +light changes gradually until it comes slantingly in through the +windows. JEAN goes to the door and gives a signal.] + +JULIA. [Enters in travelling dress and carrying a small birdcage +covered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] Now I am +ready. + +JEAN. Hush! Christine is awake. + +JULIA. [Showing extreme nervousness during the following scene] Did +she suspect anything? + +JEAN. She knows nothing at all. But, my heavens, how you look! + +JULIA. How do I look? + +JEAN. You're as pale as a corpse, and--pardon me, but your face is +dirty. + +JULIA. Let me wash it then--Now! [She goes over to the washstand +and washes her face and hands] Give me a towel--Oh!--That's the sun +rising! + +JEAN. And then the ogre bursts. + +JULIA. Yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night!—But listen, +Jean. Come with me, for now I have the money. + +JEAN. [Doubtfully] Enough? + +JULIA. Enough to start with. Come with me, for I cannot travel +alone to-day. Think of it--Midsummer Day, on a stuffy train, jammed +with people who stare at you--and standing still at stations when +you want to fly. No, I cannot! I cannot! And then the memories will +come: childhood memories of Midsummer Days, when the inside of the +church was turned into a green forest--birches and lilacs; the +dinner at the festive table with relatives and friends; the +afternoon in the park, with dancing and music, flowers and games! +Oh, you may run and run, but your memories are in the baggage-car, +and with them remorse and repentance! + +JEAN. I'll go with you-but at once, before it's too late. This very +moment! + +JULIA. Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage.] + +JEAN. But no baggage! That would only give us away. + +JULIA. No, nothing at all! Only what we can take with us in the +car. + +JEAN. [Has taken down his hat] What have you got there? What is it? + +JULIA. It's only my finch. I can't leave it behind. + +JEAN. Did you ever! Dragging a bird-cage along with us! You must be +raving mad! Drop the cage! + +JULIA. The only thing I take with me from my home! The only living +creature that loves me since Diana deserted me! Don't be cruel! Let +me take it along! + +JEAN. Drop the cage, I tell you! And don't talk so loud--Christine +can hear us. + +JULIA. No, I won't let it fall into strange hands. I'd rather have +you kill it! + +JEAN. Well, give it to me, and I'll wring its neck. + +JULIA. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't--no, I cannot! + +JEAN. Let me--I can! + +JULIA. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] Oh, my little +birdie, must it die and go away from its mistress! + +JEAN. Don't make a scene, please. Don't you know it's a question of +your life, of your future? Come, quick! [Snatches the bird away +from her, carries it to the chopping block and picks up an axe. +MISS JULIA turns away.] + +JEAN. You should have learned how to kill chickens instead of +shooting with a revolver--[brings down the axe]--then you wouldn't +have fainted for a drop of blood. + +JULIA. [Screaming] Kill me too! Kill me! You who can take the life +of an innocent creature without turning a hair! Oh, I hate and +despise you! There is blood between us! Cursed be the hour when I +first met you! Cursed be the hour when I came to life in my +mother's womb! + +JEAN. Well, what's the use of all that cursing? Come on! + +JULIA. [Approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it against +her will] No, I don't want to go yet. I cannot—-I must see--Hush! +There's a carriage coming up the road. [Listening without taking +her eyes of the block and the axe] You think I cannot stand the +sight of blood. You think I am as weak as that--oh, I should like +to see your blood, your brains, on that block there. I should like +to see your whole sex swimming in blood like that thing there. I +think I could drink out of your skull, and bathe my feet in your +open breast, and eat your heart from the spit!--You think I am +weak; you think I love you because the fruit of my womb was +yearning for your seed; you think I want to carry your offspring +under my heart and nourish it with my blood--bear your children and +take your name! Tell me, you, what are you called anyhow? I have +never heard your family name—-and maybe you haven't any. I should +become Mrs. "Hovel," or Mrs. "Backyard"--you dog there, that's +wearing my collar; you lackey with my coat of arms on your buttons-- +and I should share with my cook, and be the rival of my own +servant. Oh! Oh! Oh!--You think I am a coward and want to run away! +No, now I'll stay--and let the lightning strike! My father will +come home--will find his chiffonier opened--the money gone! Then +he'll ring--twice for the valet--and then he'll send for the +sheriff--and then I shall tell everything! Everything! Oh, but it +will be good to get an end to it--if it only be the end! And then +his heart will break, and he dies!--So there will be an end to all +of us--and all will be quiet—peace--eternal rest!--And then the +coat of arms will be shattered on the coffin--and the count's line +will be wiped out--but the lackey's line goes on in the orphan +asylum--wins laurels in the gutter, and ends in jail. + +JEAN. There spoke the royal blood! Bravo, Miss Julia! Now you put +the miller back in his sack! + +[CHRISTINE enters dressed for church and carrying n hymn-book in +her hand.] + +JULIA. [Hurries up to her and throws herself into her arms ax if +seeking protection] Help me, Christine! Help me against this man! + +CHRISTINE. [Unmoved and cold] What kind of performance is this on +the Sabbath morning? [Catches sight of the chopping-block] My, what +a mess you have made!--What's the meaning of all this? And the way +you shout and carry on! + +JULIA. You are a woman, Christine, and you are my friend. Beware of +that scoundrel! + +JEAN. [A little shy and embarrassed] While the ladies are +discussing I'll get myself a shave. [Slinks out to the right.] + +JULIA. You must understand me, and you must listen to me. + +CHRISTINE. No, really, I don't understand this kind of trolloping. +Where are you going in your travelling-dress--and he with his hat +on--what?--What? + +JULIA. Listen, Christine, listen, and I'll tell you everything-- + +CHRISTINE. I don't want to know anything-- + +JULIA. You must listen to me-- + +CHRISTINE. What is it about? Is it about this nonsense with Jean? +Well, I don't care about it at all, for it's none of my business. +But if you're planning to get him away with you, we'll put a stop +to that! + +JULIA. [Extremely nervous] Please try to be quiet, Christine, and +listen to me. I cannot stay here, and Jean cannot stay here--and so +we must leave—- + +CHRISTINE. Hm, hm! + +JULIA. [Brightening. up] But now I have got an idea, you know. +Suppose all three of us should leave--go abroad--go to Switzerland +and start a hotel together--I have money, you know--and Jean and I +could run the whole thing--and you, I thought, could take charge of +the kitchen--Wouldn't that be fine!--Say yes, now! And come along +with us! Then everything is fixed!--Oh, say yes! + +[She puts her arms around CHRISTINE and pats her.] + +CHRISTINE. [Coldly and thoughtfully] Hm, hm! + +JULIA. [Presto tempo] You have never travelled, Christine--you must +get out and have a look at the world. You cannot imagine what fun +it is to travel on a train--constantly new people--new countries—- +and then we get to Hamburg and take in the Zoological Gardens in +passing--that's what you like--and then we go to the theatres and +to the opera--and when we get to Munich, there, you know, we have a +lot of museums, where they keep Rubens and Raphael and all those +big painters, you know--Haven't you heard of Munich, where King +Louis used to live--the king, you know, that went mad--And then +we'll have a look at his castle--he has still some castles that are +furnished just as in a fairy tale--and from there it isn't very far +to Switzerland--and the Alps, you know--just think of the Alps, +with snow on top of them in the middle of the summer--and there you +have orange trees and laurels that are green all the year around-- + +[JEAN is seen in the right wing, sharpening his razor on a strop +which he holds between his teeth and his left hand; he listens to +the talk with a pleased mien and nods approval now and then.] + +JULIA. [Tempo prestissimo] And then we get a hotel--and I sit in +the office, while Jean is outside receiving tourists--and goes out +marketing--and writes letters--That's a life for you--Then the +train whistles, and the 'bus drives up, and it rings upstairs, and +it rings in the restaurant--and then I make out the bills--and I am +going to salt them, too--You can never imagine how timid tourists +are when they come to pay their bills! And you--you will sit like a +queen in the kitchen. Of course, you are not going to stand at the +stove yourself. And you'll have to dress neatly and nicely in order +to show yourself to people--and with your looks--yes, I am not +flattering you--you'll catch a husband some fine day--some rich +Englishman, you know-—for those fellows are so easy [slowing down] +to catch--and then we grow rich--and we build us a villa at Lake +Como--of course, it is raining a little in that place now and then—- +but [limply] the sun must be shining sometimes--although it looks +dark--and--then--or else we can go home again--and come back--here—- +or some other place-- + +CHRISTINE. Tell me, Miss Julia, do you believe in all that +yourself? + +JULIA. [Crushed] Do I believe in it myself? + +CHRISTINE. Yes. + +JULIA. [Exhausted] I don't know: I believe no longer in anything. +[She sinks down on the bench and drops her head between her arms on +the table] Nothing! Nothing at all! + +CHRISTINE. [Turns to the right, where JEAN is standing] So you were +going to run away! + +JEAN. [Abashed, puts the razor on the table] Run away? Well, that's +putting it rather strong. You have heard what the young lady +proposes, and though she is tired out now by being up all night, +it's a proposition that can be put through all right. + +CHRISTINE. Now you tell me: did you mean me to act as cook for that +one there--? + +JEAN. [Sharply] Will you please use decent language in speaking to +your mistress! Do you understand? + +CHRISTINE. Mistress! + +JEAN. Yes! + +CHRISTINE. Well, well! Listen to him! + +JEAN. Yes, it would be better for you to listen a little more and +talk a little less. Miss Julia is your mistress, and what makes you +disrespectful to her now should snake you feel the same way about +yourself. + +CHRISTINE. Oh, I have always had enough respect for myself-- + +JEAN. To have none for others! + +CHRISTINE. --not to go below my own station. You can't say that the +count's cook has had anything to do with the groom or the +swineherd. You can't say anything of the kind! + +JEAN. Yes, it's your luck that you have had to do with a gentleman. + +CHRISTINE. Yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the count's +stable! + +JEAN. What's that to you who get a commission on the groceries and +bribes from the butcher? + +CHRISTINE. What's that? + +JEAN. And so you can't respect your master and mistress any longer! +You--you! + +CHRISTINE. Are you coming with me to church? I think you need a +good sermon on top of such a deed. + +JEAN. No, I am not going to church to-day. You can go by yourself +and confess your own deeds. + +CHRISTINE. Yes, I'll do that, and I'll bring back enough +forgiveness to cover you also. The Saviour suffered and died on the +cross for all our sins, and if we go to him with a believing heart +and a repentant mind, he'll take all our guilt on himself. + +JULIA. Do you believe that, Christine? + +CHRISTINE. It is my living belief, as sure as I stand here, and the +faith of my childhood which I have kept since I was young, Miss +Julia. And where sin abounds, grace abounds too. + +JULIA. Oh, if I had your faith! Oh, if—- + +CHRISTINE. Yes, but you don't get it without the special grace of +God, and that is not bestowed on everybody-- + +JULIA. On whom is it bestowed then? + +CHRISTINE. That's just the great secret of the work of grace, Miss +Julia, and the Lord has no regard for persons, but there those that +are last shall be the foremost-- + +JULIA. Yes, but that means he has regard for those that are last. + +CHRISTINE. [Going right on] --and it is easier for a camel to go +through a needle's eye than for a rich man to get into heaven. +That's the way it is, Miss Julia. Now I am going, however-—alone—- +and as I pass by, I'll tell the stableman not to let out the horses +if anybody should like to get away before the count comes home. +Good-bye! [Goes out.] + +JEAN. Well, ain't she a devil!--And all this for the sake of a +finch! + +JULIA. [Apathetically] Never mind the finch!--Can you see any way +out of this, any way to end it? + +JEAN. [Ponders] No! + +JULIA. What would you do in my place? + +JEAN. In your place? Let me see. As one of gentle birth, as a +woman, as one who has--fallen. I don't know--yes, I do know! + +JULIA. [Picking up the razor with a significant gesture] Like this? + +JEAN. Yes!--But please observe that I myself wouldn't do it, for +there is a difference between us. + +JULIA. Because you are a man and I a woman? What is the difference? + +JEAN. It is the same--as--that between man and woman. + +JULIA. [With the razor in her hand] I want to, but I cannot!--My +father couldn't either, that time he should have done it. + +JEAN. No, he should not have done it, for he had to get his revenge +first. + +JULIA. And now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself again, +through me. + +JEAN. Have you not loved your father, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. Yes, immensely, but I must have hated him, too. I think I +must have been doing so without being aware of it. But he was the +one who reared me in contempt for my own sex--half woman and half +man! Whose fault is it, this that has happened? My father's--my +mother's--my own? My own? Why, I have nothing that is my own. I +haven't a thought that didn't come from my father; not a passion +that didn't come from my mother; and now this last--this about all +human creatures being equal--I got that from him, my fiancé--whom I +call a scoundrel for that reason! How can it be my own fault? To +put the blame on Jesus, as Christine does--no, I am too proud for +that, and know too much--thanks to my father's teachings--And that +about a rich person not getting into heaven, it's just a lie, and +Christine, who has money in the savings-bank, wouldn't get in +anyhow. Whose is the fault?--What does it matter whose it is? For +just the same I am the one who must bear the guilt and the results-- + +JEAN. Yes, but-- + +[Two sharp strokes are rung on the bell. MISS JULIA leaps to her +feet. JEAN changes his coat.] + +JEAN. The count is back. Think if Christine-- [Goes to the +speaking-tube, knocks on it, and listens.] + +JULIA. Now he has been to the chiffonier! + +JEAN. It is Jean, your lordship! [Listening again, the spectators +being unable to hear what the count says] Yes, your lordship! +[Listening] Yes, your lordship! At once! [Listening] In a minute, +your lordship! [Listening] Yes, yes! In half an hour! + +JULIA. [With intense concern] What did he say? Lord Jesus, what did +he say? + +JEAN. He called for his boots and wanted his coffee in half an +hour. + +JULIA. In half an hour then! Oh, I am so tired. I can't do +anything; can't repent, can't run away, can't stay, can't live—- +can't die! Help me now! Command me, and I'll obey you like a dog! +Do me this last favour--save my honour, and save his name! You know +what my will ought to do, and what it cannot do--now give me your +will, and make me do it! + +JEAN. I don't know why--but now I can't either--I don't understand—- +It is just as if this coat here made a--I cannot command you--and +now, since I've heard the count's voice--now--I can't quite explain +it-—but--Oh, that damned menial is back in my spine again. I +believe if the count should come down here, and if he should tell +me to cut my own throat--I'd do it on the spot! + +JULIA. Make believe that you are he, and that I am you! You did +some fine acting when you were on your knees before me--then you +were the nobleman--or--have you ever been to a show and seen one +who could hypnotize people? + +[JEAN makes a sign of assent.] + +JULIA. He says to his subject: get the broom. And the man gets it. +He says: sweep. And the man sweeps. + +JEAN. But then the other person must be asleep. + +JULIA. [Ecstatically] I am asleep already--there is nothing in the +whole room but a lot of smoke--and you look like a stove--that +looks like a man in black clothes and a high hat--and your eyes +glow like coals when the fire is going out--and your face is a lump +of white ashes. [The sunlight has reached the floor and is now +falling on JEAN] How warm and nice it is! [She rubs her hands as if +warming them before a fire.] And so light--and so peaceful! + +JEAN. [Takes the razor and puts it in her hand] There's the broom! +Go now, while it is light--to the barn--and-- [Whispers something +in her ear.] + +JULIA. [Awake] Thank you! Now I shall have rest! But tell me first—- +that the foremost also receive the gift of grace. Say it, even if +you don't believe it. + +JEAN. The foremost? No, I can't do that!--But wait--Miss Julia--I +know! You are no longer among the foremost--now when you are among +the--last! + +JULIA. That's right. I am among the last of all: I am the very +last. Oh!--But now I cannot go--Tell me once more that I must go! + +JEAN. No, now I can't do it either. I cannot! + +JULIA. And those that are foremost shall be the last. + +JEAN. Don't think, don't think! Why, you are taking away my +strength, too, so that I become a coward--What? I thought I saw the +bell moving!--To be that scared of a bell! Yes, but it isn't only +the bell--there is somebody behind it--a hand that makes it move—- +and something else that makes the hand move-but if you cover up +your ears--just cover up your ears! Then it rings worse than ever! +Rings and rings, until you answer it--and then it's too late--then +comes the sheriff--and then-- + +[Two quick rings from the bell.] + +JEAN. [Shrinks together; then he straightens himself up] It's +horrid! But there's no other end to it!--Go! + +[JULIA goes firmly out through the door.] + +(Curtain.) + + + + +THE STRONGER + +INTRODUCTION + +Of Strindberg's dramatic works the briefest is "The Stronger." He +called it a "scene." It is a mere incident--what is called a +"sketch" on our vaudeville stage, and what the French so aptly have +named a "quart d'heure." And one of the two figures in the cast +remains silent throughout the action, thus turning the little play +practically into a monologue. Yet it has all the dramatic intensity +which we have come to look upon as one of the main characteristics +of Strindberg's work for the stage. It is quivering with mental +conflict, and because of this conflict human destinies may be seen +to change while we are watching. Three life stories are laid bare +during the few minutes we are listening to the seemingly aimless, +yet so ominous, chatter of _Mrs. X._--and when she sallies forth at +last, triumphant in her sense of possession, we know as much about +her, her husband, and her rival, as if we had been reading a +three-volume novel about them. + +Small as it is, the part of _Mrs. X._ would befit a "star," but an +actress of genius and discernment might prefer the dumb part of +_Miss Y_. One thing is certain: that the latter character has few +equals in its demand on the performer's tact and skill and +imagination. This wordless opponent of _Mrs. X._ is another of +those vampire characters which Strindberg was so fond of drawing, +and it is on her the limelight is directed with merciless +persistency. + +"The Stronger" was first published in 1890, as part of the +collection of miscellaneous writings which their author named +"Things Printed and Unprinted." The present English version was +made by me some years ago--in the summer of 1906--when I first +began to plan a Strindberg edition for this country. At that time +it appeared in the literary supplement of the _New York Evening +Post_. + + + +THE STRONGER +A SCENE +1890 + +PERSONS + +MRS. X., an actress, married. +MISS Y., an actress, unmarried. + + +THE STRONGER + +SCENE + +[A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron, +a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs.] + +[MRS. X. enters dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a +pretty Japanese basket on her arm.] + +[MISS Y. has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she is +reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then she exchanges +it for a new one.] + +MRS. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on Christmas Eve +as lonely as a poor bachelor. + +[MISS Y. looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumes +her reading.] + +MRS. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this--alone--alone in +a restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It makes me as sad +as when I saw a wedding party at Paris once in a restaurant--the +bride was reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiards +with the witnesses. Ugh, when it begins that way, I thought, how +will it end? Think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day! +Yes, and you're going to say that she was reading a comic paper-- +that's a different case, my dear. + +[A WAITRESS brings a cup of chocolate, places it before MRS. X., +and disappears again.] + +MRS. X. [Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays a +number of Christmas presents] See what I've bought for my tots. +[Picks up a doll] What do you think of this? Lisa is to have it. +She can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you see? Fine, is it +not? And here's a cork pistol for Carl. [Loads the pistol and pops +it at Miss Y.] + +[MISS Y. starts as if frightened.] + +MRS. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was going to shoot +you, did you? Really, I didn't think you could believe that of me. +If you were to shoot _me_--well, that wouldn't surprise me the +least. I've got in your way once, and I know you'll never forget +it--but I couldn't help it. You still think I intrigued you away +from the Royal Theatre, and I didn't do anything of the kind-- +although you think so. But it doesn't matter what I say, of course-- +you believe it was I just the same. [Pulls out a pair of embroidered +slippers] Well, these are for my hubby-—tulips--I've embroidered +them myself. Hm, I hate tulips--and he must have them on everything. + +[MISS Y. looks up from the paper with an expression of mingled +sarcasm and curiosity.] + +MRS. X. [Puts a hand in each slipper] Just see what small feet Bob +has. See? And you should see him walk--elegant! Of course, you've +never seen him in slippers. + +[MISS Y. laughs aloud.] + +MRS. X. Look here--here he comes. [Makes the slippers walk across +the table.] + +[MISS Y. laughs again.] + +MRS. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this: +"Blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee." Or: "The +idiot--now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again." +Then there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold: +"Gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even know +enough to keep the house warm." [She rubs the sole of one slipper +against the instep of the other.] + +[MISS Y. breaks into prolonged laughter.] + +MRS. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers-- +Mary has pushed them under the bureau. Well, perhaps it is not +right to be making fun of one's own husband. He's pretty good for +all that--a real dear little hubby, that's what he is. You should +have such a husband--what are you laughing at? Can't you tell? +Then, you see, I know he is faithful. Yes, I know, for he has told +me himself--what in the world makes you giggle like that? That +nasty Betty tried to get him away from me while I was on the road—- +can you think of anything more infamous? [Pause] But I'd have +scratched the eyes out of her face, that's what I'd have done if I +had been at home when she tried it. [Pause] I'm glad Bob told me +all about it, so I didn't have to hear it first from somebody else. +[Pause] And just think of it, Betty was not the only one! I don't +know why it is, but all women seem to be crazy after my husband. It +must be because they imagine his government position gives him +something to say about the engagements. Perhaps you've tried it +yourself--you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, I don't +trust you very far--but I know he never cared for you--and then I +have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him. + +[Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed manner.] + +MRS. X. Amèlia, spend the evening with us, won't you? Just to show +that you are not angry--not with me, at least. I cannot tell +exactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you--you +for an enemy. Perhaps because I got in your way that time +[rallentando] or--I don't know--really, I don't know at all-- + +[Pause. MISS Y. gazes searchingly at MRS. X.] + +MRS. X. [Thoughtfully] It was so peculiar, the way our acquaintance-- +why, I was afraid of you when I first met you; so afraid that I did +not dare to let you out of sight. It didn't matter where I tried to +go--I always found myself near you. I didn't have the courage to be +your enemy--and so I became your friend. But there was always +something discordant in the air when you called at our home, for I +saw that my husband didn't like you--and it annoyed me just as it +does when a dress won't fit. I tried my very best to make him +appear friendly to you at least, but I couldn't move him--not until +you were engaged. Then you two became such fast friends that it +almost looked as if you had not dared to show your real feelings +before, when it was not safe--and later--let me see, now! I didn't +get jealous--strange, was it not? And I remember the baptism--you +were acting as godmother, and I made him kiss you--and he did, but +both of you looked terribly embarrassed--that is, I didn't think of +it then--or afterwards, even--I never thought of it—-till--_now_! +[Rises impulsively] Why don't you say something? You have not +uttered a single word all this time. You've just let me go on +talking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, and your +eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying in me +like silk in a cocoon--thoughts--bad thoughts maybe--let me think. +Why did you break your engagement? Why have you never called on us +afterward? Why don't you want to be with us to-night? + +[MISS Y. makes a motion as if intending to speak.] + +MRS. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All is clear to +me now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes! Everything fits +together now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same table +with you. [Moves her things to another table] That's why I must put +those hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them. +[Throws the slippers on the floor] That's why we have to spend the +summer in the mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell of +the ocean; that's why my boy had to be called Eskil--because that +was your father's name; that's why I had to wear your colour, and +read your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink your +drinks--this chocolate, for instance; that's why--great heavens!-- +it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! Everything was forced +on me by you—-even your passions. Your soul bored itself into mine +as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate, and burrowed and +burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a little +black dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You were +always on hand like a snake with your black eyes to charm me--I +felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--I was in the +water, with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my +arms, the further down I went--down, down, till I sank to the +bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with +your claws--and now I'm there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hate +you, hate you! But you, you just sit there, silent and calm and +indifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it's +Christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy. +You are incapable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. As a +cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there!--you can't +drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait +it. Here you sit in this corner--do you know they've nicknamed it +"the mouse-trap" on your account? Here you read the papers to see +if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged +from the theatre. Here you watch your victims and calculate your +chances and take your tributes. Poor Amèlia! Do you know, I pity +you all the same, for I know you are unhappy--unhappy as one who +has been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought to +be angry with you, but really I can't--you are so small after all-- +and as to Bob, why that does not bother me in the least. What does +it matter to me anyhow? If you or somebody else taught me to drink +chocolate--what of that? [Takes a spoonful of chocolate; then +sententiously] They say chocolate is very wholesome. And if I have +learned from you how to dress--_tant mieux_!--it has only given me +a stronger hold on my husband--and you have lost where I have +gained. Yes, judging by several signs, I think you have lost him +already. Of course, you meant me to break with him--as you did, and +as you are now regretting--but, you see, _I_ never would do that. +It won't do to be narrow-minded, you know. And why should I take +only what nobody else wants? Perhaps, after all, I am the stronger +now. You never got anything from me; you merely gave--and thus +happened to me what happened to the thief--I had what you missed +when you woke up. How explain in any other way that, in your hand, +everything proved worthless and useless? You were never able to +keep a man's love, in spite of your tulips and your passions--and I +could; you could never learn the art of living from the books--as I +learned it; you bore no little Eskil, although that was your +father's name. And why do you keep silent always and everywhere-- +silent, ever silent? I used to think it was because you were so +strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had anything to +say--because you were unable to-think! [Rises and picks up the +slippers] I'm going home now--I'll take the tulips with me—-your +tulips. You couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't bend +and so you broke like a dry stem--and I didn't. Thank you, Amèlia, +for all your instructions. I thank you that you have taught me how +to love my husband. Now I'm going home--to him! [Exit.] + +(Curtain.) + + + + +CREDITORS + +INTRODUCTION + +This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at the head +of his dramatic production during the middle ultra-naturalistic +period, the other two being "The Father" and "Miss Julia." It is, +in many ways, one of the strongest he ever produced. Its rarely +excelled unity of construction, its tremendous dramatic tension, +and its wonderful psychological analysis combine to make it a +masterpiece. + +In Swedish its name is "Fordringsägare." This indefinite form may +be either singular or plural, but it is rarely used except as a +plural. And the play itself makes it perfectly clear that the +proper translation of its title is "Creditors," for under this +aspect appear both the former and the present husband of _Tekla_. +One of the main objects of the play is to reveal her indebtedness +first to one and then to the other of these men, while all the +time she is posing as a person of original gifts. + +I have little doubt that Strindberg, at the time he wrote this +play--and bear in mind that this happened only a year before he +finally decided to free himself from an impossible marriage by an +appeal to the law--believed _Tekla_ to be fairly representative of +womanhood in general. The utter unreasonableness of such a view +need hardly be pointed out, and I shall waste no time on it. A +question more worthy of discussion is whether the figure of _Tekla_ +be true to life merely as the picture of a personality--as one out +of numerous imaginable variations on a type decided not by sex but +by faculties and qualities. And the same question may well be +raised in regard to the two men, both of whom are evidently +intended to win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate stronger +than himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse and +humiliating circumstances. + +Personally, I am inclined to doubt whether a _Tekla_ can be found +in the flesh--and even if found, she might seem too exceptional to +gain acceptance as a real individuality. It must be remembered, +however, that, in spite of his avowed realism, Strindberg did not +draw his men and women in the spirit generally designated as +impressionistic; that is, with the idea that they might step +straight from his pages into life and there win recognition as +human beings of familiar aspect. His realism is always mixed with +idealism; his figures are always "doctored," so to speak. And they +have been thus treated in order to enable their creator to drive +home the particular truth he is just then concerned with. + +Consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what may be +designated as "pure cultures" of certain human qualities. But +these he took great pains to arrange in their proper psychological +settings, for mental and moral qualities, like everything else, +run in groups that are more or less harmonious, if not exactly +homogeneous. The man with a single quality, like Molière's +_Harpagon_, was much too primitive and crude for Strindberg's art, +as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "Miss Julia." +When he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did it +by setting it in the midst of related qualities of a kind most +likely to be attracted by it. + +_Tekla_ is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally correlated +mental and moral qualities and functions and tendencies--of a +personality built up logically around a dominant central note. +There are within all of us many personalities, some of which +remain for ever potentialities. But it is conceivable that any one +of them, under circumstances different from those in which we have +been living, might have developed into its severely logical +consequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would be +held abnormal if actually encountered. + +This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time and again, +both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as in +his plays. In all of us a _Tekla_, an _Adolph_, a _Gustav_--or a +_Jean_ and a _Miss Julia_--lie more or less dormant. And if we search +our souls unsparingly, I fear the result can only be an admission +that--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we might +have come unpleasantly close to one of those Strindbergian +creatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman. + +Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great Swedish +dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How could it otherwise +happen that so many critics, of such widely differing temperaments, +have recorded identical feelings as springing from a study of his +work: on one side an active resentment, a keen unwillingness to +be interested; on the other, an attraction that would not be denied +in spite of resolute resistance to it! For Strindberg _does_ hold +us, even when we regret his power of doing so. And no one familiar +with the conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such a +paradox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelings +provide us with something that our minds instinctively recognise as +true to life in some way, and for that reason valuable to the art of +living. + +There are so many ways of presenting truth. Strindberg's is only +one of them--and not the one commonly employed nowadays. Its main +fault lies perhaps in being too intellectual, too abstract. For +while Strindberg was intensely emotional, and while this fact +colours all his writings, he could only express himself through +his reason. An emotion that would move another man to murder would +precipitate Strindberg into merciless analysis of his own or +somebody else's mental and moral make-up. At any rate, I do not +proclaim his way of presenting truth as the best one of all +available. But I suspect that this decidedly strange way of +Strindberg's--resulting in such repulsively superior beings as +_Gustav_, or in such grievously inferior ones as _Adolph_--may come +nearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways of much +more plausible writers. This does not need to imply that the +future will imitate Strindberg. But it may ascertain what he aimed +at doing, and then do it with a degree of perfection which he, the +pioneer, could never hope to attain. + + + + +CREDITORS +A TRAGICOMEDY +1889 + + +PERSONS + +TEKLA +ADOLPH, her husband, a painter +GUSTAV, her divorced husband, a high-school teacher (who is +travelling under an assumed name) + + +SCENE + +(A parlor in a summer hotel on the sea-shore. The rear wall has a +door opening on a veranda, beyond which is seen a landscape. To +the right of the door stands a table with newspapers on it. There +is a chair on the left side of the stage. To the right of the +table stands a sofa. A door on the right leads to an adjoining +room.) + + +(ADOLPH and GUSTAV, the latter seated on the sofa by the table to +the right.) + +ADOLPH. [At work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling stand; +his crutches are placed beside him]--and for all this I have to +thank you! + +GUSTAV. [Smoking a cigar] Oh, nonsense! + +ADOLPH. Why, certainly! During the first days after my wife had +gone, I lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but long for her. +It was as if she had taken away my crutches with her, so that I +couldn't move from the spot. When I had slept a couple of days, I +seemed to come to, and began to pull myself together. My head +calmed down after having been working feverishly. Old thoughts +from days gone by bobbed up again. The desire to work and the +instinct for creation came back. My eyes recovered their faculty +of quick and straight vision--and then you showed up. + +GUSTAV. I admit you were in a miserable condition when I first met +you, and you had to use your crutches when you walked, but this is +not to say that my presence has been the cause of your recovery. +You needed a rest, and you had a craving for masculine company. + +ADOLPH. Oh, that's true enough, like everything you say. Once I +used to have men for friends, but I thought them superfluous after +I married, and I felt quite satisfied with the one I had chosen. +Later I was drawn into new circles and made a lot of acquaintances, +but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keep me to herself: +worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends to herself. And so +I was left alone with my own jealousy. + +GUSTAV. Yes, you have a strong tendency toward that kind of +disease. + +ADOLPH. I was afraid of losing her--and I tried to prevent it. +There is nothing strange in that. But I was never afraid that she +might be deceiving me-- + +GUSTAV. No, that's what married men are never afraid of. + +ADOLPH. Yes, isn't it queer? What I really feared was that her +friends would get such an influence over her that they would begin +to exercise some kind of indirect power over me--and _that_ is +something I couldn't bear. + +GUSTAV. So your ideas don't agree--yours and your wife's? + +ADOLPH. Seeing that you have heard so much already, I may as well +tell you everything. My wife has an independent nature--what are +you smiling at? + +GUSTAV. Go on! She has an independent nature-- + +ADOLPH. Which cannot accept anything from me-- + +GUSTAV. But from everybody else. + +ADOLPH. [After a pause] Yes.--And it looked as if she especially +hated my ideas because they were mine, and not because there was +anything wrong about them. For it used to happen quite often that +she advanced ideas that had once been mine, and that she stood up +for them as her own. Yes, it even happened that friends of mine +gave her ideas which they had taken directly from me, and then +they seemed all right. Everything was all right except what came +from me. + +GUSTAV. Which means that you are not entirely happy? + +ADOLPH. Oh yes, I am happy. I have the one I wanted, and I have +never wanted anybody else. + +GUSTAV. And you have never wanted to be free? + +ADOLPH. No, I can't say that I have. Oh, well, sometimes I have +imagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. But the moment +she leaves me, I begin to long for her--long for her as for my own +arms and legs. It is queer that sometimes I have a feeling that +she is nothing in herself, but only a part of myself--an organ +that can take away with it my will, my very desire to live. It +seems almost as if I had deposited with her that centre of +vitality of which the anatomical books tell us. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is just +what has happened. + +ADOLPH. How could it be so? Is she not an independent being, with +thoughts of her own? And when I met her I was nothing--a child of +an artist whom she undertook to educate. + +GUSTAV. But later you developed her thoughts and educated her, +didn't you? + +ADOLPH. No, she stopped growing and I pushed on. + +GUSTAV. Yes, isn't it strange that her "authoring" seemed to fall +off after her first book--or that it failed to improve, at least? +But that first time she had a subject which wrote itself--for I +understand she used her former husband for a model. You never knew +him, did you? They say he was an idiot. + +ADOLPH. I never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time. +But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture of +him. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the picture was correct. + +GUSTAV. I do!--But why did she ever take him? + +ADOLPH. Because she didn't know him well enough. Of course, you +never _do_ get acquainted until afterward! + +GUSTAV. And for that reason one ought not to marry until-- +afterward.--And he was a tyrant, of course? + +ADOLPH. Of course? + +GUSTAV. Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way] And you not +the least. + +ADOLPH. I? Who let my wife come and go as she pleases-- + +GUSTAV. Well, that's nothing. You couldn't lock her up, could you? +But do you like her to stay away whole nights? + +ADOLPH. No, really, I don't. + +GUSTAV. There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to tell the +truth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it. + +ADOLPH. Ridiculous? Can a man be ridiculous because he trusts his +wife? + +GUSTAV. Of course he can. And it's just what you are already--and +thoroughly at that! + +ADOLPH. [Convulsively] I! It's what I dread most of all--and +there's going to be a change. + +GUSTAV. Don't get excited now--or you'll have another attack. + +ADOLPH. But why isn't she ridiculous when I stay out all night? + +GUSTAV. Yes, why? Well, it's nothing that concerns you, but that's +the way it is. And while you are trying to figure out why, the +mishap has already occurred. + +ADOLPH. What mishap? + +GUSTAV. However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took him +only to get her freedom. You see, a girl cannot have freedom +except by providing herself with a chaperon--or what we call a +husband. + +ADOLPH. Of course not. + +GUSTAV. And now you are the chaperon. + +ADOLPH. I? + +GUSTAV. Since you are her husband. + +(ADOLPH keeps a preoccupied silence.) + +GUSTAV. Am I not right? + +ADOLPH. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman for years, +and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, +and then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--Gustav, you +are my friend. The only male friend I have. During this last week +you have given me courage to live again. It is as if your own +magnetism had been poured into me. Like a watchmaker, you have +fixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again. Can't +you hear, yourself, how I think more clearly and speak more to the +point? And to myself at least it seems as if my voice had +recovered its ring. + +GUSTAV. So it seems to me also. And why is that? + +ADOLPH. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower your +voice in talking to women. I know at least that Tekla always used +to accuse me of shouting. + +GUSTAV. And so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule of +the slipper? + +ADOLPH. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After some +reflection] I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk of +something else!--What was I saying?--Yes, you came here, and you +enabled me to see my art in its true light. Of course, for some +time I had noticed my growing lack of interest in painting, as it +didn't seem to offer me the proper medium for the expression of +what I wanted to bring out. But when you explained all this to me, +and made it clear why painting must fail as a timely outlet for +the creative instinct, then I saw the light at last--and I +realised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to express +myself by means of colour only. + +GUSTAV. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting-- +that you may not have a relapse? + +ADOLPH. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself. When I went to +bed that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argument point by +point, and I knew you had it right. But when I woke up from a good +night's sleep and my head was clear again, then it came over me in +a flash that you might be mistaken after all. And I jumped out of +bed and got hold of my brushes and paints--but it was no use! +Every trace of illusion was gone--it was nothing but smears of +paint, and I quaked at the thought of having believed, and having +made others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but a +painted canvas. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and it was just +as impossible for me to paint any more as it was to become a child +again. + +GUSTAV. And then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, +its craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find its +proper form in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in all +three dimensions-- + +ADOLPH. [Vaguely] The three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word! + +GUSTAV. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or rather, you +have been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothing +was needed but a guide to put you on the right road--Tell me, do +you experience supreme joy now when you are at work? + +ADOLPH. Now I am living! + +GUSTAV. May I see what you are doing? + +ADOLPH. A female figure. + +GUSTAV. Without a model? And so lifelike at that! + +ADOLPH. [Apathetically] Yes, but it resembles somebody. It is +remarkable that this woman seems to have become a part of my body +as I of hers. + +GUSTAV. Well, that's not so very remarkable. Do you know what +transfusion is? + +ADOLPH. Of blood? Yes. + +GUSTAV. And you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. When +I look at the figure here I comprehend several things which I +merely guessed before. You have loved her tremendously! + +ADOLPH. Yes, to such an extent that I couldn't tell whether she +was I or I she. When she is smiling, I smile also. When she is +weeping, I weep. And when she--can you imagine anything like it?-- +when she was giving life to our child--I felt the birth pangs +within myself. + +GUSTAV. Do you know, my dear friend--I hate to speak of it, but +you are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy. + +ADOLPH. [Agitated] I! How can you tell? + +GUSTAV. Because I have watched the symptoms in a younger brother +of mine who had been worshipping Venus a little too excessively. + +ADOLPH. How--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of? + +[During the following passage GUSTAV speaks with great animation, +and ADOLPH listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitates +many of GUSTAV'S gestures.] + +GUSTAV. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strong +enough I won't inflict a description of it on you. + +ADOLPH. [Nervously] Yes, go right on--just go on! + +GUSTAV. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent little +creature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face of +a child and the pure soul of an angel. But nevertheless she +managed to usurp the male prerogative-- + +ADOLPH. What is that? + +GUSTAV. Initiative, of course. And with the result that the angel +nearly carried him off to heaven. But first he had to be put on +the cross and made to feel the nails in his flesh. It was +horrible! + +ADOLPH. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened? + +GUSTAV. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting together +talking, he and I--and when I had been speaking for a while his +face would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs would grow +stiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the palms of his +hands--like this. [He illustrates the movement and it is imitated +by ADOLPH] Then his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to chew-- +like this. [He chews, and again ADOLPH imitates him] The saliva +was rattling in his throat. His chest was squeezed together as if +it had been closed in a vice. The pupils of his eyes flickered +like gas-jets. His tongue beat the saliva into a lather, and he +sank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he were +drowning. And then-- + +ADOLPH. [In a whisper] Stop now! + +GUSTAV. And then--Are you not feeling well? + +ADOLPH. No. + +GUSTAV. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now. And +we'll talk of something else. + +ADOLPH. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on! + +GUSTAV. Well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything at +all. He had simply lost consciousness. Has that ever happened to +you? + +ADOLPH. Yes, I have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but my +physician says it's only anaemia. + +GUSTAV. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But, believe +me, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself. + +ADOLPH. What can I do? + +GUSTAV. To begin with, you will have to observe complete +abstinence. + +ADOLPH. For how long? + +GUSTAV. For half a year at least. + +ADOLPH. I cannot do it. That would upset our married life. + +GUSTAV. Good-bye to you then! + +ADOLPH. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it! + +GUSTAV. Can you not save your own life?--But tell me, as you have +already given me so much of your confidence--is there no other +canker, no secret wound, that troubles you? For it is very rare to +find only one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety and +so fruitful in chances for false relationships. Is there not a +corpse in your cargo that you are trying to hide from yourself?-- +For instance, you said a minute ago that you have a child which +has been left in other people's care. Why don't you keep it with +you? + +ADOLPH. My wife doesn't want us to do so. + +GUSTAV. And her reason? Speak up now! + +ADOLPH. Because, when it was about three years old, it began to +look like him, her former husband. + +GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband? + +ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poor +portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightest +resemblance. + +GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, +he might have changed considerably since it was made. However, I +hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you? + +ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage, +and the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happened +right here, in this very house even, and that's why we come here +every summer. + +GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And you +wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the +children of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to her +dead husband. It is annoying, of course, and that's why they used +to burn all widows in India, as you know.--But tell me: have you +ever felt jealous of him--of his memory? Would it not sicken you +to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your Tekla, +use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We! + +ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that very +thought. + +GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There are +discords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. For +this reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. If +you work, and grow old, and pile masses of new impressions on the +hatches, then the corpse will stay quiet in the hold. + +ADOLPH. Pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful how +you resemble Tekla now and then while you are talking. You have a +way of blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, and +your eyes have the same influence on me as hers have at times. + +GUSTAV. No, really? + +ADOLPH. And now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferent +way that she does. She also has the habit of saying "no, really" +quite often. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all human +beings are said to be of one family. At any rate, it will be +interesting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if what you +say is true. + +ADOLPH. And do you know, she never takes an expression from me. +She seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and I have never caught +her using any of my gestures. And yet people as a rule develop +what is called "marital resemblance." + +GUSTAV. And do you know why this has not happened in your case?-- +That woman has never loved you. + +ADOLPH. What do you mean? + +GUSTAV. I hope you will excuse what I am saying--but woman's love +consists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takes +nothing does not have her love. She has never loved you! + +ADOLPH. Don't you think her capable of loving more than once? + +GUSTAV. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once. Then our +eyes are opened once for all. You have never been deceived, and so +you had better beware of those that have. They are dangerous, I +tell you. + +ADOLPH. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I fool as if +something were being severed within me, but I cannot help it. And +this cutting brings a certain relief, too. For it means the +pricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen.--She has never +loved me!--Why, then, did she ever take me? + +GUSTAV. Tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it was +you who took her or she who took you? + +ADOLPH. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all!--How did it +happen? Well, it didn't come about in one day. + +GUSTAV. Would you like to have me tell you how it did happen? + +ADOLPH. That's more than you can do. + +GUSTAV. Oh, by using the information about yourself and your wife +that you have given me, I think I can reconstruct the whole event. +Listen now, and you'll hear. [In a dispassionate tone, almost +humorously] The husband had gone abroad to study, and she was +alone. At first her freedom seemed rather pleasant. Then came a +sense of vacancy, for I presume she was pretty empty when she had +lived by herself for a fortnight. Then _he_ appeared, and by and by +the vacancy was filled up. By comparison the absent one seemed to +fade out, and for the simple reason that he was at a distance--you +know the law about the square of the distance? But when they felt +their passions stirring, then came fear--of themselves, of their +consciences, of him. For protection they played brother and +sister. And the more their feelings smacked of the flesh, the more +they tried to make their relationship appear spiritual. + +ADOLPH. Brother and sister? How could you know that? + +GUSTAV. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing papa +and mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--in +order to hide what should be hidden!--And then they took the vow +of chastity--and then they played hide-and-seek--until they got +in a dark corner where they were sure of not being seen by +anybody. [With mock severity] But they felt that there was _one_ +whose eye reached them in the darkness--and they grew frightened-- +and their fright raised the spectre of the absent one--his figure +began to assume immense proportions--it became metamorphosed: +turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous slumbers; a +creditor who knocked at all doors. Then they saw his black hand +between their own as these sneaked toward each other across the +table; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness of +the night that should have been broken only by the beating of +their own pulses. He did not prevent them from possessing each +other but he spoiled their happiness. And when they became aware +of his invisible interference with their happiness; when they took +flight at last--a vain flight from the memories that pursued them, +from the liability they had left behind, from the public opinion +they could not face--and when they found themselves without the +strength needed to carry their own guilt, then they had to send +out into the fields for a scapegoat to be sacrificed. They were +free-thinkers, but they did not have the courage to step forward +and speak openly to him the words: "We love each other!" To sum it +up, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. Is +that right? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled +my head with new thoughts-- + +GUSTAV. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could she not +educate the other man also--into a free-thinker? + +ADOLPH. Oh, he was an idiot! + +GUSTAV. Oh, of course--he was an idiot! But that's rather an +ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems +mainly to have consisted in failure to understand her. Pardon me a +question: but is your wife so very profound after all? I have +discovered nothing profound in her writings. + +ADOLPH. Neither have I.--But then I have also to confess a certain +difficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs of our brain +wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went to +pieces in my head when I try to comprehend her. + +GUSTAV. Maybe you are an idiot, too? + +ADOLPH. I don't _think_ so! And it seems to me all the time as if +she were in the wrong--Would you care to read this letter, for +instance, which I got today? + +[Takes out a letter from his pocket-book.] + +GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwriting seems +strangely familiar. + +ADOLPH. Rather masculine, don't you think? + +GUSTAV. Well, I know at least _one_ man who writes that kind of +hand--She addresses you as "brother." Are you still playing +comedy to each other? And do you never permit yourselves any +greater familiarity in speaking to each other? + +ADOLPH. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that +way. + +GUSTAV. And is it to make you respect her that she calls herself +your sister? + +ADOLPH. I want to respect her more than myself. I want her to be +the better part of my own self. + +GUSTAV. Why don't you be that better part yourself? Would it be +less convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? Do +you want to place yourself beneath your wife? + +ADOLPH. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to +her. I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoy +hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. +To begin with, I merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order +to raise her courage. And so it ended with my actually being her +inferior, more of a coward than she. It almost seemed to me as if +she had actually taken my courage away from me. + +GUSTAV. Have you taught her anything else? + +ADOLPH. Yes--but it must stay between us--I have taught her how to +spell, which she didn't know before. But now, listen: when she +took charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of the +habit of writing. And think of it: as the years passed on, lack of +practice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar. But +do you think she recalls that I was the one who taught her at the +start? No--and so I am "the idiot," of course. + +GUSTAV. So you _are_ an idiot already? + +ADOLPH. Oh, it's just a joke, of course! + +GUSTAV. Of course! But this is clear cannibalism, I think. Do you +know what's behind that sort of practice? The savages eat their +enemies in order to acquire their useful qualities. And this woman +has been eating your soul, your courage, your knowledge-- + +ADOLPH. And my faith! It was I who urged her to write her first +book-- + +GUSTAV. [Making a face] Oh-h-h! + +ADOLPH. It was I who praised her, even when I found her stuff +rather poor. It was I who brought her into literary circles where +she could gather honey from our most ornamental literary flowers. +It was I who used my personal influence to keep the critics from +her throat. It was I who blew her faith in herself into flame; +blew on it until I lost my own breath. I gave, gave, gave--until I +had nothing left for myself. Do you know--I'll tell you everything +now--do you know I really believe--and the human soul is so +peculiarly constituted--I believe that when my artistic successes +seemed about to put her in the shadow--as well as her reputation-- +then I tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and by +making my own art seem inferior to hers. I talked so long about +the insignificant part played by painting on the whole--talked so +long about it, and invented so many reasons to prove what I said, +that one fine day I found myself convinced of its futility. So all +you had to do was to breathe on a house of cards. + +GUSTAV. Pardon me for recalling what you said at the beginning of +our talk--that she had never taken anything from you. + +ADOLPH. She doesn't nowadays. Because there is nothing more to +take. + +GUSTAV. The snake being full, it vomits now. + +ADOLPH. Perhaps she has been taking a good deal more from me than +I have been aware of? + +GUSTAV. You can be sure of that. She took when you were not +looking, and that is called theft. + +ADOLPH. Perhaps she never did educate me? + +GUSTAV. But you her? In all likelihood! But it was her trick to +make it appear the other way to you. May I ask how she set about +educating you? + +ADOLPH. Oh, first of all--hm! + +GUSTAV. Well? + +ADOLPH. Well, I-- + +GUSTAV. No, we were speaking of her. + +ADOLPH. Really, I cannot tell now. + +GUSTAV. Do you see! + +ADOLPH. However--she devoured my faith also, and so I sank further +and further down, until you came along and gave me a new faith. + +GUSTAV. [Smiling] In sculpture? + +ADOLPH. [Doubtfully] Yes. + +GUSTAV. And have you really faith in it? In this abstract, +antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of civilisation? +Do you believe that you can obtain your effect by pure form--by +the three dimensions--tell me? That you can reach the practical +mind of our own day, and convey an illusion to it, without the use +of colour--without colour, mind you--do you really believe that? + +ADOLPH. [Crushed] No! + +GUSTAV. Well, I don't either. + +ADOLPH. Why, then, did you say you did? + +GUSTAV. Because I pitied you. + +ADOLPH. Yes, I am to be pitied! For now I am bankrupt! Finished!-- +And worst of all: not even she is left to me! + +GUSTAV. Well, what could you do with her? + +ADOLPH. Oh, she would be to me what God was before I became an +atheist: an object that might help me to exercise my sense of +veneration. + +GUSTAV. Bury your sense of veneration and let something else grow +on top of it. A little wholesome scorn, for instance. + +ADOLPH. I cannot live without having something to respect-- + +GUSTAV. Slave! + +ADOLPH.--without a woman to respect and worship! + +GUSTAV. Oh, HELL! Then you had better take back your God--if you +needs must have something to kow-tow to! You're a fine atheist, +with all that superstition about woman still in you! You're a fine +free-thinker, who dare not think freely about the dear ladies! Do +you know what that incomprehensible, sphinx-like, profound +something in your wife really is? It is sheer stupidity!--Look +here: she cannot even distinguish between th and t. And that, you +know, means there is something wrong with the mechanism. When you +look at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the works +inside are those of an ordinary cheap watch.--Nothing but the +skirts-that's all! Put trousers on her, give her a pair of +moustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober look at +her, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find the +instrument has another sound to it. A phonograph, and nothing +else--giving yon back your own words, or those of other people-- +and always in diluted form. Have you ever looked at a naked woman-- +oh yes, yes, of course! A youth with over-developed breasts; an +under-developed man; a child that has shot up to full height and +then stopped growing in other respects; one who is chronically +anaemic: what can you expect of such a creature? + +ADOLPH. Supposing all that to be true--how can it be possible that +I still think her my equal? + +GUSTAV. Hallucination--the hypnotising power of skirts! Or--the +two of you may actually have become equals. The levelling process +has been finished. Her capillarity has brought the water in both +tubes to the same height.--Tell me [taking out his watch]: our +talk has now lasted six hours, and your wife ought soon to be +here. Don't you think we had better stop, so that you can get a +rest? + +ADOLPH. No, don't leave me! I don't dare to be alone! + +GUSTAV. Oh, for a little while only--and then the lady will come. + +ADOLPH. Yes, she is coming!--It's all so queer! I long for her, +but I am afraid of her. She pets me, she is tender to me, but +there is suffocation in her kisses--something that pulls and +numbs. And I feel like a circus child that is being pinched by the +clown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when it appears +before the public. + +GUSTAV. I feel very sorry for you, my friend. Without being a +physician, I can tell that you are a dying man. It is enough to +look at your latest pictures in order to see that. + +ADOLPH. You think so? How can you see it? + +GUSTAV. Your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that the +cadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. And it impresses +me as if your own hollow, putty-coloured checks were showing +beneath-- + +ADOLPH. Oh, stop, stop! + +GUSTAV. Well, this is not only my personal opinion. Have you read +to-day's paper? + +ADOLPH. [Shrinking] No! + +GUSTAV. It's on the table here. + +ADOLPH. [Reaching for the paper without daring to take hold of it] +Do they speak of it there? + +GUSTAV. Read it--or do you want me to read it to you? + +ADOLPH. No! + +GUSTAV. I'll leave you, if you want me to. + +ADOLPH. No, no, no!--I don't know--it seems as if I were beginning +to hate you, and yet I cannot let you go.--You drag me out of the +hole into which I have fallen, but no sooner do you get me on firm +ice, than you knock me on the head and shove me into the water +again. As long as my secrets were my own, I had still something +left within me, but now I am quite empty. There is a canvas by an +Italian master, showing a scene of torture--a saint whose +intestines are being torn out of him and rolled on the axle of a +windlass. The martyr is watching himself grow thinner and thinner, +while the roll on the axle grows thicker.--Now it seems to me as +if you had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when you +leave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing but +an empty shell behind. + +GUSTAV. How you do let your fancy run away with you!--And +besides, your wife is bringing back your heart. + +ADOLPH. No, not since you have burned her to ashes. Everything is +in ashes where you have passed along: my art, my love, my hope, my +faith! + +GUSTAV. All of it was pretty nearly finished before I came along. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but it might have been saved. Now it's too late-- +incendiary! + +GUSTAV. We have cleared some ground only. Now we'll sow in the +ashes. + +ADOLPH. I hate you! I curse you! + +GUSTAV. Good symptoms! There is still some strength left in you. +And now I'll pull you up on the ice again. Listen now! Do you want +to listen to me, and do you want to obey me? + +ADOLPH. Do with me what you will--I'll obey you! + +GUSTAV. [Rising] Look at me! + +ADOLPH. [Looking at GUSTAV] Now you are looking at me again with +that other pair of eyes which attracts me. + +GUSTAV. And listen to me! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't talk of me any longer: I +am like an open wound and cannot bear being touched. + +GUSTAV. No, there is nothing to say about me. I am a teacher of +dead languages, and a widower--that's all! Take my hand. + +ADOLPH. What terrible power there must be in you! It feels as if I +were touching an electrical generator. + +GUSTAV. And bear in mind that I have been as weak as you are now.-- +Stand up! + +ADOLPH. [Rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throwing +his arms around the neck of GUSTAV] I am like a boneless baby, and +my brain seems to lie bare. + +GUSTAV. Take a turn across the floor! + +ADOLPH. I cannot! + +GUSTAV. Do what I say, or I'll strike you! + +ADOLPH. [Straightening himself up] What are you saying? + +GUSTAV. I'll strike you, I said. + +ADOLPH. [Leaping backward in a rage] You! + +GUSTAV. That's it! Now you have got the blood into your head, and +your self-assurance is awake. And now I'll give you some +electriticy: where is your wife? + +ADOLPH. Where is she? + +GUSTAV. Yes. + +ADOLPH. She is--at--a meeting. + +GUSTAV. Sure? + +ADOLPH. Absolutely! + +GUSTAV. What kind of meeting? + +ADOLPH. Oh, something relating to an orphan asylum. + +GUSTAV. Did you part as friends? + +ADOLPH. [With some hesitation] Not as friends. + +GUSTAV. As enemies then!--What did you say that provoked her? + +ADOLPH. You are terrible. I am afraid of you. How could you know? + +GUSTAV. It's very simple: I possess three known factors, and with +their help I figure out the unknown one. What did you say to her? + +ADOLPH. I said--two words only, but they were dreadful, and I +regret them--regret them very much. + +GUSTAV. Don't do it! Tell me now? + +ADOLPH. I said: "Old flirt!" + +GUSTAV. What more did you say? + +ADOLPH. Nothing at all. + +GUSTAV. Yes, you did, but you have forgotten it--perhaps because +you don't dare remember it. You have put it away in a secret +drawer, but you have got to open it now! + +ADOLPH. I can't remember! + +GUSTAV. But I know. This is what you said: "You ought to be +ashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any more lovers!" + +ADOLPH. Did I say that? I must have said it!--But how can you know +that I did? + +GUSTAV. I heard her tell the story on board the boat as I came +here. + +ADOLPH. To whom? + +GUSTAV. To four young men who formed her company. She is already +developing a taste for chaste young men, just like-- + +ADOLPH. But there is nothing wrong in that? + +GUSTAV. No more than in playing brother and sister when you are +papa and mamma. + +ADOLPH. So you have seen her then? + +GUSTAV. Yes, I have. But you have never seen her when you didn't-- +I mean, when you were not present. And there's the reason, you +see, why a husband can never really know his wife. Have you a +portrait of her? + +(Adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. There is a look of +aroused curiosity on his face.) + +GUSTAV. You were not present when this was taken? + +ADOLPH. No. + +GUSTAV. Look at it. Does it bear much resemblance to the portrait +you painted of her? Hardly any! The features are the same, but the +expression is quite different. But you don't see this, because +your own picture of her creeps in between your eyes and this one. +Look at it now as a painter, without giving a thought to the +original. What does it represent? Nothing, so far as I can see, +but an affected coquette inviting somebody to come and play with +her. Do you notice this cynical line around the mouth which you +are never allowed to see? Can you see that her eyes are seeking +out some man who is not you? Do you observe that her dress is cut +low at the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, that +her sleeve has managed to slip back from her arm? Can you see? + +ADOLPH. Yes--now I see. + +GUSTAV. Look out, my boy! + +ADOLPH. For what? + +GUSTAV. For her revenge! Bear in mind that when you said she could +not attract a man, you struck at what to her is most sacred--the +one thing above all others. If you had told her that she wrote +nothing but nonsense, she would have laughed at your poor taste. +But as it is--believe me, it will not be her fault if her desire +for revenge has not already been satisfied. + +ADOLPH. I must know if it is so! + +GUSTAV. Find out! + +ADOLPH. Find out? + +GUSTAV. Watch--I'll assist you, if you want me to. + +ADOLPH. As I am to die anyhow--it may as well come first as last! +What am I to do? + +GUSTAV. First of all a piece of information: has your wife any +vulnerable point? + +ADOLPH. Hardly! I think she must have nine lives, like a cat. + +GUSTAV. There--that was the boat whistling at the landing--now +she'll soon be here. + +ADOLPH. Then I must go down and meet her. + +GUSTAV. No, you are to stay here. You have to be impolite. If +her conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your ears tingle. +If she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you. + +ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? + +GUSTAV. Not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn and run in +loops, but I'll follow. My room is nest to this. [He points to the +door on the right] There I shall take up my position and watch you +while you are playing the game in here. But when you are done, +we'll change parts: I'll enter the cage and do tricks with the +snake while you stick to the key-hole. Then we meet in the park to +compare notes. But keep your back stiff. And if you feel yourself +weakening, knock twice on the floor with a chair. + +ADOLPH. All right!--But don't go away. I must be sure that you are +in the next room. + +GUSTAV. You can be quite sure of that. But don't get scared +afterward, when you watch me dissecting a human soul and laying +out its various parts on the table. They say it is rather hard on +a beginner, but once you have seen it done, you never want to miss +it.--And be sure to remember one thing: not a word about having +met me, or having made any new acquaintance whatever while she was +away. Not one word! And I'll discover her weak point by myself. +Hush, she has arrived--she is in her room now. She's humming to +herself. That means she is in a rage!--Now, straight in the back, +please! And sit down on that chair over there, so that she has to +sit here--then I can watch both of you at the same time. + +ADOLPH. It's only fifteen minutes to dinner--and no new guests +have arrived--for I haven't heard the bell ring. That means we +shall be by ourselves--worse luck! + +GUSTAV. Are you weak? + +ADOLPH. I am nothing at all!--Yes, I am afraid of what is now +coming! But I cannot keep it from coming! The stone has been set +rolling--and it was not the first drop of water that started it-- +nor wad it the last one--but all of them together. + +GUSTAV. Let it roll then--for peace will come in no other way. +Good-bye for a while now! [Goes out] + +(ADOLPH nods back at him. Until then he has been standing with the +photograph in his hand. Now he tears it up and flings the pieces +under the table. Then he sits down on a chair, pulls nervously at +his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, crumples his coat +lapel, and so on.) + +TEKLA. [Enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss; her +manner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] Hello, little +brother! How is he getting on? + +ADOLPH. [Almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if in jest] +What mischief have you been up to now that makes you come and kiss +me? + +TEKLA. I'll tell you: I've spent an awful lot of money. + +ADOLPH. You have had a good time then? + +TEKLA. Very! But not exactly at that crèche meeting. That was +plain piffle, to tell the truth.--But what has little brother +found to divert himself with while his Pussy was away? + +(Her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking for +somebody or sniffing something.) + +ADOLPH. I've simply been bored. + +TEKLA. And no company at all? + +ADOLPH. Quite by myself. + +TEKLA. [Watching him; she sits down on the sofa] Who has been +sitting here? ADOLPH. Over there? Nobody. + +TEKLA. That's funny! The seat is still warm, and there is a hollow +here that looks as if it had been made by an elbow. Have you had +lady callers? + +ADOLPH. I? You don't believe it, do you? + +TEKLA. But you blush. I think little brother is not telling the +truth. Come and tell Pussy now what he has on his conscience. + +(Draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his head +resting in her lap.) + +ADOLPH. You're a little devil--do you know that? + +TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all about myself. + +ADOLPH. You never think about yourself, do you? + +TEKLA. [Sniffing and taking notes] I think of nothing but myself-- +I am a dreadful egoist. But what has made you turn so philosophical +all at once? + +ADOLPH. Put your hand on my forehead. + +TEKLA. [Prattling as if to a baby] Has he got ants in his head +again? Does he want me to take them away, does he? [Kisses him on +the forehead] There now! Is it all right now? + +ADOLPH. Now it's all right. [Pause] + +TEKLA. Well, tell me now what you have been doing to make the time +go? Have you painted anything? + +ADOLPH. No, I am done with painting. + +TEKLA. What? Done with painting? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but don't scold me for it. How can I help it that I +can't paint any longer! + +TEKLA. What do you mean to do then? + +ADOLPH. I'll become a sculptor. + +TEKLA. What a lot of brand new ideas again! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but please don't scold! Look at that figure over +there. + +TEKLA. [Uncovering the wax figure] Well, I declare!--Who is that +meant for? + +ADOLPH. Guess! + +TEKLA. Is it Pussy? Has he got no shame at all? + +ADOLPH. Is it like? + +TEKLA. How can I tell when there is no face? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but there is so much else--that's beautiful! + +TEKLA. [Taps him playfully on the cheek] Now he must keep still or +I'll have to kiss him. + +ADOLPH. [Holding her back] Now, now!--Somebody might come! + +TEKLA. Well, what do I care? Can't I kiss my own husband, perhaps? +Oh yes, that's my lawful right. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but don't you know--in the hotel here, they don't +believe we are married, because we are kissing each other such a +lot. And it makes no difference that we quarrel now and then, for +lovers are said to do that also. + +TEKLA. Well, but what's the use of quarrelling? Why can't he +always be as nice as he is now? Tell me now? Can't he try? Doesn't +he want us to be happy? + +ADOLPH. Do I want it? Yes, but-- + +TEKLA. There we are again! Who has put it into his head that he is +not to paint any longer? + +ADOLPH. Who? You are always looking for somebody else behind me +and my thoughts. Are you jealous? + +TEKLA. Yes, I am. I'm afraid somebody might take him away from me. + +ADOLPH. Are you really afraid of that? You who know that no other +woman can take your place, and that I cannot live without you! + +TEKLA. Well, I am not afraid of the women--it's your friends that +fill your head with all sorts of notions. + +ADOLPH. [Watching her] You are afraid then? Of what are you +afraid? + +TEKLA. [Getting up] Somebody has been here. Who has been here? + +ADOLPH. Don't you wish me to look at you? + +TEKLA. Not in that way: it's not the way you are accustomed to +look at me. + +ADOLPH. How was I looking at you then? + +TEKLA. Way up under my eyelids. + +ADOLPH. Under your eyelids--yes, I wanted to see what is behind +them. + +TEKLA. See all you can! There is nothing that needs to be hidden. +But--you talk differently, too--you use expressions--[studying +him] you philosophise--that's what you do! [Approaches him +threateningly] Who has been here? + +ADOLPH. Nobody but my physician. + +TEKLA. Your physician? Who is he? + +ADOLPH. That doctor from Strömstad. + +TEKLA. What's his name? + +ADOLPH. Sjöberg. + +TEKLA. What did he have to say? + +ADOLPH. He said--well--among other things he said--that I am on +the verge of epilepsy-- + +TEKLA. Among other things? What more did he say? + +ADOLPH. Something very unpleasant. + +TEKLA. Tell me! + +ADOLPH. He forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. + +TEKLA. Oh, that's it! Didn't I just guess it! They want to +separate us! That's what I have understood a long time! + +ADOLPH. You can't have understood, because there was nothing to +understand. + +TEKLA. Oh yes, I have! + +ADOLPH. How can you see what doesn't exist, unless your fear of +something has stirred up your fancy into seeing what has never +existed? What is it you fear? That I might borrow somebody else's +eyes in order to see you as you are, and not as you seem to be? + +TEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolph! It is the beast +that dwells in man's soul. + +ADOLPH. Where did you learn that? From those chaste young men on +the boat--did you? + +TEKLA. [Not at all abashed] Yes, there is something to be learned +from youth also. + +ADOLPH. I think you are already beginning to have a taste for +youth? + +TEKLA. I have always liked youth. That's why I love you. Do you +object? + +ADOLPH. No, but I should prefer to have no partners. + +TEKLA. [Prattling roguishly] My heart is so big, little brother, +that there is room in it for many more than him. + +ADOLPH. But little brother doesn't want any more brothers. + +TEKLA. Come here to Pussy now and get his hair pulled because he +is jealous--no, envious is the right word for it! + +(Two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining room, where +GUSTAV is.) + +ADOLPH. No, I don't want to play now. I want to talk seriously. + +TEKLA. [Prattling] Mercy me, does he want to talk seriously? +Dreadful, how serious he's become! [Takes hold of his head and +kisses him] Smile a little--there now! + +ADOLPH. [Smiling against his will] Oh, you're the--I might almost +think you knew how to use magic! + +TEKLA. Well, can't he see now? That's why he shouldn't start any +trouble--or I might use my magic to make him invisible! + +ADOLPH. [Gets up] Will you sit for me a moment, Tekla? With the +side of your face this way, so that I can put a face on my figure. + +TEKLA. Of course, I will. + +[Turns her head so he can see her in profile.] + +ADOLPH. [Gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the figure] +Don't think of me now--but of somebody else. + +TEKLA. I'll think of my latest conquest. + +ADOLPH. That chaste young man? + +TEKLA. Exactly! He had a pair of the prettiest, sweetest +moustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach--it was so soft and +rosy that you just wanted to bite it. + +ADOLPH. [Darkening] Please keep that expression about the mouth. + +TEKLA. What expression? + +ADOLPH. A cynical, brazen one that I have never seen before. + +TEKLA. [Making a face] This one? + +ADOLPH. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how Bret Harte +pictures an adulteress? + +TEKLA. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something. + +ADOLPH. As a pale creature that cannot blush. + +TEKLA. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, then she must +blush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret may not be +allowed to see it. + +ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? + +TEKLA. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable of +bringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold the +charming spectacle. + +ADOLPH. [Enraged] Tekla! + +TEKLA. Oh, you little ninny! + +ADOLPH. Tekla! + +TEKLA. He should call her Pussy--then I might get up a pretty +little blush for his sake. Does he want me to? + +ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I could +bite you! + +TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!--Come! + +[Opens her arms to him.] + +ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'll +bite you to death! + +TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out--somebody might come! + +ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the world +if I can only have you! + +TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer? + +ADOLPH. Then I shall die! + +TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as I am too +old to be wanted by anybody else? + +ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it all +back now! + +TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so +cock-sure? + +ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possible +that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still +be gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our love +were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion +kept up as a matter of honor--and I can't think of anything that +would give me more pain than to have _him_ know that I am unhappy. +Oh, I have never seen him--but the mere thought that a person +exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily +calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when I +perish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, +fascinates me, paralyses me! + +TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think I +would make his prophecy come true? + +ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would. + +TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then? + +ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do you +play that kind of game? + +TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired--that's all! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men! + +TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women. + +ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently? + +TEKLA. Not in the last sis months. + +ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him? + +TEKLA. No!--Since the child died we have broken off our +correspondence. + +ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all? + +TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West +Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now? + +ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was +alone, I kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he was +left alone that time. + +TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience? + +ADOLPH. I am. + +TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you? + +ADOLPH. Almost! + +TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal +children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal +property. I am very much obliged to you! + +ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more +than property--for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If +you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish +notions would leave you.--Have you not taken his place with me? + +ADOLPH. Well, have I?--And did you ever love him? + +TEKLA. Of course, I did! + +ADOLPH. And then-- + +TEKLA. I grew tired of him! + +ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also? + +TEKLA. But I won't! + +ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up--one who had all the +qualities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then you +would leave me? + +TEKLA. No. + +ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live without +him? Then you would leave me, of course? + +TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow. + +ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you? + +TEKLA. Yes! Why not? + +ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand. + +TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. All +persons are not made in the same way, you know. + +ADOLPH. I begin to see now! + +TEKLA. No, really! + +ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems to +struggle with some--memory that will not come back] Do you know, +Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful? + +TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, and +one that you taught me. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something +behind that frankness of yours. + +TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know. + +ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly become +offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home--this +evening! + +TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and I +don't feel like starting on another trip. + +ADOLPH. But I want to. + +TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?--You can go! + +ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me! + +TEKLA. Demand?--What arc you talking about? + +ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife? + +TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband? + +ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things. + +TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!--You have never +loved me! + +ADOLPH. Haven't I? + +TEKLA. No, for to love is to give. + +ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to +take.--And I have given, given, given! + +TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given? + +ADOLPH. Everything! + +TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it. +Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if I +have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A woman +cannot receive anything except from her lover. + +ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have been +your lover, but never your husband. + +TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playing +chaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'll +send you packing, for I don't want a husband. + +ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when you +began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when +you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my +plumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you of +your debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom you +wanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, and +in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my +safe and began to try those of other people instead. Without +having done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband. +And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, +as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer, + +TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet +little idiot! + +ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but +oneself! + +TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks. + +ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he--your former +husband--was not so much of an idiot after all. + +TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with--him? + +ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it, + +TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance +and pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a striking +picture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I am +growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was at +least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me. + +ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud--we +might be overheard. + +TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people? + +ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at +the same time you have a taste for chaste young men? + +TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. My +heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the +small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--I love the +whole world. + +ADOLPH. Do you know what that means? + +TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just _feel_. + +ADOLPH. It means that old age is near. + +TEKLA. There you are again! Take care! + +ADOLPH. Take care yourself! + +TEKLA. Of what? + +ADOLPH. Of the knife! + +TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such +dangerous things. + +ADOLPH. I have quit playing. + +TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you +that--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, never +know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll +suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another +moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of +being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's +what married men never get. + +ADOLPH. You hate me then? + +TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's +probably because you are nothing to me but a child. + +ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while +the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms +and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss +your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that +you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to +the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to +sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were +afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a +single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of +public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was +dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was +strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so +I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you +admired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you had +just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled +new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty +brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back +your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a +little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let +themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my +house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and +blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then +where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St. +Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom King +Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I +compelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuated +vision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literally +down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything +possible became yours at last--and you could stand on your own +feet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and +I collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, I had pushed +myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance +to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you-- +and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a +secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your +rise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, +and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part of +little brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and even +increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had +in it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn as +my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in some +mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry +up when I could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wanted +to show its independence of me. And at last both of us began to +lose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. +A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your own +burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoat +and doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn't +realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time +our years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shoot +sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before +the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you +couldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its main +branch--and so stem and branch must die together. + +TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you have +written my books. + +ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me +out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and I +spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, +all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ has +only a single note in it. + +TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have +written my books. + +ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into a +single note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one +figure. I have made no blunt statements like that of having +written your books. + +TEKLA. But that's what you meant! + +ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it. + +TEKLA. But the sum of it-- + +ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You get +an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does +not work out evenly. I have not added anything. + +TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself. + +ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it. + +TEKLA. No. but that's what you wanted to do. + +ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no--don't speak to +me--you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone! +You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your claws +into my thoughts and tear them to pieces! + +(He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while +his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.) + +TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick? + +(ADOLPH motions her away.) + +TEKLA. Adolph! + +(ADOLPH shakes his head at her.) + +TEKLA. Adolph. + +ADOLPH. Yes. + +TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago? + +ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit! + +TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon? + +ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon--if you only won't speak +to me! + +TEKLA. Kiss my hand then! + +ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand--if you only don't +speak to me! + +TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air +before dinner. + +ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave. + +TEKLA. No! + +ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason. + +TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to- +night. + +ADOLPH. Oh, that's it! + +TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend-- + +ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, and +that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go. + +TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word. + +ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to +live up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there is +somebody who has made you promise to go. + +TEKLA. Yes. + +ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise because +your husband is sick. + +TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to +be kept from going with me. + +ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel safer +then? + +TEKLA. I don't know what you mean. + +ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean something +that--doesn't please you. + +TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me? + +ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again--Good-bye for a +while! + +(Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the +right.) + +(TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goes +straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. He +pretends not to see TEKLA.) + +TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is it +you? + +GUSTAV. Yes, it's me--I beg your pardon! + +TEKLA. Which way did you come? + +GUSTAV. By land. But--I am not going to stay, as-- + +TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.--Well, it was +some time ago-- + +GUSTAV. Yes, some time. + +TEKLA. You have changed a great deal. + +GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if +anything. Excuse me, however--I am not going to spoil your +happiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, I +should never-- + +TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay. + +GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear--well, +whatever I say, I am sure to offend you. + +TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possess +that rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness. + +GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect--that +your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light +as you. + +TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very +sympathetic terms. + +GUSTAV. Oh!--Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like +names cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itself +permanently in our minds. + +TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. And +as for me, I have always cherished a dream--that of seeing you +come together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for once +in my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go your +different ways again. + +GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used +to love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in good +hands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am +familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, +before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take +good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession. +In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have +developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace +and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through +the rest of my sorrowful days. + +TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood +me. I thank you for it! + +GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too +insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way of +living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could not +satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. But +you understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it cost +me to make such a confession to myself. + +TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own +shortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs] +But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable +nature--one that I had to respect--but-- + +GUSTAV. Not always--not at that time! But suffering purifies, +sorrow ennobles, and--I have suffered! + +TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you? + +GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive. + +TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us--we who +are old enough to know better! + +GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you--you grow +younger every day. + +(He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the +left and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa.) + +TEKLA. Do you think so? + +GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress. + +TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figured +out what colors would be most becoming to me? + +GUSTAV. No. + +TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember--hm!--I can even recall how you +used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least a +touch of crimson about my dress. + +GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you. + +TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do you +remember? For that was something I couldn't do at all. + +GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human being +does. And you have become quite keen at it--at least when you +write. + +TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dear +Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a +peaceful way like this. + +GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a +pretty peaceful time with me. + +TEKLA. Perhaps too much so. + +GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It was +at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged. + +TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time? +And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course. + +GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you can +wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and I +don't think your husband can be called a sluggard. + +TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing. + +GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are still +wearing the ear-rings I gave you? + +TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel between +us--and then I thought I might wear them as a token--and a +reminder--that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it is +impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes off +one of her ear-rings.] + +GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of +it? + +TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says? + +GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?--But you may be doing him an injury. +It is likely to make him ridiculous. + +TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was that +before! + +GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the +ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps? + +TEKLA. Oh--thank you! + +GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!--Think only if your +husband could see us now! + +TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though! + +GUSTAV. Is he jealous also? + +TEKLA. Is he? I should say so! + +[A noise is heard from the room on the right.] + +GUSTAV. Who lives in that room? + +TEKLA. I don't know.--But tell me how you are getting along and +what you are doing? + +GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along? + +(TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she is +doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.) + +GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?--Well!--It must be you! + +TEKLA. I don't believe so. + +GUSTAV. But it is very like you. + +TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so? + +GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story--you know it--"How could +your majesty see that?" + +TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!--Do you know any new +stories? + +GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some. + +TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays. + +GUSTAV. Is he modest also? + +TEKLA. Oh--well-- + +GUSTAV. Not an everything? + +TEKLA. He isn't well just now. + +GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into other +people's hives? + +TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing! + +GUSTAV. Poor chap!--Do you remember once when we were just +married--we lived in this very room. It was furnished differently +in those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wall +there--and over there stood the big bed. + +TEKLA. Now you stop! + +GUSTAV. Look at me! + +TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I? + +[They look hard at each other.] + +GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that has +made a very deep impression on him? + +TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularly +the memories of our youth. + +GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were a +pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had +made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled it +with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the +slate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why I +shouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's his +business! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meeting +you again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit here +and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own +bottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in +flavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely +picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For the +woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes +hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy. + +TEKLA. Are you going to marry again? + +GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I am +going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a +spill. + +TEKLA. Is she good looking? + +GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer--now when +chance has brought me together with you again--I am beginning to +doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again. + +TEKLA. How do you mean? + +GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old +wounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman, +Tekla! + +TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no more +conquests. + +GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you. + +TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him. + +GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at last +you cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You have +had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his +courage. There _are_ some drawbacks to a change, I tell you--there +are drawbacks to it, indeed. + +TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach-- + +GUSTAV. Not at all! Whatever happens is to a certain extent +necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would--but now +it did happen, and so it had to happen. + +TEKLA. _You_ are a man of discernment. And I have never met anybody +with whom I liked so much to exchange ideas. You are so utterly +free from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little of +people, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. Do you +know, I am jealous of your intended wife! + +GUSTAV. And do you realise that I am jealous of your husband? + +TEKLA. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever! + +GUSTAV. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell--or what do +you say? + +TEKLA. [Agitated] No! + +GUSTAV. [Following after her] Yes!--Let us have a farewell! Let us +drown our memories--you know, there are intoxications so deep that +when you wake up all memories are gone. [Putting his arm around +her waist] You have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who is +infecting you with his own anaemia. I'll breathe new life into +you. I'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, like +a remontant rose. I'll--- + +(Two LADIES in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading to +the veranda. They look surprised. Then they point at those within, +laugh, and disappear.) + +TEKLA. [Freeing herself] Who was that? + +GUSTAV. [Indifferently] Some tourists. + +TEKLA. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you! + +GUSTAV. Why? + +TEKLA. You take my soul away from me! + +GUSTAV. And give you my own in its place! And you have no soul for +that matter--it's nothing but a delusion. + +TEKLA. You have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody can +be angry with you. + +GUSTAV. It's because you feel that I hold the first mortgage on +you--Tell me now, when--and--where? + +TEKLA. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still in +love with me, and I don't want to do any more harm. + +GUSTAV. He does not love you! Do you want proofs? + +TEKLA, Where can you get them? + +GUSTAV. [Picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor] +Here! See for yourself! + +TEKLA. Oh, that's an outrage! + +GUSTAV. Do you see? Now then, when? And where? + +TEKLA. The false-hearted wretch! + +GUSTAV. When? + +TEKLA. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat. + +GUSTAV. And then-- + +TEKLA. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room] Who can +be living in there that makes such a racket? + +GUSTAV. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the keyhole] +There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe-- +that's all! I shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up in +there.--At nine o'clock then? + +TEKLA. All right! And let him answer for it himself.--What a depth +of deceit! And he who has always preached about truthfulness, +and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--But wait a little—how +was it now? He received me with something like hostility--didn't +meet me at the landing--and then--and then he made some remark +about young men on board the boat, which I pretended not to hear—- +but how could he know? Wait--and then he began to philosophise +about women--and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting +him--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art +of the time--exactly in accordance with your old speculations! + +GUSTAV. No, really! + +TEKLA. No, really?--Oh, now I understand! Now I begin to see what +a hideous creature you are! You have been here before and stabbed +him to death! It was you who had been sitting there on the sofa; +it was you who made him think himself an epileptic--that he had to +live in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against his +wife; yes, it was you!--How long have you been here? + +GUSTAV. I have been here a week. + +TEKLA. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat? + +GUSTAV. It was. + +TEKLA. And now you were thinking you could trap me? + +GUSTAV. It has been done. + +TEKLA. Not yet! + +GUSTAV. Yes! + +TEKLA. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came here with a +villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying it +out, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled you. + +GUSTAV. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it happened +in reality. Of course, it has been my secret hope that disaster +might overtake you. But I felt practically certain that no +interference on my part was required. And besides, I have been far +too busy to have any time left for intriguing. But when I happened +to be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those young +men on board the boat, then I guessed the time had come for me to +take a look at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threw +itself into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sort +of reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough to +explain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemed +to be in the same fix as I was once. But then he happened to touch +old wounds--that book, you know, and "the idiot"--and I was seized +with a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these so +thoroughly that they couldn't be put together again--and I +succeeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done the +work of preparation. Then I had to deal with you. For you were the +spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be taken +apart--and what a buzzing followed!--When I came in here, I didn't +know exactly what to say. Like a chess-player, I had laid a number +of tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on your +moves. One thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, and +finally I had you where I wanted you.--Now you are caught! + +TEKLA. No! + +GUSTAV. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has happened. The +world at large, represented by two lady tourists--whom I had not +sent for, as I am not an intriguer--the world has seen how you +became reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked back +repentantly into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough? + +TEKLA. It ought to be enough for your revenge--But tell me, how +can you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded--how is it +possible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, and +that all our actions are determined in advance-- + +GUSTAV. [Correcting her] To a certain extent determined. + +TEKLA. That's the same thing! + +GUSTAV. No! + +TEKLA. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, who hold me +guiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the circumstances into +acting as I did--how can you think yourself entitled to revenge--? + +GUSTAV. For that very reason--for the reason that my nature and +the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. Isn't that giving +both sides a square deal? But do you know why you two had to get +the worst of it in this struggle? + +(TEKLA looks scornful.) + +GUSTAV. And why you were doomed to be fooled? Because I am +stronger than you, and wiser also. You have been the idiot--and +he! And now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiot +because he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. It might be +well for you to bear this in mind. + +TEKLA. Are you then entirely without feelings? + +GUSTAV. Entirely! And for that very reason, you know, I am capable +of thinking--in which you have had no experience whatever-and of +acting--in which you have just had some slight experience. + +TEKLA. And all this merely because I have hurt your vanity? + +GUSTAV. Don't call that MERELY! You had better not go around +hurting other people's vanity. They have no more sensitive spot +than that. + +TEKLA. Vindictive wretch--shame on you! + +GUSTAV. Dissolute wretch--shame on you! + +TEKLA. Oh, that's my character, is it? + +GUSTAV. Oh, that's my character, is it?--You ought to learn +something about human nature in others before you give your own +nature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and then there will +be wailing and gnashing of teeth. + +TEKLA. You can never forgive:-- + +GUSTAV. Yes, I have forgiven you! + +TEKLA. You! + +GUSTAV. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you during all +these years? No! And now I came here only to have a look at you, +and it was enough to burst your bubble. Have I uttered a single +reproach? Have I moralised or preached sermons? No! I played a +joke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed to +finish him.--But there is no reason why I, the complainant, +should be defending myself as I am now--Tekla! Have you nothing at +all to reproach yourself with? + +TEKLA. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions are +governed by Providence; others call it Fate; in either case, are +we not free from all liability? + +GUSTAV. In a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow margin +left unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. +And sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. +Guiltless, but accountable! Guiltless in regard to one who is no +more; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings. + +TEKLA. So you came here to dun me? + +GUSTAV. I came to take back what you had stolen, not what you had +received as a gift. You had stolen my honour, and I could recover +it only by taking yours. This, I think, was my right--or was it +not? + +TEKLA. Honour? Hm! And now you feel satisfied? + +GUSTAV. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter.] + +TEKLA. And now you are going home to your fiancee? + +GUSTAV. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have one. I am +not going home, for I have no home, and don't want one. + +(A WAITER comes in.) + +GUSTAV. Get me my bill--I am leaving by the eight o'clock boat. + +(THE WAITER bows and goes out.) + +TEKLA. Without making up? + +GUSTAV. Making up? You use such a lot of words that have lost +their--meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps you want all three +of us to live together? You, if anybody, ought to make up by +making good what you took away, but this you cannot do. You just +took, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothing +left to restore.--Will it satisfy you if I say like this: forgive +me that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced +me; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils +through every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I set +you free from parental restraints, that I released you from the +tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule my +house, that I gave you position and friends, that I made a woman +out of the child you were before? Forgive me as I forgive you!-- +Now I have torn up your note! Now you can go and settle your +account with the other one! + +TEKLA. What have you done with him? I am beginning to suspect-- +something terrible! + +GUSTAV. With him? Do you still love him? + +TEKLA. Yes! + +GUSTAV. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true? + +TEKLA. It was true. + +GUSTAV. Do you know what you are then? + +TEKLA. You despise me? + +GUSTAV. I pity you. It is a trait--I don't call it a fault--just +a trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. Poor +Tekla! I don't know--but it seems almost as if I were feeling a +certain regret, although I am as free from any guilt--as you! But +perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I felt that time.-- +Do you know where your husband is? + +TEKLA. I think I know now--he is in that room in there! And he has +heard everything! And seen everything! And the man who sees his +own wraith dies! + +(ADOLPH appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. His face is +white as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. +His eyes are staring and void of all expression. His lips are +covered with froth.) + +GUSTAV. [Shrinking back] No, there he is!--Now you can settle with +him and see if he proves as generous as I have been.--Good-bye! + +(He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door.) + +TEKLA. [Goes to meet ADOLPH with open arms] Adolph! + +(ADOLPH leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to the +floor.) + +TEKLA. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressing +him] Adolph! My own child! Are you still alive--oh, speak, speak!-- +Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me, forgive me, forgive +me!--Little brother must say something, I tell him!--No, good God, +he doesn't hear! He is dead! O God in heaven! O my God! Help! + +GUSTAV. Why, she really must have loved _him_, too!--Poor creature! + +(Curtain.) + + + + +PARIAH + +INTRODUCTION + + +Both "Creditors" and "Pariah" were written in the winter of 1888- +89 at Holte, near Copenhagen, where Strindberg, assisted by his +first wife, was then engaged in starting what he called a +"Scandinavian Experimental Theatre." In March, 1889, the two plays +were given by students from the University of Copenhagen, and with +Mrs. von Essen Strindberg as _Tekla_. A couple of weeks later the +performance was repeated across the Sound, in the Swedish city of +Malmö, on which occasion the writer of this introduction, then a +young actor, assisted in the stage management. One of the actors +was Gustav Wied, a Danish playwright and novelist, whose exquisite +art since then has won him European fame. In the audience was Ola +Hansson, a Swedish novelist and poet who had just published a +short story from which Strindberg, according to his own +acknowledgment on playbill and title-page, had taken the name and +the theme of "Pariah." + +Mr. Hansson has printed a number of letters (_Tilskueren_, +Copenhagen, July, 1912) written to him by Strindberg about that +time, as well as some very informative comments of his own. +Concerning the performance of Malmö he writes: "It gave me a very +unpleasant sensation. What did it mean? Why had Strindberg turned +my simple theme upsidedown so that it became unrecognisable? Not a +vestige of the 'theme from Ola Hansson' remained. Yet he had even +suggested that he and I act the play together, I not knowing that +it was to be a duel between two criminals. And he had at first +planned to call it 'Aryan and Pariah'--which meant, of course, +that the strong Aryan, Strindberg, was to crush the weak Pariah, +Hansson, _coram populo_." + +In regard to his own story Mr. Hansson informs us that it dealt +with "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about it, doing +both in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby everything is left +vague and undefined." At that moment "Raskolnikov" was in the air, +so to speak. And without wanting in any way to suggest imitation, +I feel sure that the groundnote of the story was distinctly +Dostoievskian. Strindberg himself had been reading Nietzsche and +was--largely under the pressure of a reaction against the popular +disapproval of his anti-feministic attitude--being driven more and +more into a superman philosophy which reached its climax in the +two novels "Chandalah" (1889) and "At the Edge of the Sea" (1890). +The Nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two plays contained in +the present volume. + +But these plays are strongly colored by something else--by +something that is neither Hansson-Dostoievski nor Strindberg- +Nietzsche. The solution of the problem is found in the letters +published by Mr. Hansson. These show that while Strindberg was +still planning "Creditors," and before he had begun "Pariah," he +had borrowed from Hansson a volume of tales by Edgar Allan Poe. It +was his first acquaintance with the work of Poe, though not with +American literature--for among his first printed work was a +series of translations from American humourists; and not long ago +a Swedish critic (Gunnar Castrén in _Samtiden_, Christiania, June, +1912) wrote of Strindberg's literary beginnings that "he had +learned much from Swedish literature, but probably more from Mark +Twain and Dickens." + +The impression Poe made on Strindberg was overwhelming. He returns +to it in one letter after another. Everything that suits his mood +of the moment is "Poesque" or "E. P-esque." The story that seems +to have made the deepest impression of all was "The Gold Bug," +though his thought seems to have distilled more useful material +out of certain other stories illustrating Poe's theories about +mental suggestion. Under the direct influence of these theories, +Strindberg, according to his own statements to Hansson, wrote the +powerful one-act play "Simoom," and made _Gustav_ in "Creditors" +actually _call forth_ the latent epileptic tendencies in _Adolph_. +And on the same authority we must trace the method of: psychological +detection practised by _Mr. X._ in "Pariah" directly to "The Gold +Bug." + +Here we have the reason why Mr. Hansson could find so little of +his story in the play. And here we have the origin of a theme +which, while not quite new to him, was ever afterward to remain a +favourite one with Strindberg: that of a duel between intellect +and cunning. It forms the basis of such novels as "Chandalah" and +"At the Edge of the Sea," but it recurs in subtler form in works +of much later date. To readers of the present day, _Mr. X._--that +striking antithesis of everything a scientist used to stand for in +poetry--is much less interesting as a superman _in spe_ than as an +illustration of what a morally and mentally normal man can do with +the tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways and +human motives. And in giving us a play that holds our interest as +firmly as the best "love plot" ever devised, although the stage +shows us only two men engaged in an intellectual wrestling match, +Strindberg took another great step toward ridding the drama of its +old, shackling conventions. + +The name of this play has sometimes been translated as "The +Outcast," whereby it becomes confused with "The Outlaw," a much +earlier play on a theme from the old Sagas. I think it better, +too, that the Hindu allusion in the Swedish title be not lost, for +the best of men may become an outcast, but the baseness of the +Pariah is not supposed to spring only from lack of social +position. + + +PARIAH +AN ACT +1889 + + +PERSONS + + +MR. X., an archaeologist, Middle-aged man. +MR. Y., an American traveller, Middle-aged man. + + +SCENE + +(A simply furnished room in a farmhouse. The door and the windows +in the background open on a landscape. In the middle of the room +stands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books, writing +materials, and antiquities; at the other end, by a microscope, +insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol.) + +(On the left side hangs a bookshelf. Otherwise the furniture is +that of a well-to-do farmer.) + +(MR. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net and +a botany-can. He goes straight up to the bookshelf and takes down +a book, which he begins to read on the spot.) + +(The landscape outside and the room itself are steeped in +sunlight. The ringing of church bells indicates that the morning +services are just over. Now and then the cackling of hens is heard +from the outside.) + +(MR. X. enters, also in his shirt-sleeves.) + +(MR. Y. starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf +upside-down, and pretends to be looking for another volume.) + +MR. X. This heat is horrible. I guess we are going to have a +thunderstorm. + +MR. Y. What makes you think so? + +MR. X. The bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies are +sticky, and the hens cackle. I meant to go fishing, but I couldn't +find any worms. Don't you feel nervous? + +MR. Y. [Cautiously] I?--A little. + +MR. X. Well, for that matter, you always look as if you were +expecting thunderstorms. + +MR. Y. [With a start] Do I? + +MR. X. Now, you are going away tomorrow, of course, so it is not +to be wondered at that you are a little "journey-proud."-- +Anything new?--Oh, there's the mail! [Picks up some letters from +the table] My, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a +letter! Nothing but debts, debts, debts! Have you ever had any +debts? + +MR. Y. [After some reflection] N-no. + +MR. X. Well, then you don't know what it means to receive a lot of +overdue bills. [Reads one of the letters] The rent unpaid--the +landlord acting nasty--my wife in despair. And here am I sitting +waist-high in gold! [He opens an iron-banded box that stands on +the table; then both sit down at the table, facing each other] +Just look--here I have six thousand crowns' worth of gold which I +have dug up in the last fortnight. This bracelet alone would bring +me the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I +might make a fine career for myself. Then I could get the +illustrations made for my treatise at once; I could get my work +printed, and--I could travel! Why don't I do it, do you suppose? + +MR. Y. I suppose you are afraid to be found out. + +MR. X. That, too, perhaps. But don't you think an intelligent +fellow like myself might fix matters so that he was never found +out? I am alone all the time--with nobody watching me--while I am +digging out there in the fields. It wouldn't be strange if I put +something in my own pockets now and then. + +MR. Y. Yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the stuff. + +MR. X. Pooh! I'd melt it down, of course--every bit of it--and +then I'd turn it into coins--with just as much gold in them as +genuine ones, of course-- + +MR. Y. Of course! + +MR. X. Well, you can easily see why. For if I wanted to dabble in +counterfeits, then I need not go digging for gold first. [Pause] +It is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody else did what I +cannot make myself do, then I'd be willing to acquit him--but I +couldn't possibly acquit myself. I might even make a brilliant +speech in defence of the thief, proving that this gold was _res +nullius_, or nobody's, as it had been deposited at a time when +property rights did not yet exist; that even under existing rights +it could belong only to the first finder of it, as the ground-owner +has never included it in the valuation of his property; and so on. + +MR. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do this if +the--hm!--the thief had not been prompted by actual need, but by a +mania for collecting, for instance--or by scientific aspirations-- +by the ambition to keep a discovery to himself. Don't you think +so? + +MR. X. You mean that I could not acquit him if actual need had +been the motive? Yes, for that's the only motive which the law +will not accept in extenuation. That motive makes a plain theft of +it. + +MR. Y. And this you couldn't excuse? + +MR. X. Oh, excuse--no, I guess not, as the law wouldn't. On the +other hand, I must admit that it would be hard for me to charge a +collector with theft merely because he had appropriated some +specimen not yet represented in his own collection. + +MR. Y. So that vanity or ambition might excuse what could not be +excused by need? + +MR. X. And yet need ought to be the more telling excuse--the only +one, in fact? But I feel as I have said. And I can no more change +this feeling than I can change my own determination not to steal +under any circumstances whatever. + +MR. Y. And I suppose you count it a great merit that you cannot-- +hm!--steal? + +MR. X. No, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible as +the inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. So it +cannot be called a merit. I cannot do it, and the other one cannot +refrain!--But you understand, of course, that I am not without a +desire to own this gold. Why don't I take it then? Because I +cannot! It's an inability--and the lack of something cannot be +called a merit. There! + +[Closes the box with a slam. Stray clouds have cast their shadows +on the landscape and darkened the room now and then. Now it grows +quite dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching.] + +MR. X. How close the air is! I guess the storm is coming all +right. + +[MR. Y. gets up and shuts the door and all the windows.] + +MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder? + +MR. Y. It's just as well to be careful. + +(They resume their seats at the table.) + +MR. X. You're a curious chap! Here you come dropping down like a +bomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as a Swedish-American +who is collecting flies for a small museum-- + +MR. Y. Oh, never mind me now! + +MR. X. That's what you always say when I grow tired of talking +about myself and want to turn my attention to you. Perhaps that +was the reason why I took to you as I did--because you let me +talk about myself? All at once we seemed like old friends. There +were no angles about you against which I could bump myself, no +pins that pricked. There was something soft about your whole +person, and you overflowed with that tact which only well-educated +people know how to show. You never made a noise when you came home +late at night or got up early in the morning. You were patient in +small things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemed +threatening. In a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion! +But you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering about +you in the long run--and you are too timid, too easily frightened. +It seems almost as if you were made up of two different +personalities. Why, as I sit here looking at your back in the +mirror over there--it is as if I were looking at somebody else. + +(MR. Y. turns around and stares at the mirror.) + +MR. X. No, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back, man!--In +front you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one meeting his +fate with bared breast, but from behind--really, I don't want to +be impolite, but--you look as if you were carrying a burden, or as +if you were crouching to escape a raised stick. And when I look at +that red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, it +looks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a +packing-box-- + +MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon-- + +MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks as +if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face +quite different in type from yours. And your ears come so close +together behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to. +[A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as if +that might have struck the sheriff's house! + +MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's! + +MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll get +much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as you +are going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you, +with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that yon +are one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away from +them. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, I +always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not +resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common. + +MR. Y. Who is he? + +MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years to +take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table +where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met a +little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderful +faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling +anybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary place +down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he +wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. He +seemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybody +he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he +would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human +face for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if +eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watched +him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character. +But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, for +then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man had +just your quality of being indefinite. At different times I made +him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non- +commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective-- +and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the +front of him never quite fitted the back. One day I happened to +read in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-known +government official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentleman +had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name was +Strawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used to +run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter +of a big daily. How in the world could I hope to establish a +connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man's +peculiar manners? It was beyond me; and when I asked a friend +whether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend +couldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [Pause.] + +MR. Y. Well, had he ever been--punished? + +MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had such +an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending +people? + +MR. X. Exactly! + +MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward? + +MR. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he +had been--punished? + +MR. X. Perfectly! + +(MR. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.) + +MR. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still? + +MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions? Are +you a Christian? + +MR. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not? + +(MR. Y. makes a face.) + +MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I require +punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, +be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to know the +difference. + +MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X., first with wild, +hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How--could--you-- +know--that? + +MR. X. Why, I could see it. + +MR. Y. How? How could you see it? + +MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others. +But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch, +arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and +hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs. +Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I am +going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to +the city with you. + +MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo. + +MR. X. Oh, you are not? + +MR. Y. No. + +MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature. + +MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind-- + +MR. X.--any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused to +write your own name. The first time nothing more serious was +involved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began to +watch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid +fear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a single +letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote +with a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out the +exact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like the +seventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which +place you have not visited at all during all this time. And yet +you came the whole way from America merely to have a look at +Malmo! And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old +mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance. +And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and look +out through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, yon +can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney of +the county jail.--And now I hope you see that it's your own +stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everything +clear to me. + +MR. Y. This means that you despise me? + +MR. X. Oh, no! + +MR. Y. Yes, you do--you cannot but do it! + +MR. X. No--here's my hand. + +(MR. Y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.) + +MR. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog! + +MR. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let me +touch his hand after learning-- + +MR. X. And now you call me "sir!"--What scares me about you is +that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the old +level, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered your +punishment. Do you care to tell me how it happened? Would you? + +MR. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what I say. +But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I am no +ORDINARY criminal. You'll become convinced, I think, that there +are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again] +which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without being +willed by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible-- +May I open the door a little now, since the storm seems to have +passed over? + +MR. X. Suit yourself. + +MR. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and begins +to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures, +and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was a +student in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan from +a bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned some +property--not a great deal, of course. However, I had sent the +note to the second man of the two who were to act as security, +and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. For a +while I was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a very +unpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! The note was lying in front +of me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. At first my eyes +stared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is, +not a death-doom, of course, for I could easily find other +securities, as many as I wanted--but as I have already said, it +was very annoying just the same. And as I was sitting there quite +unconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the +signature of the letter, which would have made my future secure if +it had only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well- +written signature--and you know how sometimes one may absent- +mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. I +had a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] like +this. And somehow it just began to run--I don't want to claim that +there was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic nature +back of it--for that kind of thing I don't believe in! It was a +wholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of that +beautiful autograph over and over again. When all the clean space +on the letter was used up, I had learned to reproduce the +signature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholder +with a violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night I +slept long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that I +had been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself. At +times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I seemed +to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distant +memory--and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to the table, +just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed an +irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. All +thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had disappeared— +no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I was fulfilling +some sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet] What could +it be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case of mental +suggestion, as they call it? But from whom could it come? I +was sleeping alone in that room. Could it possibly be my primitive +self--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing-- +which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep-- +together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability to +calculate the results of an action? Tell me, what do you think of +it? + +MR. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself] Frankly +speaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it, +but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details-- +and I have read something about criminal suggestion--or I think I +have, at least--hm! But all that is neither here nor there! You +have taken your medicine--and you have had the courage to +acknowledge your fault. Now we won't talk of it any more. + +MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till I become sure of my +innocence. + +MR. X. Well, are you not? + +MR. Y. No, I am not! + +MR. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's exactly what +is bothering me!--Don't you feel fairly sure that every human +being hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we not, all of us, +stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly! Well, now there are +persons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannot +control their unlawful desires. Then comes the opportunity, and +there you have your criminal.--But I cannot understand why you +don't feel innocent. If the child is not held responsible, why +should the criminal be regarded differently? It is the more +strange because--well, perhaps I may come to repent it later. +[Pause] I, for my part, have killed a man, and I have never +suffered any qualms on account of it. + +MR. Y. [Very much interested] Have--you? + +MR. X, Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to shake +hands with a murderer? + +MR. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense! + +MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished, + +ME. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] So +much the better for you!--How did you get out of it? + +MR. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses. +This is the way it happened. One Christmas I was invited to hunt +with a fellow-student a little way out of Upsala. He sent a +besotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellow +went to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upset +the whole _equipage_ in a ditch. I am not going to pretend that my +life was in danger. It was sheer impatience which made me hit him +across the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--just +to wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all, +but collapsed then and there. + +MR. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it? + +MR. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so. The man +left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life could +be of the slightest use. He had already outlived his allotted +period of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filled +by somebody more in need of it. On the other hand, my life was +necessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhaps +also to the progress of my science. The outcome had once for all +cured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and I +didn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents for +the sake of an abstract principle of justice. + +MR. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life? + +MR. X. In the present case, yes. + +MR. Y. But the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of? + +MR. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no crime. As a +boy I had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, and +the fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by my +ignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderly +person. + +MR. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man is +punished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactly +what one gets for--writing names. + +MR. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And more than one +night I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell me now--is it really as +bad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar? + +MR. Y. You bet it is!--First of all they disfigure you by cutting +off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, you +are sure to do so afterward. And when you catch sight of yourself +in a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit. + +MR. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? Which +wouldn't be a bad idea, I should say. + +MR. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it!--And then they +cut down your food, so that every day and every hour you become +conscious of the border line between life and death. Every vital +function is more or less checked. You can feel yourself shrinking. +And your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead put +on a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlived +ages. You are not permitted to read anything but what was written +for the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. You +hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and what +actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. You are +torn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, put +beneath those who are really beneath yourself. Then you get a +sense of living in the bronze age. You come to feel as if you were +dressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating out +of a trough--ugh! + +MR. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts as if he +belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don the +proper costume. + +MR. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved like a man +from the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the golden +age. + +MR. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean with that +last expression--the golden age? + +MR. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all. + +MR. X. Now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to say +all you think. + +MR. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no coward when I +dared to show myself around here, where I had had to suffer as I +did.--But can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?-- +It is that the others are not in there too! + +MR. X. What others? + +MR. Y. Those that go unpunished. + +MR. X. Are you thinking of me? + +MR. Y. I am. + +MR. X. But I have committed no crime. + +MR. Y. Oh, haven't you? + +MR. X. No, a misfortune is no crime. + +MR. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder? + +MR. X. I have not committed murder. + +MR. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person? + +MR. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killing +in self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentional +and unintentional killing. However--now you really frighten me, +for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the most +dangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid. + +MR. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen--would you +like me to show you how clever I am? + +MR. X. Come on! + +MR. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both logic and +wisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you. You have +suffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years at +hard labor. You have completely escaped the disgrace of being +punished. And here you see before you a man--who has also suffered +a misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who has +had to stand two years of hard labor for it. Only by some great +scientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that has +become attached to him without any fault of his own--but in order +to arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot of +money--and money this minute! Don't you think that the other one, +the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into these +unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of a +fine? Don't you think so? + +MR. X. [Calmly] Yes. + +MR. Y. Then we understand each other.--Hm! [Pause] What do you +think would be reasonable? + +MR. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is fixed by the +law at fifty crowns. But this whole question is settled by the +fact that the dead man left no relatives. + +MR. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then I'll have to +speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine. + +MR. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to collect +fines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there is no +prosecutor. + +MR. Y. There isn't? Well--how would I do? + +MR. X. Oh, _now_ we are getting the matter cleared up! How much do +you want for becoming my accomplice? + +MR. Y. Six thousand crowns. + +MR. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them? + +(MR. Y. points to the box.) + +MR. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to become a +thief. + +MR. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll believe +that you haven't helped yourself out of that box before? + +MR. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could let +myself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with these soft +natures. You like them, and then it's so easy to believe that they +like you. And that's the reason why I have always been on my guard +against people I take a liking to!--So you are firmly convinced +that I have helped myself out of the box before? + +MR. Y. Certainly! MR. X. And you are going to report me if you +don't get six thousand crowns? + +MR. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's no use +trying. + +MR. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief for son, my +wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, my +fellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will never happen!-- +Now I am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself. + +MR. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait a moment! + +MR. X. For what? + +MR. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought--as I am no longer needed--it +wouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and I might just as well +leave. + +MR. X. No, you may not!--Sit down there at the table, where you +sat before, and we'll have another talk before you go. + +MR. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are you up +to now? + +MR. X. [Looking into the mirror back of MR. Y.] Oh, now I have it! +Oh-h-h! + +MR. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you discovering +now? + +MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinary +thief! A moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, I +could notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. I +couldn't make out just what it was, for I had to listen to you and +watch you. But as my antipathy increased, my vision became more +acute. And now, with your black coat to furnish the needed color +contrast For the red back of the book, which before couldn't be +seen against the red of your suspenders--now I see that you have +been reading about forgeries in Bernheim's work on mental +suggestion--for you turned the book upside-down in putting it back. +So even that story of yours was stolen! For tins reason I think +myself entitled to conclude that your crime must have been +prompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure. + +MR. Y. By need! If you only knew-- + +MR. X. If _you_ only knew the extent of the need I have had to face +and live through! But that's another story! Let's proceed with +your case. That you have been in prison--I take that for granted. +But it happened in America, for it was American prison life you +described. Another thing may also be taken for granted, namely, +that you have not borne your punishment on this side. + +MR. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind? + +MR. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn all +about it. + +(MR. Y. gets up.) + +ME. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the sheriff, in +connection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. And when a +person has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an old +mill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by the +window--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. And +that's why it was so hard to make you out. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now? + +MR. X. Now you can go. + +MR. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me? + +MR. X. Yes--would you prefer me to pity you? + +MR. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better than I? + +MR. X. Of course I do, as I AM better than you. I am wiser, and I +am less of a menace to prevailing property rights. + +MR. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as clever as +you. For the moment you have me checked, but in the next move I +can mate you--all the same! + +MR. X. [Looking hard at MR. Y.] So we have to have another bout! +What kind of mischief are you up to now? + +MR. Y. That's my secret. + +MR. X. Just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymous +letter giving away MY secret! + +MR. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't dare to +have me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And when I am gone, +I can do what I please. + +MR. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable spot! Do you +want to make a real murderer out of me? + +MR. Y. That's more than you'll ever become--coward! + +MR. X. There you see how different people are. You have a feeling +that I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. And +that gives you the upper hand. But suppose you forced me to treat +you as I treated that coachman? + +[He lifts his hand as if ready to hit MR. Y.] + +MR. Y. [Staring MR. X. straight in the face] You can't! It's too +much for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box over +there. + +ME. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of the box? + +MR. Y. You were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly to +tell your wife that she had married a murderer. + +MR. X. You are a different man from what I took you to be--if +stronger or weaker, I cannot tell--if more criminal or less, +that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much is +quite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote another person's +name instead of begging--as I have had to do. Stupid you were when +you stole things out of my book--could you not guess that I might +have read my own books? Stupid you were when you thought yourself +cleverer than me, and when you thought that I could be lured into +becoming a thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance could +be restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. But +most stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed to +provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and write +my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husband +having killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!-- +Have you had enough now? + +MR. Y. May I go? + +MR. X. Now you _have_ to go! And at once! I'll send your things +after you!--Get out of here! + +(Curtain.) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Plays by August Strindberg, Second +series, by August Strindberg + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14347 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..322c7be --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14347 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14347) diff --git a/old/14347-8.txt b/old/14347-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8784c34 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14347-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10202 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Plays by August Strindberg, Second series +by August Strindberg + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Plays by August Strindberg, Second series + +Author: August Strindberg + +Release Date: December 13, 2004 [EBook #14347] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYS BY STRINDBERG *** + + + + +Produced by Nicole Apostola + + + + +PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG + +SECOND SERIES + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +MISS JULIA +THE STRONGER +CREDITORS +PARIAH + +TRANSLATED WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN + +AUTHORIZED EDITION + + + +CONTENTS + +Introduction to "There Are Crimes and Crimes" +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES + +Introduction to "Miss Julia" +Author's Preface +MISS JULIA + +Introduction to "The Stronger" +THE STRONGER + +Introduction to "Creditors" +CREDITORS + +Introduction to "Pariah" +PARIAH + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +INTRODUCTION + + +Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There Are Crimes and +Crimes." In the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finest +historical dramas: "The Saga of the Folkungs," "Gustavus Vasa," +and "Eric XIV." Just before, he had finished "Advent," which he +described as "A Mystery," and which was published together with +"There Are Crimes and Crimes" under the common title of "In a +Higher Court." Back of these dramas lay his strange confessional +works, "Inferno" and "Legends," and the first two parts of his +autobiographical dream-play, "Toward Damascus"--all of which were +finished between May, 1897, and some time in the latter part of +1898. And back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, +when, at Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by the +transmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spirit +was travelling through all the seven hells in its search for the +heaven promised by the great mystics of the past. + +"There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as his +first definite step beyond that crisis, of which the preceding +works were at once the record and closing chord. When, in 1909, he +issued "The Author," being a long withheld fourth part of his +first autobiographical series, "The Bondwoman's Son," he prefixed +to it an analytical summary of the entire body of his work. +Opposite the works from 1897-8 appears in this summary the +following passage: "The great crisis at the age of fifty; +revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings, +Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells." But concerning "There Are Crimes +and Crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year he +writes triumphantly: "Light after darkness; new productivity, with +recovered Faith, Hope and Love--and with full, rock-firm +Certitude." + +In its German version the play is named "Rausch," or +"Intoxication," which indicates the part played by the champagne +in the plunge of _Maurice_ from the pinnacles of success to the +depths of misfortune. Strindberg has more and more come to see +that a moderation verging closely on asceticism is wise for most +men and essential to the man of genius who wants to fulfil his +divine mission. And he does not scorn to press home even this +comparatively humble lesson with the naive directness and fiery +zeal which form such conspicuous features of all his work. + +But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their joint +publication we have a better clue to what the author himself +undoubtedly regards as the most important element of his work--its +religious tendency. The "higher court," in which are tried the +crimes of _Maurice_, _Adolphe_, and _Henriette_, is, of course, +the highest one that man can imagine. And the crimes of which they +have all become guilty are those which, as _Adolphe_ remarks, "are +not mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes against the +spirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against God. +The play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritual +change, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the waters +of life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled. + +There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramatic +revelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order-- +for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress is +implied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all in our +growing modern conviction that _any_ vital faith is better than none +at all. One of the currents in question refers to the means rather +than the end, to the road rather than the goal. It brings us back +to those uncanny soul-adventures by which Strindberg himself won +his way to the "full, rock-firm Certitude" of which the play in +its entirety is the first tangible expression. The elements +entering into this current are not only mystical, but occult. They +are derived in part from Swedenborg, and in part from that +picturesque French dreamer who signs himself "Sar Péladan"; but +mostly they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences in +moments of abnormal tension. + +What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris in 1895, +and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude in +his "Inferno" and "Legends," all this is here presented in +dramatic form, but a little toned down, both to suit the needs of +the stage and the calmer mood of the author. Coincidence is law. +It is the finger-point of Providence, the signal to man that he +must beware. Mystery is the gospel: the secret knitting of man to +man, of fact to fact, deep beneath the surface of visible and +audible existence. Few writers could take us into such a realm of +probable impossibilities and possible improbabilities without +losing all claim to serious consideration. If Strindberg has thus +ventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his success can be +explained only by the presence in the play of that second, +parallel current of thought and feeling. + +This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface is +fantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm Certitude" +to which I have already referred. And nothing will bring us nearer +to it than Strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his +"Speeches to the Swedish Nation" two years ago. In that pamphlet +there is a chapter headed "Religion," in which occurs this +passage: "Since 1896 I have been calling myself a Christian. I am +not a Catholic, and have never been, but during a stay of seven +years in Catholic countries and among Catholic relatives, I +discovered that the difference between Catholic and Protestant +tenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial, and that +the division which once occurred was merely political or else +concerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane to +the religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain, +but I can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but come +nearest to being a Swedenborgian. I use my Bible Christianity +internally and privately to tame my somewhat decivilized nature-- +decivilised by that veterinary philosophy and animal science +(Darwinism) in which, as student at the university, I was reared. +And I assure my fellow-beings that they have no right to complain +because, according to my ability, I practise the Christian +teachings. For only through religion, or the hope of something +better, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life as +that of an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it be +possible to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation." + +Here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg's +religiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself to +morality. At bottom he is first and last, and has always been, a +moralist--a man passionately craving to know what is RIGHT and to +do it. During the middle, naturalistic period of his creative +career, this fundamental tendency was in part obscured, and he +engaged in the game of intellectual curiosity known as "truth for +truth's own sake." One of the chief marks of his final and +mystical period is his greater courage to "be himself" in this +respect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance, to a +position which the late William James undoubtedly would have +acknowledged as "pragmatic." To combat the assertion of +over-developed individualism that we are ends in ourselves, +that we have certain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure +and happiness merely because we happen to appear here in human +shape, this is one of Strindberg's most ardent aims in all his +later works. + +As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives must +be held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may be another life. +He calls it God. And the code of service he finds in the tenets of +all the Christian churches, but principally in the Commandments. +The plain and primitive virtues, the faith that implies little +more than square dealing between man and man--these figure +foremost in Strindberg's ideals. In an age of supreme self-seeking +like ours, such an outlook would seem to have small chance of +popularity, but that it embodies just what the time most needs is, +perhaps, made evident by the reception which the public almost +invariably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes" when it is staged. + +With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly called +realism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use of +methods generally held superseded--such as the casual introduction +of characters at whatever moment they happen to be needed on the +stage--it has, from the start, been among the most frequently +played and most enthusiastically received of Strindberg's later +dramas. At Stockholm it was first taken up by the Royal Dramatic +Theatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the Intimate +Theatre, then devoted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It was +one of the earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was still +experimenting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has also +been given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna. + +Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a word of +explanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris. Not only the +scenery, but the people and the circumstances are French. Yet he +has made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect French +manners of speaking or ways of thinking. As he has given it to us, +the play is French only in its most superficial aspect, in its +setting--and this setting he has chosen simply because he needed a +certain machinery offered him by the Catholic, but not by the +Protestant, churches. The rest of the play is purely human in its +note and wholly universal in its spirit. For this reason I have +retained the French names and titles, but have otherwise striven +to bring everything as close as possible to our own modes of +expression. Should apparent incongruities result from this manner +of treatment, I think they will disappear if only the reader will +try to remember that the characters of the play move in an +existence cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeral +reality in order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduring +one. + + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +A COMEDY +1899 + + +CHARACTERS + +MAURICE, a playwright +JEANNE, his mistress +MARION, their daughter, five years old +ADOLPHE, a painter +HENRIETTE, his mistress +EMILE, a workman, brother of Jeanne +MADAME CATHERINE +THE ABBÉ +A WATCHMAN +A HEAD WAITER +A COMMISSAIRE +TWO DETECTIVES +A WAITER +A GUARD +SERVANT GIRL + + + +ACT I, SCENE 1. THE CEMETERY + 2. THE CRÊMERIE + +ACT II, SCENE 1. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS + 2. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE + +ACT III, SCENE 1. THE CRÊMERIE + 2. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS + +ACT IV, SCENE 1. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS + 2. THE CRÊMERIE + +(All the scenes are laid in Paris) + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES + + +ACT I FIRST SCENE + +(The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery at +Paris. The background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses on +which are inscribed "O Crux! Ave Spes Unica!" and the ruins of a +wind-mill covered with ivy.) + +(A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and muttering +prayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers.) + +(JEANNE is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody.) + +(MARION is playing with some withered flowers picked from a +rubbish heap on the ground.) + +(The ABBÉ is reading his breviary while walking along the further +end of the avenue.) + +WATCHMAN. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Look here, this is no +playground. + +JEANNE. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody who'll soon +be here-- + +WATCHMAN. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers. + +JEANNE. [To MARION] Drop the flowers, dear. + +ABBÉ. [Comes forward and is saluted by the WATCHMAN] Can't the +child play with the flowers that have been thrown away? + +WATCHMAN. The regulations don't permit anybody to touch even the +flowers that have been thrown away, because it's believed they may +spread infection--which I don't know if it's true. + +ABBÉ. [To MARION] In that case we have to obey, of course. What's +your name, my little girl? + +MARION. My name is Marion. + +ABBÉ. And who is your father? + +(MARION begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer.) + +ABBÉ. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention--I was just +talking to keep the little one quiet. + +(The WATCHMAN has gone out.) + +JEANNE. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish you would say +something to quiet me also. I feel very much disturbed after +having waited here two hours. + +ABBÉ. Two hours--for him! How these human beings torture each +other! O Crux! Ave spes unica! + +JEANNE. What do they mean, those words you read all around here? + +ABBÉ. They mean: O cross, our only hope! + +JEANNE. Is it the only one? + +ABBÉ. The only certain one. + +JEANNE. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father. + +ABBÉ. May I ask why? + +JEANNE. You have already guessed it. When he lets the woman and +the child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not far +off. + +ABBÉ. And when he has left you, what then? + +JEANNE. Then we have to go into the river. + +ABBÉ. Oh, no, no! + +JEANNE. Yes, yes! + +MARION. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry. + +JEANNE. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home. + +ABBÉ. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil. + +JEANNE. What is that woman doing at the grave over there? + +ABBÉ. She seems to be talking to the dead. + +JEANNE. But you cannot do that? + +ABBÉ. She seems to know how. + +JEANNE. This would mean that the end of life is not the end of our +misery? + +ABBÉ. And you don't know it? + +JEANNE. Where can I find out? + +ABBÉ. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to learn about +this well-known matter, you can look me up in Our Lady's Chapel at +the Church of St. Germain--Here comes the one you are waiting for, +I guess. + +JEANNE. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know him. + +ABBÉ. [To MARION] Good-bye, little Marion! May God take care of +you! [Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Germain des Prés. + +EMILE. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you doing here? + +JEANNE. I am waiting for Maurice. + +EMILE. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for I saw +him on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with some +friends. [Kissing the child] Good morning, Marion. + +JEANNE. Ladies also? + +EMILE. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He writes plays, +and his latest one has its first performance tonight. I suppose he +had with him some of the actresses. + +JEANNE. Did he recognise you? + +EMILE. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as well. I +know my place as a workman, and I don't care for any condescension +from those that are above me. + +JEANNE. But if he leaves us without anything to live on? + +EMILE. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose I +shall have to introduce myself. But you don't expect anything of +the kind, do you--seeing that he is fond of you and very much +attached to the child? + +JEANNE. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something dreadful +is in store for me. + +EMILE. Has he promised to marry you? + +JEANNE. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes. + +EMILE. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the start: don't +hope for anything, for those above us don't marry downward. + +JEANNE. But such things have happened. + +EMILE. Yes, they have happened. But, would you feel at home in his +world? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand what +they were talking of. Now and then I take my meals where he is +eating--out in the kitchen is my place, of course--and I don't +make out a word of what they say. + +JEANNE. So you take your meals at that place? + +EMILE. Yes, in the kitchen. + +JEANNE. And think of it, he has never asked me to come with him. + +EMILE. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has some +respect for the mother of his child. The women over there are a +queer lot. + +JEANNE. Is that so? + +EMILE. But Maurice never pays any attention to the women. There is +something _square_ about that fellow. + +JEANNE. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as there is +a woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer. + +EMILE. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you hard up +for money? + +JEANNE. No, nothing of that kind. + +EMILE. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet--Look! Over there! +There he comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye, little girl. + +JEANNE. Is he coming? Yes, that's him. + +EMILE. Don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, Jeanne! [Goes +out.] + +JEANNE. No, I won't. + +(MAURICE enters.) + +MARION. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] Papa, +papa! + +MAURICE. My little girl! [Greets JEANNE] Can you forgive me, +Jeanne, that I have kept you waiting so long? + +JEANNE. Of course I can. + +MAURICE. But say it in such a way that I can hear that you are +forgiving me. + +JEANNE. Come here and let me whisper it to you. + +(MAURICE goes up close to her.) + +(JEANNE kisses him on the cheek.) + +MAURICE. I didn't hear. + +(JEANNE kisses him on the mouth.) + +MAURICE. Now I heard! Well--you know, I suppose that this is the +day that will settle my fate? My play is on for tonight, and there +is every chance that it will succeed--or fail. + +JEANNE. I'll make sure of success by praying for you. + +MAURICE. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least do no +harm--Look over there, down there in the valley, where the haze is +thickest: there lies Paris. Today Paris doesn't know who Maurice +is, but it is going to know within twenty-four hours. The haze, +which has kept me obscured for thirty years, will vanish before my +breath, and I shall become visible, I shall assume definite shape +and begin to be somebody. My enemies--which means all who would +like to do what I have done--will be writhing in pains that shall +be my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that I have +suffered. + +JEANNE. Don't talk that way, don't! + +MAURICE. But that's the way it is. + +JEANNE. Yes, but don't speak of it--And then? + +MAURICE. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and Marion will +bear the name I have made famous. + +JEANNE. You love me then? + +MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion a +little more. + +JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not of +her. + +MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you? + +JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid of +something terrible-- + +MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, which +once more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of? + +JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without having +any particular reason to do so. + +MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasons +for doing so: the keen instincts of the management and their +knowledge of the public, not to speak of their personal +acquaintance with the critics. So now you must be in good spirits-- + +JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbé here a +while ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith--which you +haven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on a +window to clean it--I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, but +this old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the light +came through, and it was possible again to see that the people +within were at home--To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain. + +MAURICE. Now I am getting scared. + +JEANNE. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. + +MAURICE. God? What is that? Who is he? + +JEANNE. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to your +manhood. And it is he who will carry us through the terrors that +lie ahead of us. + +MAURICE. What is lying ahead of us? What do you know? Where have +you learned of this? This thing that I don't know? + +JEANNE. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heard +nothing. But during these two dreadful hours I have experienced +such an infinity of pain that I am ready for the worst. + +MARION. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am hungry. + +MAURICE. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [Takes her +into his arms.] + +MARION. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa! + +JEANNE. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye then, Maurice. +And good luck to you! + +MAURICE. [To MARION] How did I hurt you? Doesn't my little girl +know that I always want to be nice to her? + +MARION. If you are nice, you'll come home with us. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] When I hear the child talk like that, you +know, I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But then reason +and duty protest--Good-bye, my dear little girl! [He kisses the +child, who puts her arms around his neck.] + +JEANNE. When do we meet again? + +MAURICE. We'll meet tomorrow, dear. And then we'll never part +again. + +JEANNE. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again! [She makes the +sign of the cross on his forehead] May God protect you! + +MAURICE. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved Jeanne! + +(JEANNE and MARION go toward the right; MAURICE toward the left. +Both turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other.) + +MAURICE. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself. I am always +forgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. Here +are the tickets for tonight. + +JEANNE. Thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post of +duty alone, and so I have to take up mine--with Marion. + +MAURICE. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. +Yes, I am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure to +serve her husband--I must have my hands free tonight, and there is +no place for women and children on the battle-field--and this you +understood! + +JEANNE. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, and +then you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll see that I +can be as forgetful as you--I have bought you a tie and a pair of +gloves which I thought you might wear for my sake on your day of +honour. + +MAURICE. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear. + +JEANNE. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, +as you do all the time. I want you to be good-looking, so that +others will like you too. + +MAURICE. There is no jealousy in _you_! + +JEANNE. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it. + +MAURICE. Just now I feel as if I could give up this evening's +victory--for I am going to win-- + +JEANNE. Hush, hush! + +MAURICE. And go home with you instead. + +JEANNE. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny is waiting +for you. + +MAURICE. Good-bye then! And may that happen which must happen! +[Goes out.] + +JEANNE. [Alone with MARION] O Crux! Ave spes unica! + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Crêmerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placed +an aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit, +preserves, etc. In the background is a door leading to the +kitchen, where workmen are taking their meals. At the other end of +the kitchen can be seen a door leading out to a garden. On the +left, in the background, stands a counter on a raised platform, +and back of it are shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On the +right, a long table with a marble top is placed along the wall, +and another table is placed parallel to the first further out on +the floor. Straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. The +walls are covered with oil-paintings.) + +(MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter.) + +(MAURICE stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and is +smoking a cigarette.) + +MME. CATHERINE. So it's tonight the great event comes off, +Monsieur Maurice? + +MAURICE. Yes, tonight. + +MME. CATHERINE. Do you feel upset? + +MAURICE. Cool as a cucumber. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you have +deserved it, Monsieur Maurice, after having had to fight against +such difficulties as yours. + +MAURICE. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have been very kind to +me, and without your help I should probably have been down and out +by this time. + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't let us talk of that now. I help along where +I see hard work and the right kind of will, but I don't want to be +exploited--Can we trust you to come back here after the play and +let us drink a glass with you? + +MAURICE. Yes, you can--of course, you can, as I have already +promised you. + +(HENRIETTE enters from the right.) + +(MAURICE turns around, raises his hat, and stares at HENRIETTE, +who looks him over carefully.) + +HENRIETTE. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, madame. But he'll soon be here now. Won't you +sit down? + +HENRIETTE. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him outside. [Goes +out.] + +MAURICE. Who--was--that? + +MME. CATHERINE. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend. + +MAURICE. Was--that--her? + +MME. CATHERINE. Have you never seen her before? + +MAURICE. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he was +afraid I might take her away from him. + +MME. CATHERINE. Ha-ha!--Well, how did you think she looked? + +MAURICE. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell--I didn't see +her, for it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at once +and come so close to me that I couldn't make out her features at +all. And she left her impression on the air behind her. I can +still see her standing there. [He goes toward the door and makes a +gesture as if putting his arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes a +gesture as if he had pricked his finger] There are pins in her +waist. She is of the kind that stings! + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies! + +MAURICE. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do you know, +Madame Catherine, I am going before she comes back, or else, or +else--Oh, that woman is horrible! + +MME. CATHERINE. Are you afraid? + +MAURICE. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some others. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, go then. + +MAURICE. She seemed to suck herself out through the door, and in +her wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--Yes, you +may laugh, but can't you see that the palm over there on the +buffet is still shaking? She's the very devil of a woman! + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all your +reason. + +MAURICE. I want to go, but I cannot--Do you believe in fate, +Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, I believe in a good God, who protects us +against evil powers if we ask Him in the right way. + +MAURICE. So there are evil powers after all! I think I can hear +them in the hallway now. + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tears +off a piece of linen for you. Get away now--through the kitchen. + +(MAURICE rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps into +EMILE.) + +EMILE. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came.] + +ADOLPHE. [Comes in first; after him HENRIETTE] Why, there's +Maurice. How are you? Let me introduce this lady here to my oldest +and best friend. Mademoiselle Henriette--Monsieur Maurice. + +MAURICE. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you. + +HENRIETTA. We have seen each other before. + +ADOLPHE. Is that so? When, if I may ask? + +MAURICE. A moment ago. Right here. + +ADOLPHE. O-oh!--But now you must stay and have a chat with us. + +MAURICE. [After a glance at MME. CATHERINE] If I only had time. + +ADOLPHE. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here very long. + +HENRIETTE. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business. + +MAURICE. The only business we have is so bad that we don't want to +talk of it. + +HENRIETTE. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the hat away +from MAURICE and hangs it up] Now be nice, and let me become +acquainted with the great author. + +MME. CATHERINE signals to MAURICE, who doesn't notice her. + +ADOLPHE. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him. [They +seat themselves at one of the tables.] + +HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] You certainly have a good friend in +Adolphe, Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of anything but you, and +in such a way that I feel myself rather thrown in the background. + +ADOLPHE. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side never +leaves me in peace about you, Maurice. She has read your works, +and she is always wanting to know where you got this and where +that. She has been questioning me about your looks, your age, your +tastes. I have, in a word, had you for breakfast, dinner, and +supper. It has almost seemed as if the three of us were living +together. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Heavens, why didn't you come over here and +have a look at this wonder of wonders? Then your curiosity could +have been satisfied in a trice. + +HENRIETTE. Adolphe didn't want it. + +(ADOLPHE looks embarrassed.) + +HENRIETTE. Not that he was jealous-- + +MAURICE. And why should he be, when he knows that my feelings are +tied up elsewhere? + +HENRIETTE. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings. + +MAURICE. I can't understand that, seeing that I am notorious for +my constancy. + +ADOLPHE. Well, it wasn't that-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because you have not +faced the fiery ordeal-- + +ADOLPHE. Oh, you don't know-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld a +faithful man. + +MAURICE. Then it's going to behold one. + +HENRIETTE. Where? + +MAURICE. Here. + +(HENRIETTE laughs.) + +ADOLPHE. Well, that's going it-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him and directing herself continuously to +MAURICE] Do you think I ever trust my dear Adolphe more than a +month at a time? + +MAURICE. I have no right to question your lack of confidence, but +I can guarantee that Adolphe is faithful. + +HENRIETTE. You don't need to do so--my tongue is just running away +with me, and I have to take back a lot--not only for fear of +feeling less generous than you, but because it is the truth. It is +a bad habit I have of only seeing the ugly side of things, and I +keep it up although I know better. But if I had a chance to be +with you two for some time, then your company would make me good +once more. Pardon me, Adolphe! [She puts her hand against his +cheek.] + +ADOLPHE. You are always wrong in your talk and right in your +actions. What you really think--that I don't know. + +HENRIETTE. Who does know that kind of thing? + +MAURICE. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who could +then clear himself? + +HENRIETTE. Do you also have evil thoughts? + +MAURICE. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of cruelties +in my dreams. + +HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course--Just think of it—- +No, I am ashamed of telling-- + +MAURICE. Go on, go on! + +HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting the +muscles on Adolphe's breast--you see, I am a sculptor--and he, +with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me instead +with the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than I. + +MAURICE. Was he dead? + +HENRIETTE. No, he was living. + +MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer? + +HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I am +rather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, +Adolphe? + +ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not the +least when animals are concerned. + +MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward the +sufferings both of myself and others. + +ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what do +you say, Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart than +Monsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because I +didn't give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on the +buffet. Just look at them: it is as if they could hear what I am +saying. + +MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, +and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind of +polite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--So +you are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette? + +HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one of +you--which has long been my cherished dream--I hold myself quite +capable. + +MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in coming +true. + +HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind until +this evening's success is over. Not until then will you have +become what you should be. + +MAURICE. How sure you are of victory! + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going to +win this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself. + +MAURICE. Why do you think so? + +HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, you +know, and now I am well. + +(ADOLPHE begins to look depressed.) + +MAURICE. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left--only +one. I place it at your disposal, Adolphe. + +ADOLPHE. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette. + +HENRIETTE. But that wouldn't do? + +ADOLPHE. Why not? And I never go to the theatre anyhow, as I +cannot stand the heat. + +HENRIETTE. But you will come and take us home at least after the +show is over. + +ADOLPHE. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to come back +here, where we shall all be waiting for him. + +MAURICE. You can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. In +fact, I ask, I beg you to do so--And if you don't want to wait +outside the theatre, you can meet us at the Auberge des Adrets-- +That's settled then, isn't it? + +ADOLPHE. Wait a little. You have a way of settling things to suit +yourself, before other people have a chance to consider them. + +MAURICE. What is there to consider--whether you are to see your +lady home or not? + +ADOLPHE. You never know what may be involved in a simple act like +that, but I have a sort of premonition. + +HENRIETTE. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks while the sun is +shining. Let him come or not, as it pleases him. We can always +find our way back here. + +ADOLPHE. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you--model, you know. +Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you, Maurice. To-morrow +you will be out on the right side. Good-bye, Henriette. + +HENRIETTE. Do you really have to go? + +ADOLPHE. I must. + +MAURICE. Good-bye then. We'll meet later. + +(ADOLPHE goes out, saluting MME. CATHERINE in passing.) + +HENRIETTE. Think of it, that we should meet at last! + +MAURICE. Do you find anything remarkable in that? + +HENRIETTE. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe has done +his best to prevent it. + +MAURICE. Has he? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, you must have noticed it. + +MAURICE. I have noticed it, but why should you mention it? + +HENRIETTE. I had to. + +MAURICE. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted to run +away through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and was +stopped by a guest who closed the door in front of me. + +HENRIETTE. Why do you tell me about it now? + +MAURICE. I don't know. + +(MME. CATHERINE upsets a number of glasses and bottles.) + +MAURICE. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's nothing to be +afraid of. + +HENRIETTE. Was that meant as a signal or a warning? + +MAURICE. Probably both. + +HENRIETTE. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to have +flagmen ahead of it? + +MAURICE. And switchmen! The danger is always greatest at the +switches. + +HENRIETTE. How nasty you can be! + +MME. CATHERINE. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all. So far nobody +has been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him. + +MAURICE. Sh, sh, sh! + +HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] The old lady is rather impertinent. + +MAURICE. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so. + +HENRIETTE. With pleasure. This is not the place for me. I can just +feel their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out.] + +MAURICE. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine. + +MME. CATHERINE. A moment! May I speak a word to you, Monsieur +Maurice? + +MAURICE. [Stops unwillingly] What is it? + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! Don't do it! + +MAURICE. What? + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! + +MAURICE. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind, but she +interests me. Or hardly that even. + +MME. CATHERINE, Don't trust yourself! + +MAURICE. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out.] + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT II + +FIRST SCENE + +(The Auberge des Adrets: a café in sixteenth century style, with a +suggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are scattered +in corners and nooks. The walls are decorated with armour and +weapons. Along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses and +jugs.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are in evening dress and sit facing each +other at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and three +filled glasses. The third glass is placed at that side of the +table which is nearest the background, and there an easy-chair is +kept ready for the still missing "third man.") + +MAURICE. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table] If he +doesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming at +all. And suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [Touches +the third glass with the rim of his own.] + +HENRIETTE. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe! + +MAURICE. He won't come. + +HENRIETTE. He will come. + +MAURICE. He won't. + +HENRIETTE. He will. + +MAURICE. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I can hardly grasp +that a new life has begun. Think only: the manager believes that I +may count on no less than one hundred thousand francs. I'll spend +twenty thousand on a villa outside the city. That leaves me eighty +thousand. I won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for I +am tired, tired, tired. [Sinks back into the chair] Have you ever +felt really happy? + +HENRIETTE. Never. How does it feel? + +MAURICE. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot express it, +but I seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. It +isn't nice, but that's the way it is. + +HENRIETTE. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies? + +MAURICE. Why, the victor has to count his killed and wounded +enemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory. + +HENRIETTE. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that? + +MAURICE. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pressure of other +people's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant to +shake off the enemy and draw a full breath at last. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you find it strange that yon are sitting here, +alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you-- +and on an evening like this, when you ought to have a craving to +show yourself like a triumphant hero to all the people, on the +boulevards, in the big restaurants? + +MAURICE. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to be +here, and your company is all I care for. + +HENRIETTE. You don't look very hilarious. + +MAURICE. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep a +little. + +HENRIETTE. What is the meaning of that? + +MAURICE. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness and +waiting for misfortune to appear. + +HENRIETTE. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing anyhow? + +MAURICE. I miss the only thing that gives value to life. + +HENRIETTE. So you love her no longer then? + +MAURICE. Not in the way I understand love. Do you think she has +read my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh, she is so good, so +self-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for a +night's fun she would regard as sinful. Once I treated her to +champagne, you know, and instead of feeling happy over it, she +picked up the wine list to see what it cost. And when she read the +price, she wept--wept because Marion was in need of new stockings. +It is beautiful, of course: it is touching, if you please. But I +can get no pleasure out of it. And I do want a little pleasure +before life runs out. So far I have had nothing but privation, but +now, now--life is beginning for me. [The clock strikes twelve] Now +begins a new day, a new era! + +HENRIETTE. Adolphe is not coming. + +MAURICE. No, now he won't, come. And now it is too late to go back +to the Crêmerie. + +HENRIETTE. But they are waiting for you. + +MAURICE. Let them wait. They have made me promise to come, and I +take back my promise. Are you longing to go there? + +HENRIETTE. On the contrary! + +MAURICE. Will you keep me company then? + +HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me. + +MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, you +know, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't place +it at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless when +you have not a woman. + +HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you? + +MAURICE. Well, that's the question. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hour +of success and fame? + +MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it. + +HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are the +most envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps your +conscience is troubling you because you have neglected that +invitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at the +milk shop? + +MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and +even here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, +their well-grounded anger. My comrades in distress had the right +to demand my presence this evening. The good Madame Catherine had +a privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope was +to spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. And I +have robbed them of their faith in me. I can hear the vows they +have been making: "Maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; he +doesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his word." Now I +have made them forswear themselves. + +(While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begun +to play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. +3). The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and at +last passionately, violently, with complete abandon.) + +MAURICE. Who can be playing at this time of the night? + +HENRIETTE. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. But +listen! Your presentation of the case is not correct. Remember +that Adolphe promised to meet us here. We waited for him, and he +failed to keep his promise. So that you are not to blame-- + +MAURICE. You think so? While you are speaking, I believe you, but +when you stop, my conscience begins again. What have you in that +package? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send up +to the stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me give it to you +now--it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. +[She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him on +the forehead] Hail to the victor! + +MAURICE. Don't! + +HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King! + +MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me. + +HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid of +fortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you +into a dwarf? + +MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in the +clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my +weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You think +that my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. On the +contrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I am +afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over +there and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which you +don't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glass +off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--you +absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. You +stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself +already beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I will +crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no +longer yours. + +HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero! + +MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful +helper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied? + +HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think you +love me, Maurice. + +MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man's +courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do +you lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when I +heard them speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, your +soul poured itself into mine. And when you left, I could still +feel your presence in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, but +something held me back, and this evening we have been driven +together as the prey is driven into the hunter's net. Whose is the +fault? Your friend's, who pandered for us! + +HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what does +it mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together +before. He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, +to which he had no right himself. I am jealous of him on your +behalf. I hate him because he has cheated you out of your +mistress. I should like to blot him from the host of the living, +and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make him +unmade, unborn! + +MAURICE. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. We'll +cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and +then we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will never +look up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is sealed. Woe unto +us! What will come next? + +HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package? + +MAURICE. I cannot remember. + +HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of +gloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fifty +centimes. + +MAURICE. [Snatching the things away from her] Don't you touch +them! + +HENRIETTE. They are from her? + +MAURICE. Yes, they are. + +HENRIETTE. Give them to me. + +MAURICE. No, she's better than we, better than everybody else. + +HENRIETTE. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider and +stingier. One who weeps because you order champagne-- + +MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a good +woman. + +HENRIETTE. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I am an +artist, and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's cap +instead of the laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne? + +MAURICE. How do you know? + +HENRIETTE. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers. + +MAURICE. Henriette! + +(HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into the +fireplace.) + +MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. +You shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, +then I'll send you packing. + +HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me? + +MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. But +I believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. I +believe that the evil within you draws me with the irresistible +lure of novelty. + +HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime? + +MAURICE. No real one. Have you? + +HENRIETTE. Yes. + +MAURICE. Well, how did you find it? + +HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by that +we are placed on equality with others; it was greater than to +perform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised above +others and rewarded. That crime placed me outside and beyond life, +society, and my fellow-beings. Since then I am living only a +partial life, a sort of dream life, and that's why reality never +gets a hold on me. + +MAURICE. What was it you did? + +HENRIETTE. I won't tell, for then you would get scared again. + +MAURICE. Can you never be found out? + +HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, +frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where the +scaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open a +pack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds. + +MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind. + +MAURICE. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. Have you +no conscience? + +HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk of +something else. + +MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love? + +HENRIETTE. Of that you don't talk until it is over. + +MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe? + +HENRIETTE. I don't know. The goodness of his nature drew me like +some beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet there +was much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had to +spend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, +before I could make a presentable figure of him. When he talked, I +could notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson was +often badly digested and awkwardly applied. You can imagine then +how miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted to +study the original. That's why he was afraid of having us two +meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his time +was up. + +MAURICE. Poor Adolphe! + +HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must be +suffering beyond all bounds-- + +MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming. + +HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he? + +MAURICE. That would be unbearable. + +HENRIETTE. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you think +the situation would have shaped itself? + +MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you because +he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried to +find us in several other cafes--but his soreness would have +changed into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had not +deceived him. And in the joy at having wronged us by his +suspicions, he would love both of us. And so it would make him +happy to notice that we had become such good friends. It had +always been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dream +that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the +world a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, I +trust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly +because your feelings are tied up elsewhere." + +HENRIETTE. Bravo! You must have been in a similar situation +before, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. Do you +know that Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannot +enjoy his mistress without having his friend along? + +MAURICE. That's why I had to be called in to entertain you--Hush! +There is somebody outside--It must be he. + +HENRIETTE. No, don't you know these are the hours when ghosts +walk, and then you can see so many things, and hear them also. To +keep awake at night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me the +same charm as a crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond the +laws of nature. + +MAURICE. But the punishment is fearful--I am shivering or +quivering, with cold or with fear. + +HENRIETTE. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this on. It will +make you warm. + +MAURICE. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your skin, as +if my body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were being +remoulded in your shape. I can feel the moulding process going on. +But I am also growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, where +your bosom has left an impression, I can feel my own beginning to +bulge. + +(During this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has been +practicing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimes +wildly fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a little +while, and at other times nothing has been heard but a part of the +finale: bars 96 to 107.) + +MAURICE. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing on the +piano. It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know what I propose? Let +us drive out to the Bois de Boulogne and take breakfast in the +Pavilion, and see the sun rise over the lakes. + +HENRIETTE. Bully! + +MAURICE. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail and the +morning papers sent out by messenger to the Pavilion. Tell me, +Henriette: shall we invite Adolphe? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that's going too far! But why not? The ass can also +be harnessed to the triumphal chariot. Let him come. [They get +up.] + +MAURICE. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring. + +HENRIETTE. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms.] + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois de +Boulogne. It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, +and divans. There are glass doors in the background, and beside +them windows overlooking the lakes. In the foreground a table is +spread, with flowers in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine in +decanters, oysters on platters, many different kinds of wine +glasses, and two lighted candelabra. On the right there is a round +table full of newspapers and telegrams.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are sitting opposite each other at this +small table.) + +(The sun is just rising outside.) + +MAURICE. There is no longer any doubt about it. The newspapers +tell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on my +success. This is the beginning of a new life, and my fate is +wedded to yours by this night, when you were the only one to share +my hopes and my triumph. From your hand I received the laurel, and +it seems to me as if everything had come from you. + +HENRIETTE. What a wonderful night! Have we been dreaming, or is +this something we have really lived through? + +MAURICE. [Rising] And what a morning after such a night! I feel as +if it were the world's first day that is now being illumined by +the rising sun. Only this minute was the earth created and +stripped of those white films that are now floating off into +space. There lies the Garden of Eden in the rosy light of dawn, +and here is the first human couple--Do you know, I am so happy I +could cry at the thought that all mankind is not equally happy--Do +you hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves beating against a +rocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest? Do you know +what it is? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the columns +of smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands? +They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, +then it must become so, for I will it. At this moment all the +telegraph instruments of Europe are clicking out my name. The +Oriental Express is carrying the newspapers to the Far East, +toward the rising sun; and the ocean steamers are carrying them to +the utmost West. The earth is mine, and for that reason it is +beautiful. Now I should like to have wings for us two, so that we +might rise from here and fly far, far away, before anybody can +soil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out of my +dream--for it is probably a dream! + +HENRIETTE. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can feel that +you are not dreaming. + +MAURICE. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a poor young +man, you know, when I was walking in the woods down there, and +looked up to this Pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, +and always my thoughts carried me up to this room, with the +balcony outside and the heavy curtains, as to a place of supreme +bliss. To be sitting here in company with a beloved woman and see +the sun rise while the candles were still burning in the +candelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my youth. Now it +has come true, and now I have no more to ask of life--Do you want +to die now, together with me? + +HENRIETTE. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living. + +MAURICE. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes reality. I +can hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting with alarm, and +his heart is beating with dread of having lost what it holds most +precious. Can you believe me if I tell you that Adolphe is under +this roof? Within a minute he will be standing in the middle of +this floor. + +HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him to come +here, and I am already regretting it--Well, we shall see anyhow if +your forecast of the situation proves correct. + +MAURICE. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings. + +(The HEAD WAITER enters with a card.) + +MAURICE. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To HENRIETTE] I am afraid +we'll regret this. + +HENRIETTE. Too late to think of that now--Hush! + +(ADOLPHE enters, pale and hollow-eyed.) + +MAURICE. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are! What +became of you last night? + +ADOLPHE. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and waited a +whole hour. + +MAURICE. So you went to the wrong place. We were waiting several +hours for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and we are still waiting +for you, as you see. + +ADOLPHE. [Relieved] Thank heaven! + +HENRIETTE. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always expecting the +worst and worrying yourself needlessly. I suppose you imagined +that we wanted to avoid your company. And though you see that we +sent for you, you are still thinking yourself superfluous. + +ADOLPHE. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was dreadful. + +(They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows.) + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Well, are you not going to congratulate +Maurice on his great success? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and envy itself +cannot deny it. Everything is giving way before you, and even I +have a sense of my own smallness in your presence. + +MAURICE. Nonsense!--Henriette, are you not going to offer Adolphe +a glass of wine? + +ADOLPHE. Thank you, not for me--nothing at all! + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] What's the matter with you? Are you ill? + +ADOLPHE. Not yet, but-- + +HENRIETTE. Your eyes-- + +ADOLPHE. What of them? + +MAURICE. What happened at the Crêmerie last night? I suppose they +are angry with me? + +ADOLPHE. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused a +depression which it hurt me to watch. But nobody was angry with +you, believe me. Your friends understood, and they regarded your +failure to come with sympathetic forbearance. Madame Catherine +herself defended you and proposed your health. We all rejoiced in +your success as if it had been our own. + +HENRIETTE. Well, those are nice people! What good friends you +have, Maurice. + +MAURICE. Yes, better than I deserve. + +ADOLPHE. Nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are a +man greatly blessed in his friends--Can't you feel how the air is +softened to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that stream +toward you from a thousand breasts? + +(MAURICE rises in order to hide his emotion.) + +ADOLPHE. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of the +nightmare that had been crushing them during a lifetime. Humanity +had been slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why men +feel grateful toward you. To-day they are once more holding their +heads high and saying: You see, we are a little better than our +reputation after all. And that thought makes them better. + +(HENRIETTE tries to hide her emotion.) + +ADOLPHE. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a little in your +sunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go. + +MAURICE. Why should you go when you have only just arrived? + +ADOLPHE. Why? Because I have seen what I need not have seen; +because I know now that my hour is past. [Pause] That you sent for +me, I take as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of what +has happened, a frankness that hurts less than deceit. You hear +that I think well of my fellow-beings, and this I have learned +from you, Maurice. [Pause] But, my friend, a few moments ago I +passed through the Church of St. Germain, and there I saw a woman +and a child. I am not wishing that you had seen them, for what has +happened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought or a word to +them before you set them adrift on the waters of the great city, +then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. And now I bid you +good-by. + +HENRIETTE. Why must you go? + +ADOLPHE. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell you? + +HENRIETTE. No, I don't. + +ADOLPHE. Good-by then! [Goes out.] + +MAURICE. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked." + +HENRIETTE. What a difference between this scene and the one we +imagined! He is better than we. + +MAURICE. It seems to me now as if all the rest were better than +we. + +HENRIETTE. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, and +that the woods have lost their rose colour? + +MAURICE. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black. Let us +flee to some place where the sky is always blue and the trees are +always green. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, let us--but without any farewells. + +MAURICE. No, with farewells. + +HENRIETTE. We were to fly. You spoke of wings--and your feet are +of lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and get +two pairs of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourself +away. + +MAURICE. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little arms +is needed to hold me fast. + +HENRIETTE. It is the child that holds you then, and not the woman? + +MAURICE. It is the child. + +HENRIETTE. The child! Another woman's child! And for the sake of +it I am to suffer. Why must that child block the way where I want +to pass, and must pass? + +MAURICE. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never existed. + +HENRIETTE. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But now it +does exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in the +ground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage. + +MAURICE. The triumphal chariot!--The ass is driven to death, but +the rock remains. Curse it! [Pause.] + +HENRIETTE. There is nothing to do. + +MAURICE. Yes, we must get married, and then our child will make us +forget the other one. + +HENRIETTE. This will kill this! + +MAURICE. Kill! What kind of word is that? + +HENRIETTE. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love. + +MAURICE. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, +but it will not be killed. + +HENRIETTE. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] Look +at it! Five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! Can it be possible +that our fates are determined in advance? That our thoughts are +guided as if through pipes to the spot for which they are bound, +without chance for us to stop them? But I don't want it, I don't +want it!--Do you realise that I must go to the scaffold if my +crime should be discovered? + +MAURICE. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time for it. + +HENRIETTE. No, I should regret it afterward, and you would despise +me--no, no, no!--Have you ever heard that a person could be hated +to death? Well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and my +sisters, and he melted away like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let us +talk of something else. And, above all, let us get away. The air +is poisoned here. To-morrow your laurels will be withered, the +triumph will be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant hero +will hold the public attention. Away from here, to work for new +victories! But first of all, Maurice, you must embrace your child +and provide for its immediate future. You don't have to see the +mother at all. + +MAURICE. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour, and I love +you doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide. + +HENRIETTE. And then you go to the Crêmerie and say good-by to the +old lady and your friends. Leave no unsettled business behind to +make your mind heavy on our trip. + +MAURICE. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at the +railroad station. + +HENRIETTE. Agreed! And then: away from here--away toward the sea +and the sun! + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT III + +FIRST SCENE + +(In the Crêmerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at the +counter, ADOLPHE at a table.) + +MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young ones +are always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubber +over it afterward. + +ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond as +ever of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick at +heart. You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; so +much that I wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give him +pleasure--but now I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the +loss of her. I have lost both of them, and so my loneliness is +made doubly painful. And then there is still something else which +I have not yet been able to clear up. + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't brood so much. Work and divert yourself. +Now, for instance, do you ever go to church? + +ADOLPHE. What should I do there? + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, there's so much to look at, and then there is +the music. There is nothing commonplace about it, at least. + +ADOLPHE. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold, I guess, +for it never stirs me to any devotion. And then, Madame Catherine, +faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven't got it yet. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, wait till you get it--But what is this I +heard a while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture in +London for a high price, and that you have got a medal? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, it's true. + +MME. CATHERINE. Merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say about +it? + +ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost +worthless to me at this moment. I am afraid of it as of a spectre: +it brings disaster to speak of having seen it. + +MME. CATHERINE. You're a queer fellow, and that's what you have +always been. + +ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune come +in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings out +true friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of +success--You asked me if I ever went to church, and I answered +evasively. This morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germain +without really knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I were +looking for somebody in there--somebody to whom I could silently +offer my gratitude. But I found nobody. Then I dropped a gold coin +in the poor-box. It was all I could get out of my church-going, +and that was rather commonplace, I should say. + +MME. CATHERINE. It was always something; and then it was fine to +think of the poor after having heard good news. + +ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something I +did because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurred +while I was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, +and her child. Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they +seemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shape +you keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful and +considerate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden desert +a woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain. + +ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understand +it himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quite +natural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagine +anything else. It was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction +of a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, +Madame Catherine, that we cannot explain, and for this reason it +is not for us to judge. And besides, you saw how it happened. +Maurice felt the danger in the air. I foresaw it and tried to +prevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run away from it, but +nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid by some +invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile into +each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this case, but +I wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty." + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that's +what I call religion. + +ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowing +it. + +MME. CATHERINE. But then, to _let_ oneself be driven or tempted +into evil, as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or bad +character. And if you feel your strength failing you, then you ask +for help, and then you get it. But he was too conceited to do +that--Who is this coming? The Abbé, I think. + +ADOLPHE. What does he want here? + +ABBÉ. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening, Monsieur. + +MME. CATHERINE. Can I be of any service? + +ABBÉ. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here to-day? + +MME. CATHERINE. Not to-day. His play has just been put on, and +that is probably keeping him busy. + +ABBÉ. I have--sad news to bring him. Sad in several respects. + +MME. CATHERINE. May I ask of what kind? + +ABBÉ. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that girl, +Jeanne, is dead. + +MME. CATHERINE. Dead! + +ADOLPHE. Marion dead! + +ABBÉ. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previous +illness. + +MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways! + +ABBÉ. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Maurice +look after her, so we must try to find him. But first a question +in confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond of +the child, or was indifferent to it? + +MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know how +he loved her. + +ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that. + +ABBÉ. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as I +am concerned. + +MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it? + +ABBÉ. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in the +neighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its mother in +order to go away with a strange woman. In a few hours this rumour +has grown into definite accusations, and at the same time the +feeling against him has risen to such a point that his life is +threatened and he is being called a murderer. + +MME. CATHERINE. Good God, what is _this_? What does it mean? + +ABBÉ. Now I'll tell you my opinion--I am convinced that the man is +innocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about it +as I do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I think +he will find it rather hard to clear himself when the police come +to question him. + +ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter? + +ABBÉ. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him against +all those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably the +Commissaire will be here soon. + +MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a man +cannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when he +trifles with vice. God will punish! + +ADOLPHE. Then he is more merciless than man. + +ABBÉ. What do you know about that? + +ADOLPHE. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what happens-- + +ABBÉ. And you understand it also? + +ADOLPHE. Not yet perhaps. + +ABBÉ. Let us look more closely at the matter--Oh, here comes the +Commissaire. + +COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have to +trouble you for a moment with a few questions concerning Monsieur +Maurice. As you have probably heard, he has become the object of a +hideous rumour, which, by the by, I don't believe in. + +MME. CATHERINE. None of us believes in it either. + +COMMISSAIRE. That strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sake +I must give him a chance to defend himself. + +ABBÉ. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although it +may come hard. + +COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I have +seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocence +was discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. The +little girl, Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretly +visited by the father, who seems to have made sure of the time +when the child was to be found alone. Fifteen minutes after his +visit the mother returned home and found the child dead. All this +makes the position of the accused man very unpleasant--The post- +mortem examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison, +but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that leave +no traces behind them. To me all this is mere coincidence of the +kind I frequently come across. But here's something that looks +worse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge des +Adrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, +they were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and the +scaffold were both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for a +pair of lovers of good breeding and good social position! But even +this may be passed over, as we know by experience that people who +have been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to dig +up all the worst that lies at the bottom of their souls. Far more +serious is the evidence given by the head waiter as to their +champagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this morning. He says +that he heard them wish the life out of a child. The man is said +to have remarked that, "It would be better if it had never +existed." To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it does +exist." And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "This +will kill this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word is +that?" And also: "The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, the +Place de Roquette." All this, you see, will be hard to get out of, +and so will the foreign journey planned for this evening. These +are serious matters. + +ADOLPHE. He is lost! + +MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what to +believe. + +ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on him! + +ADOLPHE. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it. + +MME. CATHERINE. He had no business to get in. + +ADOLPHE. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes and no. I have got beyond having an opinion in +this matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as you +turn your hand, and then become angels again? + +COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have to +wait and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judged +unheard. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Madame Catherine. +[Goes out.] + +ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. + +ADOLPHE. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for the +undoing of man. + +ABBÉ. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is a +terrible test. + +JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me for +asking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, madame, but I think he may be here any minute. +You haven't met him then since-- + +JEANNE. Not since this morning. + +MME. CATHERINE. Let me tell you that I share in your great sorrow. + +JEANNE. Thank you, madame. [To the ABBÉ] So you are here, Father. + +ABBÉ. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use to you. And +it was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to the +Commissaire. + +JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he? + +ABBÉ. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances are +against him in a most appalling manner. + +JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--it +means nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Maurice +had had a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimes +and their punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman in +his company who dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should like +to have a look into that woman's eyes. + +ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman may +have done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, she +had no intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of her +nature. I know her to be a good soul and one who can very well +bear being looked straight in the eye. + +JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value to +me, and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot hold +anybody but myself responsible for what has happened. It is my +carelessness that is now being punished. [She begins to cry.] + +ABBÉ. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the serious +spirit in which you have regarded your motherhood. That your +assumption of this responsibility had not been sanctioned by +religion and the civil law was not your fault. No, we are here +facing something quite different. + +ADOLPHE. What then? + +ABBÉ. Who can tell? + +(HENRIETTE enters, dressed in travelling suit.) + +ADOLPHE. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to meet +HENRIETTE] You here? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice? + +ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you? + +HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but I +was ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. +[To ADOLPHE] Who is that woman?--Oh! + +(HENRIETTE and JEANNE stare at each other.) + +(EMILE appears in the kitchen door.) + +HENRIETTE. [To JEANNE] I ought to say something, but it matters +very little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or a +mockery. But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deep +sorrow as much as anybody standing closer to you, then you must +not turn away from me. You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if not +your forbearance. [Holds out her hand.] + +JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the next +moment I don't. [Takes HENRIETTE'S hand.] + +HENRIETTE. [Kisses JEANNE'S hand] Thank you! + +JEANNE. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't deserve it! I +don't deserve it! + +ABBÉ. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems to +prevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, +shed some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surrounding +the main point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend among +friends, to tell us what you meant with all that talk about +killing, and crime, and the Place de Roquette. That your words had +no connection with the death of the child, we have reason to +believe, but it would give us added assurance to hear what you +were really talking about. Won't you tell us? + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I cannot! + +ADOLPHE. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will relieve us +all. + +HENRIETTE. I cannot! Don't ask me! + +ABBÉ. This is not the work of man! + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in this manner! +[To JEANNE] Madame, I swear that I am not guilty of your child's +death. Is that enough? + +JEANNE. Enough for us, but not for Justice. + +HENRIETTE. Justice! If you knew how true your words are! + +ABBÉ. [To HENRIETTE] And if you knew what you were saying just +now! + +HENRIETTE. Do you know that better than I? + +ABBÉ. Yes, I do. + +(HENRIETTE looks fixedly at the ABBÉ.) + +ABBÉ. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will not +be exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, but +a great deal with divine mercy. + +MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't look +at the others, who are standing in the background, but goes +straight up to the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting.] You +are not angry at me, Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. I +have come now to apologise to you before I start for the South at +eight o'clock this evening. + +(MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word.) + +MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does all +this mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see that +it is all real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, +looking like a statue and dressed in black--And Henriette looking +like a corpse--What does it mean? + +(All remain silent.) + +MAURICE. Nobody answers. It must mean something dreadful. +[Silence] But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my friend, what is +it? [Pointing to EMILE] And there is a detective! + +ADOLPHE. [Comes forward] You don't know then? + +MAURICE. Nothing at all. But I must know! + +ADOLPHE. Well, then--Marion is dead. + +MAURICE. Marion--dead? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, she died this morning. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] So that's why you are in mourning. Jeanne, +Jeanne, who has done this to us? + +JEANNE. He who holds life and death in his hand. + +MAURICE. But I saw her looking well and happy this morning. How +did it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyes +seek HENRIETTE.] + +ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none to +he found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion in +a direction where none ought to exist. + +MAURICE. What direction is that? + +ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk last +night and this morning has placed you in a light that is anything +but favourable. + +MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were we +saying--I remember!--Then I am lost! + +ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believe +you. + +MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, but +it doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead! And I have killed her! + +(General consternation.) + +ADOLPHE. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your words! Do you +realise what you said just now? + +MAURICE. What did I say? + +ADOLPHE. You said that you had killed Marion. + +MAURICE. Is there a human being here who could believe me a +murderer, and who could hold me capable of taking my own child's +life? You who know me, Madame Catherine, tell me: do you believe, +can you believe-- + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't know any longer what to believe. What the +heart thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spoken +evil words. + +MAURICE. She doesn't believe me! + +ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant by +saying that "your love would kill everything that stood in its +way." + +MAURICE. So they know that too--Are you willing to explain it, +Henriette? + +HENRIETTE. No, I cannot do that. + +ABBÉ. There is something wrong behind all this and you have lost +our sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that you +were innocent, and I wouldn't do that now. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me than +anything else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who was +it you cursed during that orgie out there? + +MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet I +am guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed of +myself, and I have done more wrong than I can forgive myself. + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't do +himself any harm. + +ADOLPHE. Shall I--? + +HENRIETTE. Who else? + +ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! A +carriage is stopping outside. + +MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen of +life, I could never have believed that success and fame were such +short-lived things. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrol +wagon! + +JEANNE. [Simply] And the ass--who was that? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, that must have been me. + +COMMISSAIRE. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons to Police +Headquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gérard--and +for Mademoiselle Henrietta Mauclerc--both here? + +MAURICE and HENRIETTE. Yes. + +MAURICE. Is this an arrest? + +COMMISSAIRE. Not yet. Only a summons. + +MAURICE. And then? + +COMMISSAIRE. We don't know yet. + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE go toward the door.) + +MAURICE. Good-bye to all! + +(Everybody shows emotion. The COMMISSAIRE, MAURICE, and HENRIETTE +go out.) + +EMILE. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Now I'll take you home, +sister. + +JEANNE. And what do you think of all this? + +EMILE. The man is innocent. + +ABBÉ. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, something +despicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonable +when a woman and her child are involved. + +EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when it +concerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented from +throwing the first stone because I have done the same thing +myself. + +ABBÉ. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am not +throwing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is +punished by its consequences. + +JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them! + +ABBÉ. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence +to want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happened +here is, indeed, not the work of man. + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at the +same table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the second +act. A cup of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE has +ordered nothing.) + +ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here? + +HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack of +evidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets before +it was dark. + +ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to me +since yesterday. + +HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardly +breathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody is +spying not only on my words but on my thoughts. + +ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't find +you? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame when +I think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, +stuff than he or I-- + +ADOLPHE. Sh, sh, sh! + +HENRIETTE. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made me stay here? I +was lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched +me--I cannot explain it. But if you had come, it would never have +happened. And to-day you are great, and he is small--less than the +least of all. Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-day +he has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And public +opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will be +judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that see +farthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he was +responsible for it anyhow. + +ADOLPHE. You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, +but I should like to know that both of you are spotless. Won't you +tell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be a +chance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so +largely with killing and the scaffold. + +HENRIETTE. It was no chance. It was something that had to be said, +something I cannot tell you--probably because I have no right to +appear spotless in your eyes, seeing that I am not spotless. + +ADOLPHE. All this is beyond me. + +HENRIETTE. Let us talk of something else--Do you believe there are +many unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may even +be our intimate friends? + +ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean? + +HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some time +or another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fall +under the law if it were discovered? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapes +being punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises and +unbuttons his coat] And--nobody is really good who has not erred. +[Breathing heavily] For in order to know how to forgive, one must +have been in need of forgiveness--I had a friend whom we used to +regard as a model man. He never spoke a hard word to anybody; he +forgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with a +strange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. At last, late in +life, he gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent! [He +sits down again.] + +(HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise.) + +ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes not +mentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, for +they have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be more +severe than we are against our own selves. + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he find +peace? + +ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree of +composure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. He +never dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared to +feel himself entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise: +in a word, he could never quite forgive himself. + +HENRIETTE. Never? What had he done then? + +ADOLPHE. He had wished the life out of his father. And when his +father suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. +Those imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, +and he was sent to an asylum. From this he was discharged after a +time as wholly recovered--as they put it. But the sense of guilt +remained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for his +evil thoughts. + +HENRIETTE. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill? + +ADOLPHE. You mean in some mystic way? + +HENRIETTE. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my own family--I +am sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with their +hatred. You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all our +tastes and inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, he +tried to root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance that +accumulated until it became like an electrical battery charged +with hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished away, +became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came to +wish himself dead. + +ADOLPHE. And your conscience never troubled you? + +HENRIETTE. No, and furthermore, I don't know what conscience is. + +ADOLPHE. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn. [Pause] How do +you believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you think +he will say? + +HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make the +same kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you. + +ADOLPHE. Well? + +HENRIETTE. We guessed entirely wrong. + +ADOLPHE. Can you tell me why you sent for me? + +HENRIETTE. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty! + +ADOLPHE. How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yet +not repent of them. + +HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible for +them. They are like the dirt left behind by things handled during +the day and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do you +really think so highly of humanity as you profess to do? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and a +little worse. + +HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer. + +ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me frankly +when I ask you: do you still love Maurice? + +HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment I +feel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well live +without him. + +ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chained +to his fate--Sh! Here he comes. + +HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is the +same, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting you +yesterday. + +MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, +my dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cell +changed me into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE and +ADOLPHE.] + +ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk +things over. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Perhaps I am in the way? + +ADOLPHE. Now, don't get bitter. + +MAURICE. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, and +suspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And who +wants to keep company with a murderer? + +HENRIETTE. But you have been cleared of the charge. + +MAURICE. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not by +public opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gérard, once a +playwright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc-- + +HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters--my mother! Jesus have +mercy! + +MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? And +then it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't a +vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of my +own, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and +he is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, +Solon! Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate, +Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded. + +HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great success +in London and carried off the first prize? + +MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe? + +ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize. + +HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are also +prevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend? + +ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes! + +MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still +farther apart. + +ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonely +with my success as you with your adversity. Think of it--that +people feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive! + +MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyes +had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape +of all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the room +I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise both +of you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here and +search for words because I don't know what to say to you. I ought +to defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it +protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass +right through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don't +love me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you. To- +day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive. + +(Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a +table in the background.) + +ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That you +have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in +some of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the whole +matter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the +worst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and let +everything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind will +be exonerated yourself. + +MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha! + +ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, if +I ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of +looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. When +I, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what +must then be the wretchedness of the rest? + +ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and then +we'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different +way. + +MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!--It means +that I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myself +away by careless talking. + +ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. I +recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.] + +MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette and +I may come to open explanations. + +ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Try +to keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goes +out.] + +HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt or +guiltlessness? + +MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot of +nonsense while I was drunk. But it is your crime that comes back, +and that crime you have grafted on to me. + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--Was it not you +who cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, and +wanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was it +not I who made you visit Marion and show yourself to Madame +Catherine? + +MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself more +human than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But all +the same I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which I +can never free myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yet +guilty! Oh, it is driving me mad--Look, now they sit over there +and listen to us--And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll go +out and order a cup of tea. Do you want anything? + +HENRIETTE. Nothing. + +(MAURICE goes out.) + +FIRST DETECTIVE. [Goes up to HENRIETTE] Let me look at your +papers. + +HENRIETTE. How dare you speak to me? + +DETECTIVE. Dare? I'll show you! + +HENRIETTE. What do you mean? + +DETECTIVE. It's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. Yesterday +you came here with one man, and today with another. That's as good +as walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anything +here. So you'd better get out and come along with me. + +HENRIETTE. My escort will be back in a moment. + +DETECTIVE. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kind +that doesn't help a girl a bit! + +HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!--I am of good family, I +tell you. + +DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too well +known through the papers. Come along! + +HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean? + +DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nice +little card and a license that brings you free medical care. + +HENRIETTE. O Lord Jesus, you don't mean it! + +DETECTIVE. [Grabbing HENRIETTE by the arm] Don't I mean it? + +HENRIETTE. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice! Help! + +DETECTIVE. Shut up, you fool! + +(MAURICE enters, followed by WAITER.) + +WAITER. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here. You just pay +and get out! And take the girl along! + +MAURICE. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] Henriette, +pay for me, and let us get away from this place. I haven't a sou +left. + +WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Do +you know what that is? + +HENRIETTE. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful heavens! +I have no money either!--Why doesn't Adolphe come back? + +DETECTIVE. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out of here, +and put up something as security. That kind of ladies generally +have their fingers full of rings. + +MAURICE. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low? + +HENRIETTE. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the WAITER] The Abbé +was right: this is not the work of man. + +MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!--But if we leave before Adolphe +returns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away. + +HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest--But we'll go +into the river now, won't we? + +MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together] +Into the river--yes! + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT IV + +FIRST SCENE + +(In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The wind +is shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, and +pieces of paper from the ground.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are seated on a bench.) + +HENRIETTE. So you don't want to die? + +MAURICE. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going to be very +cold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and a +few shavings to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as if +there were still some task waiting for me, but I cannot make out +what it is. + +HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is. + +MAURICE. Tell me. + +HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanne +and Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such a +revenge on a rival none but a woman could devise. + +MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that my +suspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings during +these last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, for +instance, why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the head +waiter from the Pavilion were not called to testify at the +hearing? + +HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. They +had nothing to tell, because they had not been listening. + +MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had been +saying? + +HENRIETTE. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He was guessing, +and he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to deal with some similar +case before. + +MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had been +saying. There are those who can read other people's thoughts-- +Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we should +have called him an ass. It's the rule, I understand, although it's +varied at times by the use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearer +at hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages and +triumphal chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourth +fact, when you have three known ones to start from. + +HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so +completely. + +MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellow +beings. This is all you get out of it. But do you know, _I_ +suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, +must be a full-fledged scoundrel. + +HENRIETTE. You mean the Abbé, who was taking the part of a private +detective. + +MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds of +confessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been at +the Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there? +He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then the +priest put the questions together for the Commissaire. + +HENRIETTE. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe? + +MAURICE. I trust no human being any longer. + +HENRIETTE. Not even Adolphe? + +MAURICE. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy--a man from +whom I have taken away his mistress? + +HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'll +give you some data about our friend. You heard he had returned +that medal from London. Do you know his reason for doing so? + +MAURICE. No. + +HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a +penitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction. + +MAURICE. Can that he possible? But what has he done? + +HENRIETTE. He has committed a crime of the kind that is not +punishable under the law. That's what he gave me to understand +indirectly. + +MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, who +never speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything. + +HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse than +others. And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils +were after us. + +MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered--But if he +has been capable of _one_ crime, then you may expect anything of +him. Perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. +Coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us when +he saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insisted +that those fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you may +expect anything from a deceived lover. + +HENRIETTE. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is impossible, +impossible! + +MAURICE. Why so? If he is a scoundrel?--What were you two talking +of yesterday, before I came? + +HENRIETTE. He had nothing but good to say of you. + +MAURICE. That's a lie! + +HENRIETTE. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen. +There is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever-- +for what reason, I don't know. Have you thought of Madame +Catherine's wavering attitude in this matter? Didn't she say +finally that she believed you capable of anything? + +MAURICE. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is. +To think evil of other people without reason, you must be a +villain yourself. + +(HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause.) + +HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villain +yourself. + +MAURICE. What do you mean? + +HENRIETTE. What I said. + +MAURICE. Do you mean that I--? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here! Did you meet +anybody but Marion when you called there yesterday morning? + +MAURICE. Why do you ask? + +HENRIETTE. Guess! + +MAURICE. Well, as you seem to know--I met Jeanne, too. + +HENRIETTE. Why did you lie to me? + +MAURICE. I wanted to spare you. + +HENRIETTE. And now you want me to believe in one who has been +lying to me? No, my boy, now I believe you guilty of that murder. + +MAURICE. Wait a moment! We have now reached the place for which my +thoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as long +as possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last of +all, and what one doesn't _want_ to believe cannot be believed--Tell +me something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we parted +in the Bois? + +HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why? + +MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe--which you couldn't do, as he +was attending a lesson--or you went to--Marion! + +HENRIETTE. Now I am convinced that you are the murderer. + +MAURICE. And I, that you are the murderess! You alone had an +interest in getting the child out of the way--to get rid of the +rock on the road, as you so aptly put it. + +HENRIETTE. It was you who said that. + +MAURICE. And the one who had an interest in it must have committed +the crime. + +HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around in +this tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we get +to the point of sheer madness. + +MAURICE. You have reached that point already. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you think it's time for us to part, before we +drive each other insane? + +MAURICE. Yes, I think so. + +HENRIETTE. [Rising] Good-bye then! + +(Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background.) + +HENRIETTE. [Turns and comes back to MAURICE] There they are again! + +MAURICE. The dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden. + +HENRIETTE. And force us back upon each other as if we were chained +together. + +MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are we +really to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able to +close the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last? + +HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to +death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage +portion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and I +getting back at you with Jeanne--and Marion. + +MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you know +that she was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps? + +HENRIETTE. And you are not there? What does that mean? + +MAURICE. It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned me +against the rage of the people. + +HENRIETTE. A coward, too? + +MAURICE. All the vices! How could you ever have cared for me? + +HENRIETTE. Because two days ago you were another person, well +worthy of being loved-- + +MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth! + +HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt bad +qualities which are not your own. + +MAURICE. But yours? + +HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feel +myself at once a little better. + +MAURICE. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self- +respect. + +HENRIETTE. And how vulgar you have become, too! + +MAURICE. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myself +since that night in the cell. They put in one person and let out +another through that gate which separates us from the rest of +society. And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I should +like to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing +less than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour. + +HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widow +of a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of +honour and that kind of thing. Do you want to read the letter? No, +you don't!--Do you know that I am an outcast? My respectable +acquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I show +myself on the streets alone the police will take me. Do you +realise now that we have to get married? + +MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that is +hell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite our +destinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on more +equal terms. + +HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got into +trouble--you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole future +was at stake--and she died! + +MAURICE. That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, +too. + +HENRIETTE. You say so now, but the next time you lose your temper +you will accuse me of it. + +MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken my +faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is her +lover still alive, and does he know to what extent you were +responsible? + +HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I. + +MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him--such +things do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: then +you would be lost. + +HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has made +me rush from one dissipation to another--so that I should never +have time to wake up to full consciousness. + +MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out of +your dread. That's asking a little too much. + +HENRIETTE. But when I shared the shame of Maurice the murderer-- + +MAURICE. Oh, let's come to an end with it! + +HENRIETTE. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my hold +until I have put you where you belong. For you can't go around +thinking yourself better than I am. + +MAURICE. So you want to fight me then? All right, as you please! + +HENRIETTE. A fight on life and death! + +(The rolling of drums is heard in the distance.) + +MAURICE. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the ground for thy +sake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." + +HENRIETTE. "And the Lord God said unto the woman--" + +A GUARD. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but the +garden has to be closed. + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Crêmerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter making +entries into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at +a table.) + +ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurance +that I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought you +had played me false, this ought to convince you. + +HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellows +were not policemen? + +ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wanted +to reassure you. + +HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must also +believe me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you. + +ADOLPHE. Go on. + +HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk of +fancies and delusions. + +ADOLPHE. You seem to have reason to fear that I may. + +HENRIETTE. I fear nothing, but I know you and your scepticism-- +Well, and then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me! + +ADOLPHE. I promise. + +HENRIETTE. Now think of it, although I must say it's something +terrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or at +least, I have reasonable suspicions-- + +ADOLPHE. You don't mean it! + +HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me in +the Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the mother +was out. And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet the +mother. So that he has been lying to me. + +ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may have +been the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is +guilty of a murder? + +HENRIETTE. Can't you see that?--Don't you understand? + +ADOLPHE. Not at all. + +HENRIETTE. Because you don't want to!--Then there is nothing left +for me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove an +alibi. + +ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, +have reached the border line of--insanity. The demons of distrust +have got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of +partial guilt to wound the other with. Let me see if I can make a +straight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing his +child? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, he's mad enough to do so. + +ADOLPHE. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own. + +HENRIETTE. You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspect +him unjustly. + +ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Marion +died of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannot +recall just now. + +HENRIETTE. Is it true? + +ADOLPHE. The official report is printed in today's paper. + +HENRIETTE. I don't take any stock in it. They can make up that +kind of thing. + +ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette--or you may, without knowing it, pass +across that border line. Beware especially of throwing out +accusations that may put you into prison. Beware! [He places his +hand on her head] You hate Maurice? + +HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds! + +ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted +from the start. + +HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you who +are the only one that understands me. + +ADOLPHE. But you don't want any sermons. + +HENRIETTE. Have you nothing else to offer me? + +ADOLPHE. Nothing else. But they have helped me. + +HENRIETTE. Preach away then! + +ADOLPHE. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put the knife +to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that _your_ trouble +roots. + +HENRIETTE. Explain yourself. + +ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse +your qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as an +artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for +freedom and fun--as they call it. And you have seen now how much +fun there is in it. Then go home to your mother. + +HENRIETTE. Never! + +ADOLPHE. Some other place then. + +HENRIETTE. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed your +secret and why you wouldn't accept the prize? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told +story. + +HENRIETTE. Well--what did you do to get peace? + +ADOLPHE. What I have suggested: I became conscious of my guilt, +repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my life +like that of a penitent. + +HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have no +conscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith +is? + +ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless you +seek it--Seek! + +(HENRIETTE remains silent.) + +ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you may +harden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable. + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment? + +ADOLPHE. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by the +misdeeds of our lower selves. + +HENRIETTE. Then I must have a conscience also? + +ADOLPHE. Of course you have, but-- + +HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious? + +ADOLPHE. Not the least bit. + +HENRIETTE. It's all so queer--What is religion? + +ADOLPHE. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't think anybody +else can tell you. Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, +for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. +Good-bye, Adolphe! + +ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, I am going--to where you said. Good-bye my friend! +Good-bye, Madame Catherine! + +MME. CATHERINE. Have you to go in such a hurry? + +HENRIETTE. Yes. + +ADOLPHE. Do you want me to go with you? + +HENRIETTE. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone as I came +here, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don't +belong, and believing there was something called freedom, which +does not exist. Good-bye! [Goes out.] + +MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish she +had never come here at all! + +ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fill +here? And at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity. + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that. + +ADOLPHE. And she has even done less wrong than the rest of us. + +MME. CATHERINE. That's possible, but not probable. + +ADOLPHE. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine. Tell me: have +you never done anything wrong? + +MME. CATHERINE. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful human creature. +But if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right to +tell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severe +or uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that lady +entered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in. Just +like a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he has +to have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster. + +ADOLPHE. Well, hasn't he had his spanking? + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, as +he is still going around complaining. + +ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the whole +intricate question. + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise about +your vices, and while you are still at it the police come along +and solve the riddle. Now please leave me alone with my accounts! + +ADOLPHE. There's Maurice now. + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, God bless him! + +MAURICE. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat near +ADOLPHE] Good evening. + +(MME. CATHERINE nods and goes on figuring.) + +ADOLPHE. Well, how's everything with you? + +MAURICE. Oh, beginning to clear up. + +ADOLPHE. [Hands him a newspaper, which MAURICE does not take] So +you have read the paper? + +MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothing +but infamies in them. + +ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first-- + +MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies--But listen: I have +found a new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder? + +ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody! + +MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hour +when the child was left alone?--She was _there_! And it is she who +has done it! + +ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man. + +MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and has +threatened to report me. + +ADOLPHE. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used the self- +same words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it has been proved +by a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, +the name of which I have forgotten. + +MAURICE. It isn't true! + +ADOLPHE. That's what she said also. But the official report is +printed in the paper. + +MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up! + +ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you are +suffering from the same mental trouble. But with her I got far +enough to make her realise her own condition. + +MAURICE. Where did she go? + +ADOLPHE. She went far away from here to begin a new life. + +MAURICE. Hm, hm!--Did you go to the funeral? + +ADOLPHE. I did. + +MAURICE. Well? + +ADOLPHE. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard word +to say about you. + +MAURICE. She is a good woman. + +ADOLPHE. Why did you desert her then? + +MAURICE. Because I _was_ crazy--blown up with pride especially--and +then we had been drinking champagne-- + +ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drank +champagne? + +MAURICE. Yes, I understand now--And for that reason I have already +written to her and asked her to forgive me--Do you think she will +forgive me? + +ADOLPHE. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody. + +MAURICE. Do you think she will forgive me completely, so that she +will come back to me? + +ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about _that_. You have shown yourself so +poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust +her fate to you any longer. + +MAURICE. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, +and I know she will come back to me. + +ADOLPHE. How can you know that? How can you believe it? Didn't you +even suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sent +the police after Henriette out of revenge? + +MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer--that is to say, I +guess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer. + +MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of Monsieur +Emile? Of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybody +kept as straight as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot of +sense and tact. + +EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gérard? + +MAURICE. That's me. + +EMILE. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you in private. + +MAURICE. Go right on. We are all friends here. + +(The ABBÉ enters and sits down.) + +EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBÉ] Perhaps after-- + +MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbé is also a friend, although he and I +differ. + +EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gérard? My sister has asked me +to give you this package as an answer to your letter. + +(MAURICE takes the package and opens it.) + +EMILE. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way my +sister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, I +acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tie +between you does not exist any longer. + +MAURICE. But you must have a grudge against me? + +EMILE. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I should like +to have a declaration from you, here in the presence of your +friends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable of +such a meanness as to send the police after Mademoiselle +Henriette. + +MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you my +apology, if you will accept it. + +EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goes +out.] + +EVERYBODY. Good evening! + +MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for the +opening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into the +fireplace. Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up; +everything comes back!--And when she gave them to me in the +cemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, so +that other people would like me also--And she herself stayed at +home--This hurt her too deeply, and well it might. I have no right +to keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have I done this? +Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrifice +offered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order to +get--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that +would have belonged in the pillory--Abbé, now I come over to you. + +ABBÉ. Welcome! + +MAURICE. Give me the word that I need. + +ABBÉ. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and +inform you that you have done nothing wrong? + +MAURICE. Speak the right word! + +ABBÉ. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found your +behaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself. + +MAURICE. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this? + +ABBÉ. You know as well as I do. + +MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, +my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever. + +ABBÉ. And so you are looking for a new existence in some better +world, which you are now beginning to believe in? + +MAURICE. Yes, that's it. + +ABBÉ. You have been living in the flesh and you want now to live +in the spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no more +attractions for you? + +MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry +leaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind your +consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled +two days and lasted two eternities. + +ABBÉ. All right! But this is not the place to go into the matter +more closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nine +o'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach to +the inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step along +the hard road of penitence. + +MAURICE. Penitence? + +ABBÉ. Well, didn't you wish-- + +MAURICE. Yes, yes! + +ABBÉ. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock. + +MAURICE. That will be splendid! + +ABBÉ. Give me your hand that you will not look back. + +MAURICE. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand, and my will +goes with it. + +SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call for +Monsieur Maurice. + +MAURICE. From whom? + +SERVANT GIRL. From the theatre. + +(MAURICE tries to get away, but the ABBÉ holds on to his hand.) + +ABBÉ. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is. + +SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going to +attend the performance tonight. + +ABBÉ. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let you +go. + +MAURICE. What performance is that? + +ADOLPHE. Why don't you read the paper? + +MME. CATHERINE and the ABBÉ. He hasn't read the paper? + +MAURICE. It's all lies and slander. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Tell +them that I am engaged for this evening: I am going to church. + +(The SERVANT GIRL goes out into the kitchen.) + +ADOLPHE. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall have to tell +you that your play has been put on again, now when you are +exonerated. And your literary friends have planned a demonstration +for this evening in recognition of your indisputable talent. + +MAURICE. It isn't true. + +EVERYBODY. It is true. + +MAURICE. [After a pause] I have not deserved it! + +ABBÉ. Good! + +ADOLPHE. And furthermore, Maurice-- + +MAURICE. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore! + +MME. CATHERINE. One hundred thousand francs! Do you see now that +they come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everything +is coming back except Mademoiselle Henriette. + +ABBÉ. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little more +seriously, Madame Catherine. + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot--I just can't keep serious any +longer! + +[She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smother +with her handkerchief.] + +ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight. + +ABBÉ. But the church services are at nine. + +ADOLPHE. Maurice! + +MME. CATHERINE. Let us hear what the end is going to be, Monsieur +Maurice. + +(MAURICE drops his head on the table, in his arms.) + +ADOLPHE. Loose him, Abbé! + +ABBÉ. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do that +himself. + +MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbé. + +ABBÉ. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but a +scolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty to +yourself and to your good name. That you have got through with +this as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have suffered +your punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. And +when Providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add. + +MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I was +innocent? + +ABBÉ. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we have +to stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. +And in your thought you became a murderer when your evil self +wished the life out of your child. + +MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I will +meet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself-- +but to-morrow evening I go to the theatre. + +MME. CATHERINE. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice. + +ADOLPHE. Yes, that is the solution. Whew! + +ABBÉ. Yes, so it is! + +(Curtain.) + + + + +MISS JULIA + +INTRODUCTION + +The volume containing the translation of "There Are Crimes and +Crimes" had barely reached the public when word came across the +ocean that August Strindberg had ended his long fight with life. +His family had long suspected some serious organic trouble. Early +in the year, when lie had just recovered from an illness of +temporary character, their worst fears became confirmed. An +examination disclosed a case of cancer in the stomach, and the +disease progressed so rapidly that soon all hope of recovery was +out of the question. On May 14, 1912, Strindberg died. + +With his death peace came in more senses than one. All the fear and +hatred which he had incurred by what was best as well as worst in +him seemed to be laid at rest with his own worn-out body. The love +and the admiration which he had son in far greater measure were +granted unchecked expression. His burial, otherwise as simple as he +himself had prescribed, was a truly national event. At the grave of +the arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representative +of the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous members of +the Riksdag. Thousands of men and women representing the best of +Sweden's intellectual and artistic life went to the cemetery, +though the hour of the funeral was eight o'clock in the morning. It +was an event in which the masses and the classes shared a common +sorrow, the standards of student organizations mingling with the +banners of labour unions. And not only the capital, but the whole +country, observed the day as one of mourning. + +A thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on Strindberg's +death by the European press was that, in some mysterious manner, +he, more than any other writer, appeared to be the incarnation of +the past century, with its nervous striving after truth, its fear +of being duped, and its fretting dread that evolution and progress +might prove antagonistic terms. And at that simple grave in +Stockholm more than one bareheaded spectator must have heard the +gravel rattle on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only a +great individual, but a whole human period--great in spite of all +its weaknesses--was being laid away for ever. + + +Among more than half a hundred plays produced by Strindberg during +his lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "Miss +Julia," both on account of its masterful construction and its +gripping theme. Whether liking or disliking it, critics have +repeatedly compared it with Ibsen's "Ghosts," and not always to the +advantage of the latter work. It represents, first of all, its +author's most determined and most daring endeavour to win the +modern stage for Naturalism. If he failed in this effort, it must +be recalled to his honour that he was among the first to proclaim +his own failure and to advocate the seeking of new paths. When the +work was still hot from his hands, however, he believed in it with +all the fervour of which his spirit was capable, and to bring home +its lesson the more forcibly, he added a preface, a sort of +dramatic creed, explaining just what he had tried to do, and why. +This preface, which has become hardly less famous than the play +itself, is here, as I believe, for the first time rendered into +English. The acuteness and exhaustiveness of its analysis serves +not only to make it a psychological document of rare value, but +also to save me much of the comment which without it might be +deemed needful. + +Years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the exclusive +performance of his own plays at Stockholm, Strindberg formulated a +new dramatic creed--that of his mystical period, in which he was +wont to sign himself "the author of 'Gustavus Vasa,' 'The Dream +Play,' 'The Last Knight,' etc." It took the form of a pamphlet +entitled "A Memorandum to the Members of the Intimate Theatre from +the Stage Director" (Stockholm, 1908). There he gave the following +data concerning "Miss Julia," and the movement which that play +helped to start: + +"In the '80's the new time began to extend its demands for reform +to the stage also. Zola declared war against the French comedy, +with its Brussels carpets, its patent-leather shoes and +patent-leather themes, and its dialogue reminding one of the +questions and answers of the Catechism. In 1887 Antoine opened his +Théâtre Libre at Paris, and 'Thérèse Raquin,' although nothing but +an adapted novel, became the dominant model. It was the powerful +theme and the concentrated form that showed innovation, although +the unity of time was not yet observed, and curtain falls were +retained. It was then I wrote my dramas: 'Miss Julia,' 'The +Father,' and 'Creditors.' + +"'Miss Julia,' which was equipped with a now well-known preface, +was staged by Antoine, but not until 1892 or 1893, having previously +been played by the Students' Association of the Copenhagen +University in 1888 or 1889. In the spring of 1893 'Creditors' was +put on at the Théâtre L'OEuvre, in Paris, and in the fall of the +same year 'The Father' was given at the same theatre, with Philippe +Garnier in the title part. + +"But as early as 1889 the Freie Bühne had been started at Berlin, +and before 1893 all three of my dramas had been performed. 'Miss +Julia' was preceded by a lecture given by Paul Schlenther, now +director of the Hofburg Theater at Vienna. The principal parts were +played by Rosa Bertens, Emanuel Reicher, Rittner and Jarno. And +Sigismund Lautenburg, director of the Residenz Theater, gave more +than one hundred performances of 'Creditors.' + +"Then followed a period of comparative silence, and the drama sank +back into the old ruts, until, with the beginning of the new +century, Reinhardt opened his Kleines Theater. There I was played +from the start, being represented by the long one-act drama 'The +Link,' as well as by 'Miss Julia' (with Eysoldt in the title part), +and 'There Are Crimes and Crimes.'" + +He went on to tell how one European city after another had got its +"Little," or "Free," or "Intimate" theatre. And had he known of it, +he might have added that the promising venture started by Mr. +Winthrop Ames at New York comes as near as any one of its earlier +rivals in the faithful embodiment of those theories which, with +Promethean rashness, he had flung at the head of a startled world in +1888. For the usual thing has happened: what a quarter-century ago +seemed almost ludicrous in its radicalism belongs to-day to the +established traditions of every progressive stage. + +Had Strindberg been content with his position of 1888, many honours +now withheld might have fallen to his share. But like Ibsen, he was +first and last--and to the very last!--an innovator, a leader of +human thought and human endeavour. And so it happened that when the +rest thought to have overtaken him, he had already hurried on to a +more advanced position, heedless of the scorn poured on him by +those to whom "consistency" is the foremost of all human virtues. +Three years before his death we find him writing as follows in +another pamphlet "An Open Letter to the Intimate Theatre," +Stockholm, 1909--of the position once assumed so proudly and so +confidently by himself: + +"As the Intimate Theatre counts its inception from the successful +performance of 'Miss Julia' in 1900, it was quite natural that the +young director (August Falck) should feel the influence of the +Preface, which recommended a search for actuality. But that was +twenty years ago, and although I do not feel the need of attacking +myself in this connection, I cannot but regard all that pottering +with stage properties as useless." + + +It has been customary in this country to speak of the play now +presented to the public as "Countess Julie." The noble title is, of +course, picturesque, but incorrect and unwarranted. It is, I fear, +another outcome of that tendency to exploit the most sensational +elements in Strindberg's art which has caused somebody to translate +the name of his first great novel as "The Scarlet Room,"--instead +of simply "The Red Room,"--thus hoping to connect it in the reader's +mind with the scarlet woman of the Bible. + +In Sweden, a countess is the wife or widow of a count. His daughter +is no more a countess than is the daughter of an English earl. Her +title is that of "Fröken," which corresponds exactly to the German +"Fräulein" and the English "Miss." Once it was reserved for the +young women of the nobility. By an agitation which shook all Sweden +with mingled fury and mirth, it became extended to all unmarried +women. + +The French form of _Miss Julia's_ Christian name is, on the other +hand, in keeping with the author's intention, aiming at an +expression of the foreign sympathies and manners which began to +characterize the Swedish nobility in the eighteenth century, and +which continued to assert themselves almost to the end of the +nineteenth. But in English that form would not have the same +significance, and nothing in the play makes its use imperative. The +valet, on the other hand, would most appropriately be named _Jean_ +both in England and here, and for that reason I have retained this +form of his name. + +Almost every one translating from the Scandinavian languages +insists on creating a difficulty out of the fact that the three +northern nations--like the Germans and the French--still use the +second person singular of the personal pronoun to indicate a closer +degree of familiarity. But to translate the Swedish "du" with the +English "thou" is as erroneous as it is awkward. Tytler laid down +his "Principles of Translation" in 1791--and a majority of +translators are still unaware of their existence. Yet it ought to +seem self-evident to every thinking mind that idiomatic +equivalence, not verbal identity, must form the basis of a good and +faithful translation. When an English mother uses "you" to her +child, she establishes thereby the only rational equivalent for the +"du" used under similar circumstances by her Swedish sister. + +Nobody familiar with the English language as it actually springs +from the lips of living men and women can doubt that it offers ways +of expressing varying shades of intimacy no less effective than any +found in the Swedish tongue. Let me give an illustration from the +play immediately under discussion. Returning to the stage after the +ballet scene, _Jean_ says to _Miss Julia_: "I love you--can you +doubt it?" And her reply, literally, is: "You?--Say thou!" I have +merely made him say: "Can you doubt it, Miss Julia?" and her +answer: "Miss?--Call me Julia!" As that is just what would happen +under similar circumstances among English-speaking people, I +contend that not a whit of the author's meaning or spirit has been +lost in this translation. + +If ever a play was written for the stage, it is this one. And on +the stage there is nothing to take the place of the notes and +introductory explanations that so frequently encumber the printed +volume. On the stage all explanations must lie within the play +itself, and so they should in the book also, I believe. The +translator is either an artist or a man unfit for his work. As an +artist he must have a courage that cannot even be cowed by his +reverence for the work of a great creative genius. If, mistakenly, +he revere the letter of that work instead of its spirit, then he +will reduce his own task to mere literary carpentry, and from his +pen will spring not a living form, like the one he has been set to +transplant, but only a death mask! + + +AUTHOR'S PREFACE + +Like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed to me +a sort of _Biblia Pauperum_, or a Bible in pictures for those who +cannot read what is written or printed. And in the same way the +playwright has seemed to me a lay preacher spreading the thoughts +of his time in a form so popular that the middle classes, from +which theatrical audiences are mainly drawn, can know what is being +talked about without troubling their brains too much. For this +reason the theatre has always served as a grammar-school to young +people, women, and those who have acquired a little knowledge, all +of whom retain the capacity for deceiving themselves and being +deceived--which means again that they are susceptible to illusions +produced by the suggestions of the author. And for the same reason +I have had a feeling that, in our time, when the rudimentary, +incomplete thought processes operating through our fancy seem to be +developing into reflection, research, and analysis, the theatre +might stand on the verge of being abandoned as a decaying form, for +the enjoyment of which we lack the requisite conditions. The +prolonged theatrical crisis now prevailing throughout Europe speaks +in favour of such a supposition, as well as the fact that, in the +civilised countries producing the greatest thinkers of the age, +namely, England and Germany, the drama is as dead as are most of +the other fine arts. + +In some other countries it has, however, been thought possible to +create a new drama by filling the old forms with the contents of a +new time. But, for one thing, there has not been time for the new +thoughts to become so popularized that the public might grasp the +questions raised; secondly, minds have been so inflamed by party +conflicts that pure and disinterested enjoyment has been excluded +from places where one's innermost feelings are violated and the +tyranny of an applauding or hissing majority is exercised with the +openness for which the theatre gives a chance; and, finally, there +has been no new form devised for the new contents, and the new wine +has burst the old bottles. + +In the following drama I have not tried to do anything new--for +that cannot be done--but I have tried to modernize the form in +accordance with the demands which I thought the new men of a new +time might be likely to make on this art. And with such a purpose +in view, I have chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme that +might well be said to lie outside the partisan strife of the day: +for the problem of social ascendancy or decline, of higher or +lower, of better or worse, of men or women, is, has been, and will +be of lasting interest. In selecting this theme from real life, as +it was related to me a number of years ago, when the incident +impressed me very deeply, I found it suited to a tragedy, because +it can only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individual +perish, and this must be the case in still higher degree when we +see an entire family die out. But perhaps a time will arrive when +we have become so developed, so enlightened, that we can remain +indifferent before the spectacle of life, which now seems so +brutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have closed up those +lower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call feelings, +and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harmful by +the final growth of our reflective organs. + +The fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on our +weakness in not being able to resist the sense of fear that the +same fate could befall ourselves. And yet it is possible that a +very sensitive spectator might fail to find satisfaction in this +kind of pity, while the man believing in the future might demand +some positive suggestion for the abolition of evil, or, in other +words, some kind of programme. But, first of all, there is no +absolute evil. That one family perishes is the fortune of another +family, which thereby gets a chance to rise. And the alternation of +ascent and descent constitutes one of life's main charms, as +fortune is solely determined by comparison. And to the man with a +programme, who wants to remedy the sad circumstance that the hawk +eats the dove, and the flea eats the hawk, I have this question to +put: why should it be remedied? Life is not so mathematically +idiotic that it lets only the big eat the small, but it happens +just as often that the bee kills the lion, or drives it to madness +at least. + +That my tragedy makes a sad impression on many is their own fault. +When we grow strong as were the men of the first French revolution, +then we shall receive an unconditionally good and joyful impression +from seeing the national forests rid of rotting and superannuated +trees that have stood too long in the way of others with equal +right to a period of free growth--an impression good in the same +way as that received from the death of one incurably diseased. + +Not long ago they reproached my tragedy "The Father" with being too +sad--just as if they wanted merry tragedies. Everybody is clamouring +arrogantly for "the joy of life," and all theatrical managers are +giving orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in being +silly and picturing all human beings as so many sufferers from St. +Vitus' dance or idiocy. I find the joy of life in its violent and +cruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in knowing something and +learning something. And for this reason I have selected an unusual +but instructive case--an exception, in a word--but a great +exception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke all +lovers of the commonplace. And what also will offend simple brains +is that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, that +the view-point is not always the same. An event in real life--and +this discovery is quite recent--springs generally from a whole +series of more or less deep-lying motives, but of these the +spectator chooses as a rule the one his reason can master most +easily, or else the one reflecting most favourably on his power of +reasoning. A suicide is committed. Bad business, says the merchant. +Unrequited love, say the ladies. Sickness, says the sick man. +Crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. But now it may be that the +motive lay in all or none of these directions. It is possible that +the one who is dead may have hid the main motive by pushing forward +another meant to place his memory in a better light. + +In explanation of _Miss Julia's_ sad fate I have suggested many +factors: her mother's fundamental instincts; her father's mistaken +upbringing of the girl; her own nature, and the suggestive influence +of her fiancé on a weak and degenerate brain; furthermore, and more +directly: the festive mood of the Midsummer Eve; the absence of her +father; her physical condition; her preoccupation with the animals; +the excitation of the dance; the dusk of the night; the strongly +aphrodisiacal influence of the flowers; and lastly the chance +forcing the two of them together in a secluded room, to which must +be added the aggressiveness of the excited man. + +Thus I have neither been one-sidedly physiological nor one-sidedly +psychological in my procedure. Nor have I merely delivered a moral +preachment. This multiplicity of motives I regard as praiseworthy +because it is in keeping with the views of our own time. And if +others have done the same thing before me, I may boast of not being +the sole inventor of my paradoxes--as all discoveries are named. + +In regard to the character-drawing I may say that I have tried to +make my figures rather "characterless," and I have done so for +reasons I shall now state. + +In the course of the ages the word character has assumed many +meanings. Originally it signified probably the dominant ground-note +in the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused with +temperament. Afterward it became the middle-class term for an +automaton, so that an individual whose nature had come to a stand +still, or who had adapted himself to a certain part in life--who +had ceased to grow, in a word--was named a character; while one +remaining in a state of development--a skilful navigator on life's +river, who did not sail with close-tied sheets, but knew when to +fall off before the wind and when to luff again--was called lacking +in character. And he was called so in a depreciatory sense, of +course, because he was so hard to catch, to classify, and to keep +track of. This middle-class notion about the immobility of the soul +was transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element has +always held sway. There a character became synonymous with a +gentleman fixed and finished once for all--one who invariably +appeared drunk, jolly, sad. And for the purpose of characterisation +nothing more was needed than some physical deformity like a +clubfoot, a wooden leg, a red nose; or the person concerned was +made to repeat some phrase like "That's capital!" or "Barkis is +willin'," or something of that kind. This manner of regarding human +beings as homogeneous is preserved even by the great Molière. +_Harpagon_ is nothing but miserly, although _Harpagon_ might as +well have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a fine +father, and a public-spirited citizen. What is worse yet, his +"defect" is of distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, +who are his heirs, and for that reason should not find fault with +him, even if they have to wait a little for their wedding. I do not +believe, therefore, in simple characters on the stage. And the +summary judgments of the author upon men--this one stupid, and that +one brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy--should be +challenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of the +soul-complex, and who realise that "vice" has a reverse very much +resembling virtue. + +Because they are modern characters, living in a period of transition +more hysterically hurried than its immediate predecessor at least, +I have made my figures vacillating, out of joint, torn between the +old and the new. And I do not think it unlikely that, through +newspaper reading and overheard conversations, modern ideas may +have leaked down to the strata where domestic servants belong. + +My souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past and +present stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off pieces +of Sunday clothing turned into rags--all patched together as is the +human soul itself. And I have furthermore offered a touch of +evolutionary history by letting the weaker repeat words stolen from +the stronger, and by letting different souls accept "ideas"--or +suggestions, as they are called--from each other. + +_Miss Julia_ is a modern character, not because the man-hating +half-woman may not have existed in all ages, but because now, after +her discovery, she has stepped to the front and begun to make a +noise. The half-woman is a type coming more and more into +prominence, selling herself nowadays for power, decorations, +distinctions, diplomas, as formerly for money, and the type +indicates degeneration. It is not a good type, for it does not +last, but unfortunately it has the power of reproducing itself and +its misery through one more generation. And degenerate men seem +instinctively to make their selection from this kind of women, so +that they multiply and produce indeterminate sexes to whom life is +a torture. Fortunately, however, they perish in the end, either +from discord with real life, or from the irresistible revolt of +their suppressed instincts, or from foiled hopes of possessing the +man. The type is tragical, offering us the spectacle of a desperate +struggle against nature. It is also tragical as a Romantic +inheritance dispersed by the prevailing Naturalism, which wants +nothing but happiness: and for happiness strong and sound races are +required. + +But _Miss Julia_ is also a remnant of the old military nobility +which is now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain. +She is a victim of the discord which a mother's "crime" produces in +a family, and also a victim of the day's delusions, of the +circumstances, of her defective constitution--all of which may be +held equivalent to the old-fashioned fate or universal law. The +naturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe out +the results of an action--punishment, prison, or fear--and for the +simple reason that they remain without regard to his verdict. For +fellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured as +those on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can be +without cost to themselves. + +Even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, the +father should forego his vengeance, the daughter would take +vengeance upon herself, just as she does in the play, and she would +be moved to it by that innate or acquired sense of honour which the +upper classes inherit--whence? From the days of barbarism, from the +original home of the Aryans, from the chivalry of the Middle Ages? +It is beautiful, but it has become disadvantageous to the +preservation of the race. It is this, the nobleman's _harakiri_--or +the law of the inner conscience compelling the Japanese to cut open +his own abdomen at the insult of another--which survives, though +somewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the nobility. +For this reason the valet, _Jean_, continues to live, but _Miss +Julia_ cannot live on without honour. In so far as he lacks this +life—endangering superstition about honour, the serf takes +precedence of the earl, and in all of us Aryans there is something +of the nobleman, or of Don Quixote, which makes us sympathise with +the man who takes his own life because he has committed a +dishonourable deed and thus lost his honour. And we are noblemen to +the extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with the +living corpse of one who was once great--yes, even if the one thus +fallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds. + +_Jean_, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock--one in +whom the differentiation is clearly noticeable. He was a cotter's +child, and he has trained himself up to the point where the future +gentleman has become visible. He has found it easy to learn, having +finely developed senses (smell, taste, vision) and an instinct for +beauty besides. He has already risen in the world, and is strong +enough not to be sensitive about using other people's services. He +has already become a stranger to his equals, despising them as so +many outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing them because +they know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise with +envy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure. From this +relationship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating +between love of distinction and hatred of those who have already +achieved it. He says himself that he is an aristocrat, and has +learned the secrets of good company. He is polished on the outside +and coarse within. He knows already how to wear the frock-coat with +ease, but the cleanliness of his body cannot be guaranteed. + +He feels respect for the young lady, but he is afraid of _Christine_, +who has his dangerous secrets in her keeping. His emotional +callousness is sufficient to prevent the night's happenings from +exercising a disturbing influence on his plans for the future. +Having at once the slave's brutality and the master's lack of +squeamishness, he can see blood without fainting, and he can also +bend his back under a mishap until able to throw it off. For this +reason he will emerge unharmed from the battle, and will probably +end his days as the owner of a hotel. And if he does not become a +Roumanian count, his son will probably go to a university, and may +even become a county attorney. + +Otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant information as +to the way in which the lower classes look at life from beneath—- +that is, when he speaks the truth, which is not often, as he +prefers what seems favourable to himself to what is true. When +_Miss Julia_ suggests that the lower classes must feel the pressure +from above very heavily, _Jean_ agrees with her, of course, because +he wants to gain her sympathy. But he corrects himself at once, the +moment he realises the advantage of standing apart from the herd. + +And _Jean_ stands above _Miss Julia_ not only because his fate is in +ascendancy, but because he is a man. Sexually he is the aristocrat +because of his male strength, his more finely developed senses, and +his capacity for taking the initiative. His inferiority depends +mainly on the temporary social environment in which he has to live, +and which he probably can shed together with the valet's livery. + +The mind of the slave speaks through his reverence for the count +(as shown in the incident with the boots) and through his religious +superstition. But he reveres the count principally as a possessor +of that higher position toward which he himself is striving. And +this reverence remains even when he has won the daughter of the +house, and seen that the beautiful shell covered nothing but +emptiness. + +I don't believe that any love relation in a "higher" sense can +spring up between two souls of such different quality. And for this +reason I let _Miss Julia_ imagine her love to be protective or +commiserative in its origin. And I let _Jean_ suppose that, under +different social conditions, he might feel something like real love +for her. I believe love to be like the hyacinth, which has to +strike roots in darkness _before_ it can bring forth a vigorous +flower. In this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossom +and seed at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon. + +_Christine_, finally, is a female slave, full of servility and +sluggishness acquired in front of the kitchen fire, and stuffed +full of morality and religion that are meant to serve her at once +as cloak and scapegoat. Her church-going has for its purpose to +bring her quick and easy riddance of all responsibility for her +domestic thieveries and to equip her with a new stock of +guiltlessness. Otherwise she is a subordinate figure, and therefore +purposely sketched in the same manner as the minister and the +doctor in "The Father," whom I designed as ordinary human beings, +like the common run of country ministers and country doctors. And +if these accessory characters have seemed mere abstractions to some +people, it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certain +extent impersonal in the exercise of their callings. This means +that they are without individuality, showing only one side of +themselves while at work. And as long as the spectator does not +feel the need of seeing them from other sides, my abstract +presentation of them remains on the whole correct. + +In regard to the dialogue, I want to point out that I have departed +somewhat from prevailing traditions by not turning my figures into +catechists who make stupid questions in order to call forth witty +answers. I have avoided the symmetrical and mathematical +construction of the French dialogue, and have instead permitted the +minds to work irregularly as they do in reality, where, during +conversation, the cogs of one mind seem more or less haphazardly to +engage those of another one, and where no topic is fully exhausted. +Naturally enough, therefore, the dialogue strays a good deal as, in +the opening scenes, it acquires a material that later on is worked +over, picked up again, repeated, expounded, and built up like the +theme in a musical composition. + +The plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is concerned +only with two persons, I have concentrated my attention on these, +introducing only one subordinate figure, the cook, and keeping the +unfortunate spirit of the father hovering above and beyond the +action. I have done this because I believe I have noticed that the +psychological processes are what interest the people of our own day +more than anything else. Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot +rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how it +comes to happen! What we want to see are just the wires, the +machinery. We want to investigate the box with the false bottom, +touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into the +cards to discover how they are marked. + +In this I have taken for models the monographic novels of the +brothers de Goncourt, which have appealed more to me than any other +modern literature. + +Turning to the technical side of the composition, I have tried to +abolish the division into acts. And I have done so because I have +come to fear that our decreasing capacity for illusion might be +unfavourably affected by intermissions during which the spectator +would have time to reflect and to get away from the suggestive +influence of the author-hypnotist. My play will probably last an +hour and a half, and as it is possible to listen that length of +time, or longer, to a lecture, a sermon, or a debate, I have +imagined that a theatrical performance could not become fatiguing +in the same time. As early as 1872, in one of my first dramatic +experiments, "The Outlaw," I tried the same concentrated form, but +with scant success. The play was written in five acts and wholly +completed when I became aware of the restless, scattered effect it +produced. Then I burned it, and out of the ashes rose a single, +well-built act, covering fifty printed pages, and taking hour for +its performance. Thus the form of the present play is not new, but +it seems to be my own, and changing aesthetical conventions may +possibly make it timely. + +My hope is still for a public educated to the point where it can +sit through a whole-evening performance in a single act. But that +point cannot be reached without a great deal of experimentation. In +the meantime I have resorted to three art forms that are to provide +resting-places for the public and the actors, without letting the +public escape from the illusion induced. All these forms are +subsidiary to the drama. They are the monologue, the pantomime, and +the dance, all of them belonging originally to the tragedy of +classical antiquity. For the monologue has sprung from the monody, +and the chorus has developed into the ballet. + +Our realists have excommunicated the monologue as improbable, but +if I can lay a proper basis for it, I can also make it seem +probable, and then I can use it to good advantage. It is probable, +for instance, that a speaker may walk back and forth in his room +practising his speech aloud; it is probable that an actor may read +through his part aloud, that a servant-girl may talk to her cat, +that a mother may prattle to her child, that an old spinster may +chatter to her parrot, that a person may talk in his sleep. And in +order that the actor for once may have a chance to work independently, +and to be free for a moment from the author's pointer, it is better +that the monologues be not written out, but just indicated. As it +matters comparatively little what is said to the parrot or the cat, +or in one's sleep--because it cannot influence the action--it is +possible that a gifted actor, carried away by the situation and the +mood of the occasion, may improvise such matters better than they +could be written by the author, who cannot figure out in advance +how much may be said, and how long the talk may last, without +waking the public out of their illusions. + +It is well known that, on certain stages, the Italian theatre has +returned to improvisation and thereby produced creative actors— +who, however, must follow the author's suggestions--and this may be +counted a step forward, or even the beginning of a new art form +that might well be called _productive_. + +Where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem unreal, I have +used the pantomime, and there I have left still greater scope for +the actor's imagination--and for his desire to gain independent +honours. But in order that the public may not be tried beyond +endurance, I have permitted the music--which is amply warranted by +the Midsummer Eve's dance--to exercise its illusory power while the +dumb show lasts. And I ask the musical director to make careful +selection of the music used for this purpose, so that incompatible +moods are not induced by reminiscences from the last musical comedy +or topical song, or by folk-tunes of too markedly ethnographical +distinction. + +The mere introduction of a scene with a lot of "people" could not +have taken the place of the dance, for such scenes are poorly acted +and tempt a number of grinning idiots into displaying their own +smartness, whereby the illusion is disturbed. As the common people +do not improvise their gibes, but use ready-made phrases in which +stick some double meaning, I have not composed their lampooning +song, but have appropriated a little known folk-dance which I +personally noted down in a district near Stockholm. The words don't +quite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it, and this is +intentional, for the cunning (i. e., weakness) of the slave keeps +him from any direct attack. There must, then, be no chattering +clowns in a serious action, and no coarse flouting at a situation +that puts the lid on the coffin of a whole family. + +As far as the scenery is concerned, I have borrowed from +impressionistic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abruptness, +and have thereby in my opinion strengthened the illusion. Because +the whole room and all its contents are not shown, there is a +chance to guess at things--that is, our imagination is stirred into +complementing our vision. I have made a further gain in getting rid +of those tiresome exits by means of doors, especially as stage +doors are made of canvas and swing back and forth at the lightest +touch. They are not even capable of expressing the anger of an +irate _pater familias_ who, on leaving his home after a poor +dinner, slams the door behind him "so that it shakes the whole +house." (On the stage the house sways.) I have also contented +myself with a single setting, and for the double purpose of making +the figures become parts of their surroundings, and of breaking +with the tendency toward luxurious scenery. But having only a +single setting, one may demand to have it real. Yet nothing is more +difficult than to get a room that looks something like a room, +although the painter can easily enough produce waterfalls and +flaming volcanoes. Let it go at canvas for the walls, but we might +be done with the painting of shelves and kitchen utensils on the +canvas. We have so much else on the stage that is conventional, and +in which we are asked to believe, that we might at least be spared +the too great effort of believing in painted pans and kettles. + +I have placed the rear wall and the table diagonally across the +stage in order to make the actors show full face and half profile +to the audience when they sit opposite each other at the table. In +the opera "Aïda" I noticed an oblique background, which led the eye +out into unseen prospects. And it did not appear to be the result +of any reaction against the fatiguing right angle. + +Another novelty well needed would be the abolition of the foot-lights. +The light from below is said to have for its purpose to make the +faces of the actors look fatter. But I cannot help asking: why must +all actors be fat in the face? Does not this light from below tend +to wipe out the subtler lineaments in the lower part of the face, +and especially around the jaws? Does it not give a false appearance +to the nose and cast shadows upward over the eyes? If this be not +so, another thing is certain: namely, that the eyes of the actors +suffer from the light, so that the effective play of their glances +is precluded. Coming from below, the light strikes the retina in +places generally protected (except in sailors, who have to see the +sun reflected in the water), and for this reason one observes +hardly anything but a vulgar rolling of the eyes, either sideways +or upwards, toward the galleries, so that nothing but the white of +the eye shows. Perhaps the same cause may account for the tedious +blinking of which especially the actresses are guilty. And when +anybody on the stage wants to use his eyes to speak with, no other +way is left him but the poor one of staring straight at the public, +with whom he or she then gets into direct communication outside of +the frame provided by the setting. This vicious habit has, rightly +or wrongly, been named "to meet friends." Would it not be possible +by means of strong side-lights (obtained by the employment of +reflectors, for instance) to add to the resources already possessed +by the actor? Could not his mimicry be still further strengthened +by use of the greatest asset possessed by the face: the play of the +eyes? + +Of course, I have no illusions about getting the actors to play +_for_ the public and not _at_ it, although such a change would be +highly desirable. I dare not even dream of beholding the actor's +back throughout an important scene, but I wish with all my heart +that crucial scenes might not be played in the centre of the +proscenium, like duets meant to bring forth applause. Instead, I +should like to have them laid in the place indicated by the +situation. Thus I ask for no revolutions, but only for a few minor +modifications. To make a real room of the stage, with the fourth +wall missing, and a part of the furniture placed back toward the +audience, would probably produce a disturbing effect at present. + +In wishing to speak of the facial make-up, I have no hope that the +ladies will listen to me, as they would rather look beautiful than +lifelike. But the actor might consider whether it be to his +advantage to paint his face so that it shows some abstract type +which covers it like a mask. Suppose that a man puts a markedly +choleric line between the eyes, and imagine further that some +remark demands a smile of this face fixed in a state of continuous +wrath. What a horrible grimace will be the result? And how can the +wrathful old man produce a frown on his false forehead, which is +smooth as a billiard ball? + +In modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest movements of the +soul are to be reflected on the face rather than by gestures and +noise, it would probably be well to experiment with strong side-light +on a small stage, and with unpainted faces, or at least with a +minimum of make-up. + +If, in additon, we might escape the visible orchestra, with its +disturbing lamps and its faces turned toward the public; if we +could have the seats on the main floor (the orchestra or the pit) +raised so that the eyes of the spectators would be above the knees +of the actors; if we could get rid of the boxes with their +tittering parties of diners; if we could also have the auditorium +completely darkened during the performance; and if, first and last, +we could have a small stage and a small house: then a new dramatic +art might rise, and the theatre might at least become an +institution for the entertainment of people with culture. While +waiting for this kind of theatre, I suppose we shall have to write +for the "ice-box," and thus prepare the repertory that is to come. + +I have made an attempt. If it prove a failure, there is plenty of +time to try over again. + + +MISS JULIA +A NATURALISTIC TRAGEDY +1888 + + +PERSONS + +MISS JULIA, aged twenty-five +JEAN, a valet, aged thirty +CHRISTINE, a cook, aged thirty-five + +The action takes place on Midsummer Eve, in the kitchen of the +count's country house. + + +MISS JULIA + +SCENE + +(A large kitchen: the ceiling and the side walls are hidden by +draperies and hangings. The rear wall runs diagonally across the +stage, from the left side and away from the spectators. On this +wall, to the left, there are two shelves full of utensils made of +copper, iron, and tin. The shelves are trimmed with scalloped +paper.) + +(A little to the right may be seen three fourths of the big arched +doorway leading to the outside. It has double glass doors, through +which are seen a fountain with a cupid, lilac shrubs in bloom, and +the tops of some Lombardy poplars.) + +(On the left side of the stage is seen the corner of a big cook +stove built of glazed bricks; also a part of the smoke-hood above +it.) + +(From the right protrudes one end of the servants' dining-table +of white pine, with a few chairs about it.) + +(The stove is dressed with bundled branches of birch. Twigs of +juniper are scattered on the floor.) + +(On the table end stands a big Japanese spice pot full of lilac +blossoms.) + +(An icebox, a kitchen-table, and a wash-stand.) + +(Above the door hangs a big old-fashioned bell on a steel spring, +and the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube appears at the left of the +door.) + +(CHRISTINE is standing by the stove, frying something in a pan. She +has on a dress of light-coloured cotton, which she has covered up +with a big kitchen apron.) + +(JEAN enters, dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurred +riding boots, which he places on the floor in such manner that they +remain visible to the spectators.) + +JEAN. To-night Miss Julia is crazy again; absolutely crazy. + +CHRISTINE. So you're back again? + +JEAN. I took the count to the station, and when I came back by the +barn, I went in and had a dance, and there I saw the young lady +leading the dance with the gamekeeper. But when she caught sight of +me, she rushed right up to me and asked me to dance the ladies' +waltz with her. And ever since she's been waltzing like--well, I +never saw the like of it. She's crazy! + + +CHRISTINE. And has always been, but never the way it's been this +last fortnight, since her engagement was broken. + +JEAN. Well, what kind of a story was that anyhow? He's a fine +fellow, isn't he, although he isn't rich? Ugh, but they're so full +of notions. [Sits down at the end of the table] It's peculiar +anyhow, that a young lady--hm!--would rather stay at home with the +servants--don't you think?--than go with her father to their +relatives! + +CHRISTINE. Oh, I guess she feels sort of embarrassed by that rumpus +with her fellow. + +JEAN. Quite likely. But there was some backbone to that man just +the same. Do you know how it happened, Christine? I saw it, +although I didn't care to let on. + +CHRISTINE. No, did you? + +JEAN. Sure, I did. They were in the stable-yard one evening, and +the young lady was training him, as she called it. Do you know what +that meant? She made him leap over her horse-whip the way you teach +a dog to jump. Twice he jumped and got a cut each time. The third +time he took the whip out of her hand and broke it into a thousand +bits. And then he got out. + +CHRISTINE. So that's the way it happened! You don't say! + +JEAN. Yes, that's how that thing happened. Well, Christine, what +have you got that's tasty? + +CHRISTINE. [Serves from the pan and puts the plate before Jean] Oh, +just some kidney which I cut out of the veal roast. + +JEAN. [Smelling the food] Fine! That's my great _délice_. [Feeling +the plate] But you might have warmed the plate. + +CHRISTINE. Well, if you ain't harder to please than the count +himself! [Pulls his hair playfully.] + +JEAN. [Irritated] Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am. + +CHRISTINE. Well, well, it was nothing but a love pull, you know. + +[JEAN eats.] + +[CHRISTINE opens a bottle of beer.] + +JEAN. Beer-on Midsummer Eve? No, thank you! Then I have something +better myself. [Opens a table-drawer and takes out a bottle of +claret with yellow cap] Yellow seal, mind you! Give me a glass—-and +you use those with stems when you drink it _pure_. + +CHRISTINE. [Returns to the stove and puts a small pan on the fire] +Heaven preserve her that gets you for a husband, Mr. Finicky! + +JEAN. Oh, rot! You'd be glad enough to get a smart fellow like me. +And I guess it hasn't hurt you that they call me your beau. +[Tasting the wine] Good! Pretty good! Just a tiny bit too cold. [He +warms the glass with his hand.] We got this at Dijon. It cost us +four francs per litre, not counting the bottle. And there was the +duty besides. What is it you're cooking--with that infernal smell? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, it's some deviltry the young lady is going to give +Diana. + +JEAN. You should choose your words with more care, Christine. But +why should you be cooking for a bitch on a holiday eve like this? +Is she sick? + +CHRISTINE. Ye-es, she is sick. She's been running around with the +gate-keeper's pug--and now's there's trouble--and the young lady +just won't hear of it. + +JEAN. The young lady is too stuck up in some ways and not proud +enough in others--just as was the countess while she lived. She was +most at home in the kitchen and among the cows, but she would never +drive with only one horse. She wore her cuffs till they were dirty, +but she had to have cuff buttons with a coronet on them. And +speaking of the young lady, she doesn't take proper care of herself +and her person. I might even say that she's lacking in refinement. +Just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she pulled the +gamekeeper away from Anna and asked him herself to come and dance +with her. We wouldn't act in that way. But that's just how it is: +when upper-class people want to demean themselves, then they grow—- +mean! But she's splendid! Magnificent! Oh, such shoulders! And--and +so on! + +CHRISTINE. Oh, well, don't brag too much! I've heard Clara talking, +who tends to her dressing. + +JEAN. Pooh, Clara! You're always jealous of each other. I, who have +been out riding with her--And then the way she dances! + +CHRISTINE. Say, Jean, won't you dance with me when I'm done? + +JEAN. Of course I will. + +CHRISTINE. Do you promise? + +JEAN. Promise? When I say so, I'll do it. Well, here's thanks for +the good food. It tasted fine! [Puts the cork back into the bottle.] + +JULIA. [Appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on the +outside] I'll be back in a minute. You go right on in the meantime. + +[JEAN slips the bottle into the table-drawer and rises +respectfully.] + +JULIA.[Enters and goes over to CHRISTINE by the wash-stand] Well, +is it done yet? + +[CHRISTINE signs to her that JEAN is present.] + +JEAN. [Gallantly] The ladies are having secrets, I believe. + +JULIA. [Strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] That's for +you, Mr. Pry! + +JEAN. Oh, what a delicious odor that violet has! + +JULIA. [With coquetry] Impudent! So you know something about +perfumes also? And know pretty well how to dance--Now don't peep! +Go away! + +JEAN. [With polite impudence] Is it some kind of witches' broth the +ladies are cooking on Midsummer Eve--something to tell fortunes by +and bring out the lucky star in which one's future love is seen? + +JULIA. [Sharply] If you can see that, you'll have good eyes, +indeed! [To CHRISTINE] Put it in a pint bottle and cork it well. +Come and dance a _schottische_ with me now, Jean. + +JEAN. [Hesitatingly] I don't want to be impolite, but I had +promised to dance with Christine this time—- + +JULIA. Well, she can get somebody else--can't you, Christine? Won't +you let me borrow Jean from you? + +CHRISTINE. That isn't for me to say. When Miss Julia is so +gracious, it isn't for him to say no. You just go along, and be +thankful for the honour, too! + +JEAN. Frankly speaking, but not wishing to offend in any way, I +cannot help wondering if it's wise for Miss Julia to dance twice in +succession with the same partner, especially as the people here are +not slow in throwing out hints-- + +JULIA. [Flaring up] What is that? What kind of hints? What do you +mean? + +JEAN. [Submissively] As you don't want to understand, I have to +speak more plainly. It don't look well to prefer one servant to all +the rest who are expecting to be honoured in the same unusual way-- + +JULIA. Prefer! What ideas! I'm surprised! I, the mistress of the +house, deign to honour this dance with my presence, and when it so +happens that I actually want to dance, I want to dance with one who +knows how to lead, so that I am not made ridiculous. + +JEAN. As you command, Miss Julia! I am at your service! + +JULIA. [Softened] Don't take it as a command. To-night we should +enjoy ourselves as a lot of happy people, and all rank should be +forgotten. Now give me your arm. Don't be afraid, Christine! I'll +return your beau to you! + +[JEAN offers his arm to MISS JULIA and leads her out.] + +*** + +PANTOMIME + +Must be acted as if the actress were really alone in the place. +When necessary she turns her back to the public. She should not +look in the direction of the spectators, and she should not hurry +as if fearful that they might become impatient. + +CHRISTINE is alone. A _schottische_ tune played on a violin is +heard faintly in the distance. + +While humming the tune, CHRISTINE clears o$ the table after JEAN, +washes the plate at the kitchen table, wipes it, and puts it away +in a cupboard. + +Then she takes of her apron, pulls out a small mirror from one of +the table-drawers and leans it against the flower jar on the table; +lights a tallow candle and heats a hairpin, which she uses to curl +her front hair. + +Then she goes to the door and stands there listening. Returns to +the table. Discovers the handkerchief which MISS JULIA has left +behind, picks it up, and smells it, spreads it out absent-mindedly +and begins to stretch it, smooth it, fold it up, and so forth. + +*** + +JEAN. [Enters alone] Crazy, that's what she is! The way she dances! +And the people stand behind the doors and grill at her. What do you +think of it, Christine? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, she has her time now, and then she is always a +little queer like that. But are you going to dance with me now? + +JEAN. You are not mad at me because I disappointed you? + +CHRISTINE. No!--Not for a little thing like that, you know! And +also, I know my place-- + +JEAN. [Putting his arm around her waist] You are a, sensible girl, +Christine, and I think you'll make a good wife-- + +JULIA. [Enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with forced +gayety] Yes, you are a fine partner--running away from your lady! + +JEAN. On the contrary, Miss Julia. I have, as you see, looked up +the one I deserted. + +JULIA. [Changing tone] Do you know, there is nobody that dances +like you!--But why do you wear your livery on an evening like this? +Take it off at once! + +JEAN. Then I must ask you to step outside for a moment, as my black +coat is hanging right here. [Points toward the right and goes in +that direction.] + +JULIA. Are you bashful on my account? Just to change a coat? Why +don't you go into your own room and come back again? Or, you can +stay right here, and I'll turn my back on you. + +JEAN. With your permission, Miss Julia. [Goes further over to the +right; one of his arms can be seen as he changes his coat.] + +JULIA [To CHRISTINE] Are you and Jean engaged, that he's so +familiar with you? + +CHRISTINE. Engaged? Well, in a way. We call it that. + +JULIA. Call it? + +CHRISTINE. Well, Miss Julia, you have had a fellow of your own, and-- + +JULIA. We were really engaged-- + +CHRISTINE. But it didn't come to anything just the same-- + +[JEAN enters, dressed in black frock coat and black derby.] + +JULIA. _Très gentil, Monsieur Jean! Très gentil!_ + +JEAN. _Vous voulez plaisanter, Madame!_ + +JULIA. _Et vous voulez parler français!_ Where did you learn it? + +JEAN. In Switzerland, while I worked as _sommelier_ in one of the +big hotels at Lucerne. + +JULIA. But you look like a real gentleman in your frock coat! +Charming! [Sits down at the table.] + +JEAN. Oh, you flatter me. + +JULIA. [Offended] Flatter--you! + +JEAN. My natural modesty does not allow me to believe that you +could be paying genuine compliments to one like me, and so I dare +to assume that you are exaggerating, or, as we call it, flattering. + +JULIA. Where did you learn to use your words like that? You must +have been to the theatre a great deal? + +JEAN. That, too. I have been to a lot of places. + +JULIA. But you were born in this neighbourhood? + +JEAN. My father was a cotter on the county attorney's property +right by here, and I can recall seeing you as a child, although +you, of course, didn't notice me. + +JULIA. No, really! + +JEAN. Yes, and I remember one time in particular--but of that I +can't speak. + +JULIA. Oh, yes, do! Why--just for once. + +JEAN. No, really, I cannot do it now. Another time, perhaps. + +JULIA. Another time is no time. Is it as bad as that? + +JEAN. It isn't bad, but it comes a little hard. Look at that one! +[Points to CHRISTINE, who has fallen asleep on a chair by the stove.] + +JULIA. She'll make a pleasant wife. And perhaps she snores, too. + +JEAN. No, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep. + +JULIA. [Cynically] How do you know? + +JEAN. [Insolently] I have heard it. + +[Pause during which they study each other.] + +JULIA. Why don't you sit down? + +JEAN. It wouldn't be proper in your presence. + +JULIA. But if I order you to do it? + +JEAN. Then I obey. + +JULIA. Sit down, then!--But wait a moment! Can you give me +something to drink first? + +JEAN. I don't know what we have got in the icebox. I fear it is +nothing but beer. + +JULIA. And you call that nothing? My taste is so simple that I +prefer it to wine. + +JEAN. [Takes a bottle of beer from the icebox and opens it; gets a +glass and a plate from the cupboard, and serves the beer] Allow me! + +JULIA. Thank you. Don't you want some yourself? + +JEAN. I don't care very much for beer, but if it is a command, of +course-- + +JULIA. Command?--I should think a polite gentleman might keep his +lady company. + +JEAN. Yes, that's the way it should be. [Opens another bottle and +takes out a glass.] + +JULIA. Drink my health now! + +[JEAN hesitates.] + +JULIA. Are you bashful--a big, grown-up man? + +JEAN. [Kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] To the +health of my liege lady! + +JULIA. Bravo!--And now you must also kiss my shoe in order to get +it just right. + +[JEAN hesitates a moment; then he takes hold of her foot and +touches it lightly with his lips.] + +JULIA. Excellent! You should have been on the stage. + +JEAN. [Rising to his feet] This won't do any longer, Miss Julia. +Somebody might see us. + +JULIA. What would that matter? + +JEAN. Oh, it would set the people talking--that's all! And if you +only knew how their tongues were wagging up there a while ago—- + +JULIA. What did they have to say? Tell me--Sit down now! + +JEAN. [Sits down] I don't want to hurt you, but they were using +expressions--which cast reflections of a kind that--oh, you know it +yourself! You are not a child, and when a lady is seen alone with a +man, drinking--no matter if he's only a servant--and at night-—then-- + +JULIA. Then what? And besides, we are not alone. Isn't Christine +with us? + +JEAN. Yes--asleep! + +JULIA. Then I'll wake her. [Rising] Christine, are you asleep? + +CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] Blub-blub-blub-blub! + +JULIA. Christine!--Did you ever see such a sleeper. + +CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] The count's boots are polished--put on +the coffee--yes, yes, yes--my-my--pooh! + +JULIA. [Pinches her nose] Can't you wake up? + +JEAN. [Sternly] You shouldn't bother those that sleep. + +JULIA. [Sharply] What's that? + +JEAN. One who has stood by the stove all day has a right to be +tired at night. And sleep should be respected. + +JULIA. [Changing tone] It is fine to think like that, and it does +you honour--I thank you for it. [Gives JEAN her hand] Come now and +pick some lilacs for me. + +[During the following scene CHRISTINE wakes up. She moves as if +still asleep and goes out to the right in order to go to bed.] + +JEAN. With you, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. With me! + +JEAN. But it won't do! Absolutely not! + +JULIA. I can't understand what you are thinking of. You couldn't +possibly imagine-- + +JEAN. No, not I, but the people. + +JULIA. What? That I am fond of the valet? + +JEAN. I am not at all conceited, but such things have happened--and +to the people nothing is sacred. + +JULIA. You are an aristocrat, I think. + +JEAN. Yes, I am. + +JULIA. And I am stepping down-- + +JEAN. Take my advice, Miss Julia, don't step down. Nobody will +believe you did it on purpose. The people will always say that you +fell down. + +JULIA. I think better of the people than you do. Come and see if I +am not right. Come along! [She ogles him.] + +JEAN. You're mighty queer, do you know! + +JULIA. Perhaps. But so are you. And for that matter, everything is +queer. Life, men, everything--just a mush that floats on top of the +water until it sinks, sinks down! I have a dream that comes back to +me ever so often. And just now I am reminded of it. I have climbed +to the top of a column and sit there without being able to tell how +to get down again. I get dizzy when I look down, and I must get +down, but I haven't the courage to jump off. I cannot hold on, and +I am longing to fall, and yet I don't fall. But there will be no +rest for me until I get down, no rest until I get down, down on the +ground. And if I did reach the ground, I should want to get still +further down, into the ground itself--Have you ever felt like that? + +JEAN. No, my dream is that I am lying under a tall tree in a dark +wood. I want to get up, up to the top, so that I can look out over +the smiling landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that I can +rob the nest in which lie the golden eggs. And I climb and climb, +but the trunk is so thick and smooth, and it is so far to the first +branch. But I know that if I could only reach that first branch, +then I should go right on to the top as on a ladder. I have not +reached it yet, but I am going to, if it only be in my dreams. + +JULIA. Here I am chattering to you about dreams! Come along! Only +into the park! [She offers her arm to him, and they go toward the +door.] + +JEAN. We must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night, Miss Julia—- +then our dreams will come true. + +[They turn around in the doorway, and JEAN puts one hand up to his +eyes.] + +JULIA. Let me see what you have got in your eye. + +JEAN. Oh, nothing--just some dirt--it will soon be gone. + +JULIA. It was my sleeve that rubbed against it. Sit down and let me +help you. [Takes him by the arm and makes him sit down; takes hold +of his head and bends it backwards; tries to get out the dirt with +a corner of her handkerchief] Sit still now, absolutely still! +[Slaps him on the hand] Well, can't you do as I say? I think you +are shaking—-a big, strong fellow like you! [Feels his biceps] And +with such arms! + +JEAN. [Ominously] Miss Julia! + +JULIA. Yes, Monsieur Jean. + +JEAN. _Attention! Je ne suis qu'un homme._ + +JULIA. Can't you sit still!--There now! Now it's gone. Kiss my hand +now, and thank me. + +JEAN. [Rising] Miss Julia, listen to me. Christine has gone to bed +now--Won't you listen to me? + +JULIA. Kiss my hand first. + +JEAN. Listen to me! + +JULIA. Kiss my hand first! + +JEAN. All right, but blame nobody but yourself! + +JULIA. For what? + +JEAN. For what? Are you still a mere child at twenty-five? Don't +you know that it is dangerous to play with fire? + +JULIA. Not for me. I am insured. + +JEAN. [Boldly] No, you are not. And even if you were, there are +inflammable surroundings to be counted with. + +JULIA. That's you, I suppose? + +JEAN. Yes. Not because I am I, but because I am a young man-- + +JULIA. Of handsome appearance--what an incredible conceit! A Don +Juan, perhaps. Or a Joseph? On my soul, I think you are a Joseph! + +JEAN. Do you? + +JULIA. I fear it almost. + +[JEAN goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist in order +to kiss her.] + +JULIA. [Gives him a cuff on the ear] Shame! + +JEAN. Was that in play or in earnest? + +JULIA. In earnest. + +JEAN. Then you were in earnest a moment ago also. Your playing is +too serious, and that's the dangerous thing about it. Now I am +tired of playing, and I ask to be excused in order to resume my +work. The count wants his boots to be ready for him, and it is +after midnight already. + +JULIA. Put away the boots. + +JEAN. No, it's my work, which I am bound to do. But I have not +undertaken to be your playmate. It's something I can never become—- +I hold myself too good for it. + +JULIA. You're proud! + +JEAN. In some ways, and not in others. + +JULIA. Have you ever been in love? + +JEAN. We don't use that word. But I have been fond of a lot of +girls, and once I was taken sick because I couldn't have the one I +wanted: sick, you know, like those princes in the Arabian Nights +who cannot eat or drink for sheer love. + +JULIA. Who was it? + +[JEAN remains silent.] + +JULIA. Who was it? + +JEAN. You cannot make me tell you. + +JULIA. If I ask you as an equal, ask you as--a friend: who was it? + +JEAN. It was you. + +JULIA. [Sits down] How funny! + +JEAN. Yes, as you say--it was ludicrous. That was the story, you +see, which I didn't want to tell you a while ago. But now I am +going to tell it. Do you know how the world looks from below--no, +you don't. No more than do hawks and falcons, of whom we never see +the back because they are always floating about high up in the sky. +I lived in the cotter's hovel, together with seven other children, +and a pig--out there on the grey plain, where there isn't a single +tree. But from our windows I could see the wall around the count's +park, and apple-trees above it. That was the Garden of Eden, and +many fierce angels were guarding it with flaming swords. +Nevertheless I and some other boys found our way to the Tree of +Life--now you despise me? + +JULIA. Oh, stealing apples is something all boys do. + +JEAN. You may say so now, but you despise me nevertheless. However—- +once I got into the Garden of Eden with my mother to weed the onion +beds. Near by stood a Turkish pavillion, shaded by trees and +covered with honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for, but I +had never seen a more beautiful building. People went in and came +out again, and one day the door was left wide open. I stole up and +saw the walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and the +windows were hung with red, fringed curtains--now you know what I +mean. I--[breaks off a lilac sprig and holds it under MISS JULIA's +nose]--I had never been inside the manor, and I had never seen +anything but the church--and this was much finer. No matter where +my thoughts ran, they returned always--to that place. And gradually +a longing arose within me to taste the full pleasure of--_enfin_! I +sneaked in, looked and admired. Then I heard somebody coming. There +was only one way out for fine people, but for me there was another, +and I could do nothing else but choose it. + +[JULIA, who has taken the lilac sprig, lets it drop on the table.] + +JEAN. Then I started to run, plunged through a hedge of raspberry +bushes, chased right across a strawberry plantation, and came out +on the terrace where the roses grow. There I caught sight of a pink +dress and pair of white stockings--that was you! I crawled under a +pile of weeds--right into it, you know--into stinging thistles and +wet, ill-smelling dirt. And I saw you walking among the roses, and +I thought: if it be possible for a robber to get into heaven and +dwell with the angels, then it is strange that a cotter's child, +here on God's own earth, cannot get into the park and play with the +count's daughter. + +JULIA. [Sentimentally] Do you think all poor children have the same +thoughts as you had in this case? + +JEAN. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] If _all_ poor—- +yes—-of course. Of course! + +JULIA. It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor. + +JEAN. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated +emphasis] Oh, Miss Julia! Oh!--A dog may lie on her ladyship's +sofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the young lady's hand, +but a servant--[changing his tone]--oh well, here and there you +meet one made of different stuff, and he makes a way for himself in +the world, but how often does it happen?--However, do you know what +I did? I jumped into the mill brook with my clothes on, and was +pulled out, and got a licking. But the next Sunday, when my father +and the rest of the people were going over to my grandmother's, I +fixed it so that I could stay at home. And then I washed myself +with soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and went to +church, where I could see you. I did see you, and went home +determined to die. But I wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, +without any pain. And then I recalled that it was dangerous to +sleep under an elder bush. We had a big one that was in full bloom. +I robbed it of all its flowers, and then I put them in the big box +where the oats were kept and lay down in them. Did you ever notice +the smoothness of oats? Soft to the touch as the skin of the human +body! However, I pulled down the lid and closed my eyes--fell +asleep and was waked up a very sick boy. But I didn't die, as you +can see. What I wanted--that's more than I can tell. Of course, +there was not the least hope of winning you—-but you symbolised the +hopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which I was +born. + +JULIA. You narrate splendidly, do you know! Did you ever go to +school? + +JEAN. A little. But I have read a lot of novels and gone to the +theatre a good deal. And besides, I have listened to the talk of +better-class people, and from that I have learned most of all. + +JULIA. Do you stand around and listen to what we are saying? + +JEAN. Of course! And I have heard a lot, too, when I was on the box +of the carriage, or rowing the boat. Once I heard you, Miss Julia, +and one of your girl friends-- + +JULIA. Oh!--What was it you heard then? + +JEAN. Well, it wouldn't be easy to repeat. But I was rather +surprised, and I couldn't understand where you had learned all +those words. Perhaps, at bottom, there isn't quite so much +difference as they think between one kind of people and another. + +JULIA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! We don't live as you do +when we are engaged. + +JEAN. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain?--Well, Miss Julia, it +won't pay to make yourself out so very innocent to me—- + +JULIA. The man on whom I bestowed my love was a scoundrel. + +JEAN. That's what you always say--afterwards. + +JULIA. Always? + +JEAN. Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words used +several times before, on similar occasions. + +JULIA. What occasions? + +JEAN. Like the one of which we were speaking. The last time-- + +JULIA. [Rising] Stop! I don't want to hear any more! + +JEAN. Nor did _she_--curiously enough! Well, then I ask permission +to go to bed. + +JULIA. [Gently] Go to bed on Midsummer Eve? + +JEAN. Yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really no +attraction for me. + +JULIA. Get the key to the boat and take me out on the lake--I want +to watch the sunrise. + +JEAN. Would that be wise? + +JULIA. It sounds as if you were afraid of your reputation. + +JEAN. Why not? I don't care to be made ridiculous, and I don't care +to be discharged without a recommendation, for I am trying to get +on in the world. And then I feel myself under a certain obligation +to Christine. + +JULIA. So it's Christine now + +JEAN. Yes, but it's you also--Take my advice and go to bed! + +JULIA. Am I to obey you? + +JEAN. For once--and for your own sake! The night is far gone. +Sleepiness makes us drunk, and the head grows hot. Go to bed! And +besides--if I am not mistaken—-I can hear the crowd coming this way +to look for me. And if we are found together here, you are lost! + +CHORUS. [Is heard approaching]: + Through the fields come two ladies a-walking, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + And one has her shoes full of water, + Treederee-derallah-lah. + + They're talking of hundreds of dollars, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + But have not between them a dollar + Treederee-derallah-lah. + + This wreath I give you gladly, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + But love another madly, + Treederee-derallah-lah. + +JULIA. I know the people, and I love them, just as they love me. +Let them come, and you'll see. + +JEAN. No, Miss Julia, they don't love you. They take your food and +spit at your back. Believe me. Listen to me--can't you hear what +they are singing?--No, don't pay any attention to it! + +JULIA. [Listening] What is it they are singing? + +JEAN. Oh, something scurrilous. About you and me. + +JULIA. How infamous! They ought to be ashamed! And the treachery of +it! + +JEAN. The mob is always cowardly. And in such a fight as this there +is nothing to do but to run away. + +JULIA. Run away? Where to? We cannot get out. And we cannot go into +Christine's room. + +JEAN. Oh, we cannot? Well, into my room, then! Necessity knows no +law. And you can trust me, for I am your true and frank and +respectful friend. + +JULIA. But think only-think if they should look for you in there! + +JEAN. I shall bolt the door. And if they try to break it I open, +I'll shoot!--Come! [Kneeling before her] Come! + +JULIA. [Meaningly] And you promise me--? + +JEAN. I swear! + +[MISS JULIA goes quickly out to the right. JEAN follows her +eagerly.] + +*** + +BALLET + +The peasants enter. They are decked out in their best and carry +flowers in their hats. A fiddler leads them. On the table they +place a barrel of small-beer and a keg of "brännvin," or white +Swedish whiskey, both of them decorated with wreathes woven out of +leaves. First they drink. Then they form in ring and sing and dance +to the melody heard before: + + "Through the fields come two ladies a-walking." + +The dance finished, they leave singing. + +*** + +JULIA. [Enters alone. On seeing the disorder in the kitchen, she +claps her hands together. Then she takes out a powder-puff and +begins to powder her face.] + +JEAN. [Enters in a state of exaltation] There you see! And you +heard, didn't you? Do you think it possible to stay here? + +JULIA. No, I don't think so. But what are we to do? + +JEAN. Run away, travel, far away from here. + +JULIA. Travel? Yes-but where? + +JEAN. To Switzerland, the Italian lakes--you have never been there? + +JULIA. No. Is the country beautiful? + +JEAN. Oh! Eternal summer! Orange trees! Laurels! Oh! + +JULIA. But then-what are we to do down there? + +JEAN. I'll start a hotel, everything first class, including the +customers? + +JULIA. Hotel? + +JEAN. That's the life, I tell you! Constantly new faces and new +languages. Never a minute free for nerves or brooding. No trouble +about what to do--for the work is calling to be done: night and +day, bells that ring, trains that whistle, 'busses that come and +go; and gold pieces raining on the counter all the time. That's the +life for you! + +JULIA. Yes, that is life. And I? + +JEAN. The mistress of everything, the chief ornament of the house. +With your looks--and your manners--oh, success will be assured! +Enormous! You'll sit like a queen in the office and keep the slaves +going by the touch of an electric button. The guests will pass in +review before your throne and timidly deposit their treasures on +your table. You cannot imagine how people tremble when a bill is +presented to them--I'll salt the items, and you'll sugar them with +your sweetest smiles. Oh, let us get away from here--[pulling a +time-table from his pocket]--at once, with the next train! We'll be +in Malmö at 6.30; in Hamburg at 8.40 to-morrow morning; in Frankfort +and Basel a day later. And to reach Como by way of the St. Gotthard +it will take us--let me see--three days. Three days! + +JULIA. All that is all right. But you must give me some courage— +Jean. Tell me that you love me. Come and take me in your arms. + +JEAN. [Reluctantly] I should like to--but I don't dare. Not in this +house again. I love you--beyond doubt--or, can you doubt it, Miss +Julia? + +JULIA. [With modesty and true womanly feeling] Miss? Call me Julia. +Between us there can be no barriers here after. Call me Julia! + +JEAN. [Disturbed] I cannot! There will be barriers between us as +long as we stay in this house--there is the past, and there is the +count-—and I have never met another person for whom I felt such +respect. If I only catch sight of his gloves on a chair I feel +small. If I only hear that bell up there, I jump like a shy horse. +And even now, when I see his boots standing there so stiff and +perky, it is as if something made my back bend. [Kicking at the +boots] It's nothing but superstition and tradition hammered into us +from childhood--but it can be as easily forgotten again. Let us +only get to another country, where they have a republic, and you'll +see them bend their backs double before my liveried porter. You +see, backs have to be bent, but not mine. I wasn't born to that +kind of thing. There's better stuff in me--character--and if I only +get hold of the first branch, you'll see me do some climbing. +To-day I am a valet, but next year I'll be a hotel owner. In ten +years I can live on the money I have made, and then I'll go to +Roumania and get myself an order. And I may--note well that I say +_may_--end my days as a count. + +JULIA. Splendid, splendid! + +JEAN. Yes, in Roumania the title of count can be had for cash, and +so you'll be a countess after all. My countess! + +JULIA. What do I care about all I now cast behind me! Tell me that +you love me: otherwise--yes, what am I otherwise? + +JEAN. I will tell you so a thousand times--later. But not here. And +above all, no sentimentality, or everything will be lost. We must +look at the matter in cold blood, like sensible people. [Takes out +a cigar, cuts of the point, and lights it] Sit down there now, and +I'll sit here, and then we'll talk as if nothing had happened. + +JULIA. [In despair] Good Lord! Have you then no feelings at all? + +JEAN. I? No one is more full of feeling than I am. But I know how +to control myself. + +JULIA. A while ago you kissed my shoe--and now! + +JEAN. [Severely] Yes, that was then. Now we have other things to +think of. + +JULIA. Don't speak harshly to me! + +JEAN. No, but sensibly. One folly has been committed--don't let us +commit any more! The count may be here at any moment, and before he +comes our fate must be settled. What do you think of my plans for +the future? Do you approve of them? + +JULIA. They seem acceptable, on the whole. But there is one +question: a big undertaking of that kind will require a big capital +have you got it? + +JEAN. [Chewing his cigar] I? Of course! I have my expert knowledge, +my vast experience, my familiarity with several languages. That's +the very best kind of capital, I should say. + +JULIA. But it won't buy you a railroad ticket even. + +JEAN. That's true enough. And that is just why I am looking for a +backer to advance the needful cash. + +JULIA. Where could you get one all of a sudden? + +JEAN. It's for you to find him if you want to become my partner. + +JULIA. I cannot do it, and I have nothing myself. [Pause.] + +JEAN. Well, then that's off-- + +JULIA. And—- + +JEAN. Everything remains as before. + +JULIA. Do you think I am going to stay under this roof as your +concubine? Do you think I'll let the people point their fingers at +me? Do you think I can look my father in the face after this? No, +take me away from here, from all this humiliation and disgrace!— +Oh, what have I done? My God, my God! [Breaks into tears.] + +JEAN. So we have got around to that tune now!--What you have done? +Nothing but what many others have done before you. + +JULIA. [Crying hysterically] And now you're despising me!--I'm +falling, I'm falling! + +JEAN. Fall down to me, and I'll lift you up again afterwards. + +JULIA. What horrible power drew me to you? Was it the attraction +which the strong exercises on the weak--the one who is rising on +one who is falling? Or was it love? This love! Do you know what +love is? + +JEAN. I? Well, I should say so! Don't you think I have been there +before? + +JULIA. Oh, the language you use, and the thoughts you think! + +JEAN. Well, that's the way I was brought up, and that's the way I +am. Don't get nerves now and play the exquisite, for now one of us +is just as good as the other. Look here, my girl, let me treat you +to a glass of something superfine. [He opens the table-drawer, +takes out the wine bottle and fills up two glasses that have +already been used.] + +JULIA. Where did you get that wine? + +JEAN. In the cellar. + +JULIA. My father's Burgundy! + +JEAN. Well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law? + +JULIA. And I am drinking beer--I! + +JEAN. It shows merely that I have better taste than you. + +JULIA. Thief! + +JEAN. Do you mean to tell on me? + +JULIA. Oh, oh! The accomplice of a house thief! Have I been drunk, +or have I been dreaming all this night? Midsummer Eve! The feast of +innocent games—- + +JEAN. Innocent--hm! + +JULIA. [Walking back and forth] Can there be another human being on +earth so unhappy as I am at this moment' + +JEAN. But why should you be? After such a conquest? Think of +Christine in there. Don't you think she has feelings also? + +JULIA. I thought so a while ago, but I don't think so any longer. +No, a menial is a menial-- + +JEAN. And a whore a whore! + +JULIA. [On her knees, with folded hands] O God in heaven, make an +end of this wretched life! Take me out of the filth into which I am +sinking! Save me! Save me! + +JEAN. I cannot deny that I feel sorry for you. When I was lying +among the onions and saw you up there among the roses--I'll tell +you now--I had the same nasty thoughts that all boys have. + +JULIA. And you who wanted to die for my sake! + +JEAN. Among the oats. That was nothing but talk. + +JULIA. Lies in other words! + +JEAN. [Beginning to feel sleepy] Just about. I think I read the +story in a paper, and it was about a chimney-sweep who crawled into +a wood-box full of lilacs because a girl had brought suit against +him for not supporting her kid—- + +JULIA. So that's the sort you are-- + +JEAN. Well, I had to think of something--for it's the high-faluting +stuff that the women bite on. + +JULIA. Scoundrel! + +JEAN. Rot! + +JULIA. And now you have seen the back of the hawk-- + +JEAN. Well, I don't know-- + +JULIA. And I was to be the first branch-- + +JEAN. But the branch was rotten-- + +JULIA. I was to be the sign in front of the hotel-- + +JEAN. And I the hotel-- + +JULIA. Sit at your counter, and lure your customers, and doctor +your bills-- + +JEAN. No, that I should have done myself-- + +JULIA. That a human soul can be so steeped in dirt! + +JEAN. Well, wash it off! + +JULIA. You lackey, you menial, stand up when I talk to you! + +JEAN. You lackey-love, you mistress of a menial--shut up and get +out of here! You're the right one to come and tell me that I am +vulgar. People of my kind would never in their lives act as +vulgarly as you have acted to-night. Do you think any servant girl +would go for a man as you did? Did you ever see a girl of my class +throw herself at anybody in that way? I have never seen the like of +it except among beasts and prostitutes. + +JULIA. [Crushed] That's right: strike me, step on me--I haven't +deserved any better! I am a wretched creature. But help me! Help +me out of this, if there be any way to do so! + +JEAN. [In a milder tone] I don't want to lower myself by a denial +of my share in the honour of seducing. But do you think a person in +my place would have dared to raise his eyes to you, if the +invitation to do so had not come from yourself? I am still sitting +here in a state of utter surprise-- + +JULIA. And pride-- + +JEAN. Yes, why not? Although I must confess that the victory was +too easy to bring with it any real intoxication. + +JULIA. Strike me some more! + +JEAN. [Rising] No! Forgive me instead what I have been saying. I +don't want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. +On one hand I cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover +that what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the +hawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on the +tender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polished +nails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smells +of perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to have discovered +that what I was striving to reach is neither better nor more +genuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far +beneath your own cook--it hurts me as it hurts to see the Fall +flowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud. + +JULIA. You speak as if you were already above me? + +JEAN. Well, so I am. Don't you see: I could have made a countess of +you, but you could never make me a count. + +JULIA. But I am born of a count, and that's more than you can ever +achieve. + +JEAN. That's true. But I might be the father of counts—if-- + +JULIA. But you are a thief--and I am not. + +JEAN. Thief is not the worst. There are other kinds still farther +down. And then, when I serve in a house, I regard myself in a sense +as a member of the family, as a child of the house, and you don't +call it theft when children pick a few of the berries that load +down the vines. [His passion is aroused once more] Miss Julia, you +are a magnificent woman, and far too good for one like me. You were +swept along by a spell of intoxication, and now you want to cover +up your mistake by making yourself believe that you are in love +with me. Well, you are not, unless possibly my looks might tempt +you-—in which case your love is no better than mine. I could never +rest satisfied with having you care for nothing in me but the mere +animal, and your love I can never win. + +JULIA. Are you so sure of that? + +JEAN. You mean to say that it might be possible? That I might love +you: yes, without doubt--for you are beautiful, refined, [goes up +to her and takes hold of her hand] educated, charming when you want +to be so, and it is not likely that the flame will ever burn out in +a man who has once been set of fire by you. [Puts his arm around +her waist] You are like burnt wine with strong spices in it, and +one of your kisses-- + +[He tries to lead her away, but she frees herself gently from his +hold.] + +JULIA. Leave me alone! In that way you cannot win me. + +JEAN. How then?--Not in that way! Not by caresses and sweet words! +Not by thought for the future, by escape from disgrace! How then? + +JULIA. How? How? I don't know--Not at all! I hate you as I hate +rats, but I cannot escape from you! + +JEAN. Escape with me! + +JULIA. [Straightening up] Escape? Yes, we must escape!--But I am so +tired. Give me a glass of wine. + +[JEAN pours out wine.] + +JULIA. [Looks at her watch] But we must have a talk first. We have +still some time left. [Empties her glass and holds it out for more.] + +JEAN. Don't drink so much. It will go to your head. + +JULIA. What difference would that make? + +JEAN. What difference would it make? It's vulgar to get drunk--What +was it you wanted to tell me? + +JULIA. We must get away. But first we must have a talk--that is, I +must talk, for so far you have done all the talking. You have told +me about your life. Now I must tell you about mine, so that we know +each other right to the bottom before we begin the journey together. + +JEAN. One moment, pardon me! Think first, so that you don't regret +it afterwards, when you have already given up the secrets of your +life. + +JULIA. Are you not my friend? + +JEAN. Yes, at times--but don't rely on me. + +JULIA. You only talk like that--and besides, my secrets are known +to everybody. You see, my mother was not of noble birth, but came +of quite plain people. She was brought up in the ideas of her time +about equality, and woman's independence, and that kind of thing. +And she had a decided aversion to marriage. Therefore, when my +father proposed to her, she said she wouldn't marry him--and then +she did it just the same. I came into the world--against my +mother's wish, I have come to think. Then my mother wanted to bring +me up in a perfectly natural state, and at the same time I was to +learn everything that a boy is taught, so that I might prove that a +woman is just as good as a man. I was dressed as a boy, and was +taught how to handle a horse, but could have nothing to do with the +cows. I had to groom and harness and go hunting on horseback. I was +even forced to learn something about agriculture. And all over the +estate men were set to do women's work, and women to do men's--with +the result that everything went to pieces and we became the +laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. At last my father must +have recovered from the spell cast over him, for he rebelled, and +everything was changed to suit his own ideas. My mother was taken +sick--what kind of sickness it was I don't know, but she fell often +into convulsions, and she used to hide herself in the garret or in +the garden, and sometimes she stayed out all night. Then came the +big fire, of which you have heard. The house, the stable, and the +barn were burned down, and this under circumstances which made it +look as if the fire had been set on purpose. For the disaster +occurred the day after our insurance expired, and the money sent +for renewal of the policy had been delayed by the messenger's +carelessness, so that it came too late. [She fills her glass again +and drinks.] + +JEAN. Don't drink any more. + +JULIA. Oh, what does it matter!--We were without a roof over our +heads and had to sleep in the carriages. My father didn't know +where to get money for the rebuilding of the house. Then my mother +suggested that he try to borrow from a childhood friend of hers, a +brick manufacturer living not far from here. My father got the +loan, but was not permitted to pay any interest, which astonished +him. And so the house was built up again. [Drinks again] Do you +know who set fire to the house? + +JEAN. Her ladyship, your mother! + +JULIA. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was? + +JEAN. Your mother's lover? + +JULIA. Do you know to whom the money belonged? + +JEAN. Wait a minute--no, that I don't know. + +JULIA. To my mother. + +JEAN. In other words, to the count, if there was no settlement. + +JULIA. There was no settlement. My mother possessed a small fortune +of her own which she did not want to leave in my father's control, +so she invested it with--her friend. + +JEAN. Who copped it. + +JULIA. Exactly! He kept it. All this came to my father's knowledge. +He couldn't bring suit; he couldn't pay his wife's lover; he +couldn't prove that it was his wife's money. That was my mother's +revenge because he had made himself master in his own house. At +that time he came near shooting himself--it was even rumoured that +he had tried and failed. But he took a new lease of life, and my +mother had to pay for what she had done. I can tell you that those +were five years I'll never forget! My sympathies were with my +father, but I took my mother's side because I was not aware of the +true circumstances. From her I learned to suspect and hate men--for +she hated the whole sex, as you have probably heard--and I promised +her on my oath that I would never become a man's slave. + +JEAN. And so you became engaged to the County Attorney. + +JULIA. Yes, in order that he should be my slave. + +JEAN. And he didn't want to? + +JULIA. Oh, he wanted, but I wouldn't let him. I got tired of him. + +JEAN. Yes, I saw it--in the stable-yard. + +JULIA. What did you see? + +JEAN. Just that--how he broke the engagement. + +JULIA. That's a lie! It was I who broke it. Did he say he did it, +the scoundrel? + +JEAN. Oh, he was no scoundrel, I guess. So you hate men, Miss +Julia? + +JULIA. Yes! Most of the time. But now and then--when the weakness +comes over me--oh, what shame! + +JEAN. And you hate me too? + +JULIA. Beyond measure! I should like to kill you like a wild beast-- + +JEAN. As you make haste to shoot a mad dog. Is that right? + +JULIA. That's right! + +JEAN. But now there is nothing to shoot with--and there is no dog. +What are we to do then? + +JULIA. Go abroad. + +JEAN. In order to plague each other to death? + +JULIA. No-in order to enjoy ourselves: a couple of days, a week, as +long as enjoyment is possible. And then--die! + +JEAN. Die? How silly! Then I think it's much better to start a +hotel. + +JULIA. [Without listening to JEAN]--At Lake Como, where the sun is +always shining, and the laurels stand green at Christmas, and the +oranges are glowing. + +JEAN. Lake Como is a rainy hole, and I could see no oranges except +in the groceries. But it is a good place for tourists, as it has a +lot of villas that can be rented to loving couples, and that's a +profitable business--do you know why? Because they take a lease for +six months--and then they leave after three weeks. + +JULIA. [Naïvely] Why after three weeks? + +JEAN. Because they quarrel, of course. But the rent has to be paid +just the same. And then you can rent the house again. And that way +it goes on all the time, for there is plenty of love--even if it +doesn't last long. + +JULIA. You don't want to die with me? + +JEAN. I don't want to die at all. Both because I am fond of living, +and because I regard suicide as a crime against the Providence +which has bestowed life on us. + +JULIA. Do you mean to say that you believe in God? + +JEAN. Of course, I do. And I go to church every other Sunday. +Frankly speaking, now I am tired of all this, and now I am going to +bed. + +JULIA. So! And you think that will be enough for me? Do you know +what you owe a woman that you have spoiled? + +JEAN. [Takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table] +You're welcome! I don't want to be in anybody's debt. + +JULIA. [Pretending not to notice the insult] Do you know what the +law provides-- + +JEAN. Unfortunately the law provides no punishment for a woman +who seduces a man. + +JULIA. [As before] Can you think of any escape except by our +going abroad and getting married, and then getting a divorce? + +JEAN. Suppose I refuse to enter into this _mésaillance_? + +JULIA. _Mésaillance_-- + +JEAN. Yes, for me. You see, I have better ancestry than you, for +nobody in my family was ever guilty of arson. + +JULIA. How do you know? + +JEAN. Well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep no +Pedigrees--except in the police bureau. But I have read about your +pedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. Do you +know who was your first ancestor? A miller who let his wife sleep +with the king one night during the war with Denmark. I have no such +ancestry. I have none at all, but I can become an ancestor myself. + +JULIA. That's what I get for unburdening my heart to one not worthy +of it; for sacrificing my family's honour-- + +JEAN. Dishonour! Well, what was it I told you? You shouldn't drink, +for then you talk. And you must not talk! + +JULIA. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret it! If at +least you loved me! + +JEAN. For the last time: what do you mean? Am I to weep? Am I to +jump over your whip? Am I to kiss you, and lure you down to Lake +Como for three weeks, and so on? What am I to do? What do you +expect? This is getting to be rather painful! But that's what comes +from getting mixed up with women. Miss Julia! I see that you are +unhappy; I know that you are suffering; but I cannot understand +you. We never carry on like that. There is never any hatred between +us. Love is to us a play, and we play at it when our work leaves us +time to do so. But we have not the time to do so all day and all +night, as you have. I believe you are sick--I am sure you are sick. + +JULIA. You should be good to me--and now you speak like a human +being. + +JEAN. All right, but be human yourself. You spit on me, and then +you won't let me wipe myself--on you! + +JULIA. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do--where I am +to turn? + +JEAN. O Lord, if I only knew that myself! + +JULIA. I have been exasperated, I have been mad, but there ought to +be some way of saving myself. + +JEAN. Stay right here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything. + +JULIA. Impossible! The people know, and Christine knows. + +JEAN. They don't know, and they would never believe it possible. + +JULIA. [Hesitating] But-it might happen again. + +JEAN. That's true. + +JULIA. And the results? + +JEAN. [Frightened] The results! Where was my head when I didn't +think of that! Well, then there is only one thing to do--you must +leave. At once! I can't go with you, for then everything would be +lost, so you must go alone--abroad--anywhere! + +JULIA. Alone? Where?--I can't do it. + +JEAN. You must! And before the count gets back. If you stay, then +you know what will happen. Once on the wrong path, one wants to +keep on, as the harm is done anyhow. Then one grows more and more +reckless--and at last it all comes out. So you must get away! Then +you can write to the count and tell him everything, except that it +was me. And he would never guess it. Nor do I think he would be +very anxious to find out. + +JULIA. I'll go if you come with me. + +JEAN. Are you stark mad, woman? Miss Julia to run away with her +valet! It would be in the papers in another day, and the count +could never survive it. + +JULIA. I can't leave! I can't stay! Help me! I am so tired, so +fearfully tired. Give me orders! Set me going, for I can no longer +think, no longer act—- + +JEAN. Do you see now what good-for-nothings you are! Why do you +strut and turn up your noses as if you were the lords of creation? +Well, I am going to give you orders. Go up and dress. Get some +travelling money, and then come back again. + +JULIA: [In an undertone] Come up with me! + +JEAN. To your room? Now you're crazy again! [Hesitates a moment] +No, you must go at once! [Takes her by the hand and leads her out.] + +JULIA. [On her way out] Can't you speak kindly to me, Jean? + +JEAN. An order must always sound unkind. Now you can find out how +it feels! + +[JULIA goes out.] + +[JEAN, alone, draws a sigh of relief; sits down at the table; takes +out a note-book and a pencil; figures aloud from time to time; dumb +play until CHRISTINE enters dressed for church; she has a false +shirt front and a white tie in one of her hands.] + +CHRISTINE. Goodness gracious, how the place looks! What have you +been up to anyhow? + +JEAN. Oh, it was Miss Julia who dragged in the people. Have you +been sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything at all? + +CHRISTINE. I have been sleeping like a log. + +JEAN. And dressed for church already? + +CHRISTINE. Yes, didn't you promise to come with me to communion +to-day? + +JEAN. Oh, yes, I remember now. And there you've got the finery. +Well, come on with it. [Sits down; CHRISTINE helps him to put on +the shirt front and the white tie.] + +[Pause.] + +JEAN. [Sleepily] What's the text to-day? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, about John the Baptist beheaded, I guess. + +JEAN. That's going to be a long story, I'm sure. My, but you choke +me! Oh, I'm so sleepy, so sleepy! + +CHRISTINE. Well, what has been keeping you up all night? Why, man, +you're just green in the face! + +JEAN. I have been sitting here talking with Miss Julia. + +CHRISTINE. She hasn't an idea of what's proper, that creature! + +[Pause.] + +JEAN. Say, Christine. + +CHRISTINE. Well? + +JEAN. Isn't it funny anyhow, when you come to think of it? Her! + +CHRISTINE. What is it that's funny? + +JEAN. Everything! + +[Pause.] + +CHRISTINE. [Seeing the glasses on the table that are only +half-emptied] So you've been drinking together also? + +JEAN. Yes. + +CHRISTINE. Shame on you! Look me in the eye! + +JEAN. Yes. + +CHRISTINE. Is it possible? Is it possible? + +JEAN. [After a moment's thought] Yes, it is! + +CHRISTINE. Ugh! That's worse than I could ever have believed. It's +awful! + +JEAN. You are not jealous of her, are you? + +CHRISTINE. No, not of her. Had it been Clara or Sophie, then I'd +have scratched your eyes out. Yes, that's the way I feel about it, +and I can't tell why. Oh my, but that was nasty! + +JEAN. Are you mad at her then? + +CHRISTINE. No, but at you! It was wrong of you, very wrong! Poor +girl! No, I tell you, I don't want to stay in this house any +longer, with people for whom it is impossible to have any respect. + +JEAN. Why should you have any respect for them? + +CHRISTINE. And you who are such a smarty can't tell that! You +wouldn't serve people who don't act decently, would you? It's to +lower oneself, I think. + +JEAN. Yes, but it ought to be a consolation to us that they are not +a bit better than we. + +CHRISTINE. No, I don't think so. For if they're no better, then +it's no use trying to get up to them. And just think of the count! +Think of him who has had so much sorrow in his day! No, I don't +want to stay any longer in this house--And with a fellow like you, +too. If it had been the county attorney--if it had only been some +one of her own sort-- + +JEAN. Now look here! + +CHRISTINE. Yes, yes! You're all right in your way, but there's +after all some difference between one kind of people and another—- +No, but this is something I'll never get over!--And the young lady +who was so proud, and so tart to the men, that you couldn't believe +she would ever let one come near her--and such a one at that! And +she who wanted to have poor Diana shot because she had been running +around with the gate-keeper's pug!--Well, I declare!--But I won't +stay here any longer, and next October I get out of here. + +JEAN. And then? + +CHRISTINE. Well, as we've come to talk of that now, perhaps it +would be just as well if you looked for something, seeing that +we're going to get married after all. + +JEAN. Well, what could I look for? As a married man I couldn't get +a place like this. + +CHRISTINE. No, I understand that. But you could get a job as a +janitor, or maybe as a messenger in some government bureau. Of +course, the public loaf is always short in weight, but it comes +steady, and then there is a pension for the widow and the children-- + +JEAN. [Making a face] That's good and well, but it isn't my style +to think of dying all at once for the sake of wife and children. I +must say that my plans have been looking toward something better +than that kind of thing. + +CHRISTINE. Your plans, yes--but you've got obligations also, and +those you had better keep in mind! + +JEAN. Now don't you get my dander up by talking of obligations! I +know what I've got to do anyhow. [Listening for some sound on the +outside] However, we've plenty of time to think of all this. Go in +now and get ready, and then we'll go to church. + +CHRISTINE. Who is walking around up there? + +JEAN. I don't know, unless it be Clara. + +CHRISTINE. [Going out] It can't be the count, do you think, who's +come home without anybody hearing him? + +JEAN. [Scared] The count? No, that isn't possible, for then he +would have rung for me. + +CHRISTINE. [As she goes out] Well, God help us all! Never have I +seen the like of it! + +[The sun has risen and is shining on the tree tops in the park. The +light changes gradually until it comes slantingly in through the +windows. JEAN goes to the door and gives a signal.] + +JULIA. [Enters in travelling dress and carrying a small birdcage +covered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] Now I am +ready. + +JEAN. Hush! Christine is awake. + +JULIA. [Showing extreme nervousness during the following scene] Did +she suspect anything? + +JEAN. She knows nothing at all. But, my heavens, how you look! + +JULIA. How do I look? + +JEAN. You're as pale as a corpse, and--pardon me, but your face is +dirty. + +JULIA. Let me wash it then--Now! [She goes over to the washstand +and washes her face and hands] Give me a towel--Oh!--That's the sun +rising! + +JEAN. And then the ogre bursts. + +JULIA. Yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night!—But listen, +Jean. Come with me, for now I have the money. + +JEAN. [Doubtfully] Enough? + +JULIA. Enough to start with. Come with me, for I cannot travel +alone to-day. Think of it--Midsummer Day, on a stuffy train, jammed +with people who stare at you--and standing still at stations when +you want to fly. No, I cannot! I cannot! And then the memories will +come: childhood memories of Midsummer Days, when the inside of the +church was turned into a green forest--birches and lilacs; the +dinner at the festive table with relatives and friends; the +afternoon in the park, with dancing and music, flowers and games! +Oh, you may run and run, but your memories are in the baggage-car, +and with them remorse and repentance! + +JEAN. I'll go with you-but at once, before it's too late. This very +moment! + +JULIA. Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage.] + +JEAN. But no baggage! That would only give us away. + +JULIA. No, nothing at all! Only what we can take with us in the +car. + +JEAN. [Has taken down his hat] What have you got there? What is it? + +JULIA. It's only my finch. I can't leave it behind. + +JEAN. Did you ever! Dragging a bird-cage along with us! You must be +raving mad! Drop the cage! + +JULIA. The only thing I take with me from my home! The only living +creature that loves me since Diana deserted me! Don't be cruel! Let +me take it along! + +JEAN. Drop the cage, I tell you! And don't talk so loud--Christine +can hear us. + +JULIA. No, I won't let it fall into strange hands. I'd rather have +you kill it! + +JEAN. Well, give it to me, and I'll wring its neck. + +JULIA. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't--no, I cannot! + +JEAN. Let me--I can! + +JULIA. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] Oh, my little +birdie, must it die and go away from its mistress! + +JEAN. Don't make a scene, please. Don't you know it's a question of +your life, of your future? Come, quick! [Snatches the bird away +from her, carries it to the chopping block and picks up an axe. +MISS JULIA turns away.] + +JEAN. You should have learned how to kill chickens instead of +shooting with a revolver--[brings down the axe]--then you wouldn't +have fainted for a drop of blood. + +JULIA. [Screaming] Kill me too! Kill me! You who can take the life +of an innocent creature without turning a hair! Oh, I hate and +despise you! There is blood between us! Cursed be the hour when I +first met you! Cursed be the hour when I came to life in my +mother's womb! + +JEAN. Well, what's the use of all that cursing? Come on! + +JULIA. [Approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it against +her will] No, I don't want to go yet. I cannot—-I must see--Hush! +There's a carriage coming up the road. [Listening without taking +her eyes of the block and the axe] You think I cannot stand the +sight of blood. You think I am as weak as that--oh, I should like +to see your blood, your brains, on that block there. I should like +to see your whole sex swimming in blood like that thing there. I +think I could drink out of your skull, and bathe my feet in your +open breast, and eat your heart from the spit!--You think I am +weak; you think I love you because the fruit of my womb was +yearning for your seed; you think I want to carry your offspring +under my heart and nourish it with my blood--bear your children and +take your name! Tell me, you, what are you called anyhow? I have +never heard your family name—-and maybe you haven't any. I should +become Mrs. "Hovel," or Mrs. "Backyard"--you dog there, that's +wearing my collar; you lackey with my coat of arms on your buttons-- +and I should share with my cook, and be the rival of my own +servant. Oh! Oh! Oh!--You think I am a coward and want to run away! +No, now I'll stay--and let the lightning strike! My father will +come home--will find his chiffonier opened--the money gone! Then +he'll ring--twice for the valet--and then he'll send for the +sheriff--and then I shall tell everything! Everything! Oh, but it +will be good to get an end to it--if it only be the end! And then +his heart will break, and he dies!--So there will be an end to all +of us--and all will be quiet—peace--eternal rest!--And then the +coat of arms will be shattered on the coffin--and the count's line +will be wiped out--but the lackey's line goes on in the orphan +asylum--wins laurels in the gutter, and ends in jail. + +JEAN. There spoke the royal blood! Bravo, Miss Julia! Now you put +the miller back in his sack! + +[CHRISTINE enters dressed for church and carrying n hymn-book in +her hand.] + +JULIA. [Hurries up to her and throws herself into her arms ax if +seeking protection] Help me, Christine! Help me against this man! + +CHRISTINE. [Unmoved and cold] What kind of performance is this on +the Sabbath morning? [Catches sight of the chopping-block] My, what +a mess you have made!--What's the meaning of all this? And the way +you shout and carry on! + +JULIA. You are a woman, Christine, and you are my friend. Beware of +that scoundrel! + +JEAN. [A little shy and embarrassed] While the ladies are +discussing I'll get myself a shave. [Slinks out to the right.] + +JULIA. You must understand me, and you must listen to me. + +CHRISTINE. No, really, I don't understand this kind of trolloping. +Where are you going in your travelling-dress--and he with his hat +on--what?--What? + +JULIA. Listen, Christine, listen, and I'll tell you everything-- + +CHRISTINE. I don't want to know anything-- + +JULIA. You must listen to me-- + +CHRISTINE. What is it about? Is it about this nonsense with Jean? +Well, I don't care about it at all, for it's none of my business. +But if you're planning to get him away with you, we'll put a stop +to that! + +JULIA. [Extremely nervous] Please try to be quiet, Christine, and +listen to me. I cannot stay here, and Jean cannot stay here--and so +we must leave—- + +CHRISTINE. Hm, hm! + +JULIA. [Brightening. up] But now I have got an idea, you know. +Suppose all three of us should leave--go abroad--go to Switzerland +and start a hotel together--I have money, you know--and Jean and I +could run the whole thing--and you, I thought, could take charge of +the kitchen--Wouldn't that be fine!--Say yes, now! And come along +with us! Then everything is fixed!--Oh, say yes! + +[She puts her arms around CHRISTINE and pats her.] + +CHRISTINE. [Coldly and thoughtfully] Hm, hm! + +JULIA. [Presto tempo] You have never travelled, Christine--you must +get out and have a look at the world. You cannot imagine what fun +it is to travel on a train--constantly new people--new countries—- +and then we get to Hamburg and take in the Zoological Gardens in +passing--that's what you like--and then we go to the theatres and +to the opera--and when we get to Munich, there, you know, we have a +lot of museums, where they keep Rubens and Raphael and all those +big painters, you know--Haven't you heard of Munich, where King +Louis used to live--the king, you know, that went mad--And then +we'll have a look at his castle--he has still some castles that are +furnished just as in a fairy tale--and from there it isn't very far +to Switzerland--and the Alps, you know--just think of the Alps, +with snow on top of them in the middle of the summer--and there you +have orange trees and laurels that are green all the year around-- + +[JEAN is seen in the right wing, sharpening his razor on a strop +which he holds between his teeth and his left hand; he listens to +the talk with a pleased mien and nods approval now and then.] + +JULIA. [Tempo prestissimo] And then we get a hotel--and I sit in +the office, while Jean is outside receiving tourists--and goes out +marketing--and writes letters--That's a life for you--Then the +train whistles, and the 'bus drives up, and it rings upstairs, and +it rings in the restaurant--and then I make out the bills--and I am +going to salt them, too--You can never imagine how timid tourists +are when they come to pay their bills! And you--you will sit like a +queen in the kitchen. Of course, you are not going to stand at the +stove yourself. And you'll have to dress neatly and nicely in order +to show yourself to people--and with your looks--yes, I am not +flattering you--you'll catch a husband some fine day--some rich +Englishman, you know-—for those fellows are so easy [slowing down] +to catch--and then we grow rich--and we build us a villa at Lake +Como--of course, it is raining a little in that place now and then—- +but [limply] the sun must be shining sometimes--although it looks +dark--and--then--or else we can go home again--and come back--here—- +or some other place-- + +CHRISTINE. Tell me, Miss Julia, do you believe in all that +yourself? + +JULIA. [Crushed] Do I believe in it myself? + +CHRISTINE. Yes. + +JULIA. [Exhausted] I don't know: I believe no longer in anything. +[She sinks down on the bench and drops her head between her arms on +the table] Nothing! Nothing at all! + +CHRISTINE. [Turns to the right, where JEAN is standing] So you were +going to run away! + +JEAN. [Abashed, puts the razor on the table] Run away? Well, that's +putting it rather strong. You have heard what the young lady +proposes, and though she is tired out now by being up all night, +it's a proposition that can be put through all right. + +CHRISTINE. Now you tell me: did you mean me to act as cook for that +one there--? + +JEAN. [Sharply] Will you please use decent language in speaking to +your mistress! Do you understand? + +CHRISTINE. Mistress! + +JEAN. Yes! + +CHRISTINE. Well, well! Listen to him! + +JEAN. Yes, it would be better for you to listen a little more and +talk a little less. Miss Julia is your mistress, and what makes you +disrespectful to her now should snake you feel the same way about +yourself. + +CHRISTINE. Oh, I have always had enough respect for myself-- + +JEAN. To have none for others! + +CHRISTINE. --not to go below my own station. You can't say that the +count's cook has had anything to do with the groom or the +swineherd. You can't say anything of the kind! + +JEAN. Yes, it's your luck that you have had to do with a gentleman. + +CHRISTINE. Yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the count's +stable! + +JEAN. What's that to you who get a commission on the groceries and +bribes from the butcher? + +CHRISTINE. What's that? + +JEAN. And so you can't respect your master and mistress any longer! +You--you! + +CHRISTINE. Are you coming with me to church? I think you need a +good sermon on top of such a deed. + +JEAN. No, I am not going to church to-day. You can go by yourself +and confess your own deeds. + +CHRISTINE. Yes, I'll do that, and I'll bring back enough +forgiveness to cover you also. The Saviour suffered and died on the +cross for all our sins, and if we go to him with a believing heart +and a repentant mind, he'll take all our guilt on himself. + +JULIA. Do you believe that, Christine? + +CHRISTINE. It is my living belief, as sure as I stand here, and the +faith of my childhood which I have kept since I was young, Miss +Julia. And where sin abounds, grace abounds too. + +JULIA. Oh, if I had your faith! Oh, if—- + +CHRISTINE. Yes, but you don't get it without the special grace of +God, and that is not bestowed on everybody-- + +JULIA. On whom is it bestowed then? + +CHRISTINE. That's just the great secret of the work of grace, Miss +Julia, and the Lord has no regard for persons, but there those that +are last shall be the foremost-- + +JULIA. Yes, but that means he has regard for those that are last. + +CHRISTINE. [Going right on] --and it is easier for a camel to go +through a needle's eye than for a rich man to get into heaven. +That's the way it is, Miss Julia. Now I am going, however-—alone—- +and as I pass by, I'll tell the stableman not to let out the horses +if anybody should like to get away before the count comes home. +Good-bye! [Goes out.] + +JEAN. Well, ain't she a devil!--And all this for the sake of a +finch! + +JULIA. [Apathetically] Never mind the finch!--Can you see any way +out of this, any way to end it? + +JEAN. [Ponders] No! + +JULIA. What would you do in my place? + +JEAN. In your place? Let me see. As one of gentle birth, as a +woman, as one who has--fallen. I don't know--yes, I do know! + +JULIA. [Picking up the razor with a significant gesture] Like this? + +JEAN. Yes!--But please observe that I myself wouldn't do it, for +there is a difference between us. + +JULIA. Because you are a man and I a woman? What is the difference? + +JEAN. It is the same--as--that between man and woman. + +JULIA. [With the razor in her hand] I want to, but I cannot!--My +father couldn't either, that time he should have done it. + +JEAN. No, he should not have done it, for he had to get his revenge +first. + +JULIA. And now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself again, +through me. + +JEAN. Have you not loved your father, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. Yes, immensely, but I must have hated him, too. I think I +must have been doing so without being aware of it. But he was the +one who reared me in contempt for my own sex--half woman and half +man! Whose fault is it, this that has happened? My father's--my +mother's--my own? My own? Why, I have nothing that is my own. I +haven't a thought that didn't come from my father; not a passion +that didn't come from my mother; and now this last--this about all +human creatures being equal--I got that from him, my fiancé--whom I +call a scoundrel for that reason! How can it be my own fault? To +put the blame on Jesus, as Christine does--no, I am too proud for +that, and know too much--thanks to my father's teachings--And that +about a rich person not getting into heaven, it's just a lie, and +Christine, who has money in the savings-bank, wouldn't get in +anyhow. Whose is the fault?--What does it matter whose it is? For +just the same I am the one who must bear the guilt and the results-- + +JEAN. Yes, but-- + +[Two sharp strokes are rung on the bell. MISS JULIA leaps to her +feet. JEAN changes his coat.] + +JEAN. The count is back. Think if Christine-- [Goes to the +speaking-tube, knocks on it, and listens.] + +JULIA. Now he has been to the chiffonier! + +JEAN. It is Jean, your lordship! [Listening again, the spectators +being unable to hear what the count says] Yes, your lordship! +[Listening] Yes, your lordship! At once! [Listening] In a minute, +your lordship! [Listening] Yes, yes! In half an hour! + +JULIA. [With intense concern] What did he say? Lord Jesus, what did +he say? + +JEAN. He called for his boots and wanted his coffee in half an +hour. + +JULIA. In half an hour then! Oh, I am so tired. I can't do +anything; can't repent, can't run away, can't stay, can't live—- +can't die! Help me now! Command me, and I'll obey you like a dog! +Do me this last favour--save my honour, and save his name! You know +what my will ought to do, and what it cannot do--now give me your +will, and make me do it! + +JEAN. I don't know why--but now I can't either--I don't understand—- +It is just as if this coat here made a--I cannot command you--and +now, since I've heard the count's voice--now--I can't quite explain +it-—but--Oh, that damned menial is back in my spine again. I +believe if the count should come down here, and if he should tell +me to cut my own throat--I'd do it on the spot! + +JULIA. Make believe that you are he, and that I am you! You did +some fine acting when you were on your knees before me--then you +were the nobleman--or--have you ever been to a show and seen one +who could hypnotize people? + +[JEAN makes a sign of assent.] + +JULIA. He says to his subject: get the broom. And the man gets it. +He says: sweep. And the man sweeps. + +JEAN. But then the other person must be asleep. + +JULIA. [Ecstatically] I am asleep already--there is nothing in the +whole room but a lot of smoke--and you look like a stove--that +looks like a man in black clothes and a high hat--and your eyes +glow like coals when the fire is going out--and your face is a lump +of white ashes. [The sunlight has reached the floor and is now +falling on JEAN] How warm and nice it is! [She rubs her hands as if +warming them before a fire.] And so light--and so peaceful! + +JEAN. [Takes the razor and puts it in her hand] There's the broom! +Go now, while it is light--to the barn--and-- [Whispers something +in her ear.] + +JULIA. [Awake] Thank you! Now I shall have rest! But tell me first—- +that the foremost also receive the gift of grace. Say it, even if +you don't believe it. + +JEAN. The foremost? No, I can't do that!--But wait--Miss Julia--I +know! You are no longer among the foremost--now when you are among +the--last! + +JULIA. That's right. I am among the last of all: I am the very +last. Oh!--But now I cannot go--Tell me once more that I must go! + +JEAN. No, now I can't do it either. I cannot! + +JULIA. And those that are foremost shall be the last. + +JEAN. Don't think, don't think! Why, you are taking away my +strength, too, so that I become a coward--What? I thought I saw the +bell moving!--To be that scared of a bell! Yes, but it isn't only +the bell--there is somebody behind it--a hand that makes it move—- +and something else that makes the hand move-but if you cover up +your ears--just cover up your ears! Then it rings worse than ever! +Rings and rings, until you answer it--and then it's too late--then +comes the sheriff--and then-- + +[Two quick rings from the bell.] + +JEAN. [Shrinks together; then he straightens himself up] It's +horrid! But there's no other end to it!--Go! + +[JULIA goes firmly out through the door.] + +(Curtain.) + + + + +THE STRONGER + +INTRODUCTION + +Of Strindberg's dramatic works the briefest is "The Stronger." He +called it a "scene." It is a mere incident--what is called a +"sketch" on our vaudeville stage, and what the French so aptly have +named a "quart d'heure." And one of the two figures in the cast +remains silent throughout the action, thus turning the little play +practically into a monologue. Yet it has all the dramatic intensity +which we have come to look upon as one of the main characteristics +of Strindberg's work for the stage. It is quivering with mental +conflict, and because of this conflict human destinies may be seen +to change while we are watching. Three life stories are laid bare +during the few minutes we are listening to the seemingly aimless, +yet so ominous, chatter of _Mrs. X._--and when she sallies forth at +last, triumphant in her sense of possession, we know as much about +her, her husband, and her rival, as if we had been reading a +three-volume novel about them. + +Small as it is, the part of _Mrs. X._ would befit a "star," but an +actress of genius and discernment might prefer the dumb part of +_Miss Y_. One thing is certain: that the latter character has few +equals in its demand on the performer's tact and skill and +imagination. This wordless opponent of _Mrs. X._ is another of +those vampire characters which Strindberg was so fond of drawing, +and it is on her the limelight is directed with merciless +persistency. + +"The Stronger" was first published in 1890, as part of the +collection of miscellaneous writings which their author named +"Things Printed and Unprinted." The present English version was +made by me some years ago--in the summer of 1906--when I first +began to plan a Strindberg edition for this country. At that time +it appeared in the literary supplement of the _New York Evening +Post_. + + + +THE STRONGER +A SCENE +1890 + +PERSONS + +MRS. X., an actress, married. +MISS Y., an actress, unmarried. + + +THE STRONGER + +SCENE + +[A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron, +a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs.] + +[MRS. X. enters dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a +pretty Japanese basket on her arm.] + +[MISS Y. has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she is +reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then she exchanges +it for a new one.] + +MRS. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on Christmas Eve +as lonely as a poor bachelor. + +[MISS Y. looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumes +her reading.] + +MRS. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this--alone--alone in +a restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It makes me as sad +as when I saw a wedding party at Paris once in a restaurant--the +bride was reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiards +with the witnesses. Ugh, when it begins that way, I thought, how +will it end? Think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day! +Yes, and you're going to say that she was reading a comic paper-- +that's a different case, my dear. + +[A WAITRESS brings a cup of chocolate, places it before MRS. X., +and disappears again.] + +MRS. X. [Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays a +number of Christmas presents] See what I've bought for my tots. +[Picks up a doll] What do you think of this? Lisa is to have it. +She can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you see? Fine, is it +not? And here's a cork pistol for Carl. [Loads the pistol and pops +it at Miss Y.] + +[MISS Y. starts as if frightened.] + +MRS. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was going to shoot +you, did you? Really, I didn't think you could believe that of me. +If you were to shoot _me_--well, that wouldn't surprise me the +least. I've got in your way once, and I know you'll never forget +it--but I couldn't help it. You still think I intrigued you away +from the Royal Theatre, and I didn't do anything of the kind-- +although you think so. But it doesn't matter what I say, of course-- +you believe it was I just the same. [Pulls out a pair of embroidered +slippers] Well, these are for my hubby-—tulips--I've embroidered +them myself. Hm, I hate tulips--and he must have them on everything. + +[MISS Y. looks up from the paper with an expression of mingled +sarcasm and curiosity.] + +MRS. X. [Puts a hand in each slipper] Just see what small feet Bob +has. See? And you should see him walk--elegant! Of course, you've +never seen him in slippers. + +[MISS Y. laughs aloud.] + +MRS. X. Look here--here he comes. [Makes the slippers walk across +the table.] + +[MISS Y. laughs again.] + +MRS. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this: +"Blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee." Or: "The +idiot--now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again." +Then there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold: +"Gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even know +enough to keep the house warm." [She rubs the sole of one slipper +against the instep of the other.] + +[MISS Y. breaks into prolonged laughter.] + +MRS. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers-- +Mary has pushed them under the bureau. Well, perhaps it is not +right to be making fun of one's own husband. He's pretty good for +all that--a real dear little hubby, that's what he is. You should +have such a husband--what are you laughing at? Can't you tell? +Then, you see, I know he is faithful. Yes, I know, for he has told +me himself--what in the world makes you giggle like that? That +nasty Betty tried to get him away from me while I was on the road—- +can you think of anything more infamous? [Pause] But I'd have +scratched the eyes out of her face, that's what I'd have done if I +had been at home when she tried it. [Pause] I'm glad Bob told me +all about it, so I didn't have to hear it first from somebody else. +[Pause] And just think of it, Betty was not the only one! I don't +know why it is, but all women seem to be crazy after my husband. It +must be because they imagine his government position gives him +something to say about the engagements. Perhaps you've tried it +yourself--you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, I don't +trust you very far--but I know he never cared for you--and then I +have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him. + +[Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed manner.] + +MRS. X. Amèlia, spend the evening with us, won't you? Just to show +that you are not angry--not with me, at least. I cannot tell +exactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you--you +for an enemy. Perhaps because I got in your way that time +[rallentando] or--I don't know--really, I don't know at all-- + +[Pause. MISS Y. gazes searchingly at MRS. X.] + +MRS. X. [Thoughtfully] It was so peculiar, the way our acquaintance-- +why, I was afraid of you when I first met you; so afraid that I did +not dare to let you out of sight. It didn't matter where I tried to +go--I always found myself near you. I didn't have the courage to be +your enemy--and so I became your friend. But there was always +something discordant in the air when you called at our home, for I +saw that my husband didn't like you--and it annoyed me just as it +does when a dress won't fit. I tried my very best to make him +appear friendly to you at least, but I couldn't move him--not until +you were engaged. Then you two became such fast friends that it +almost looked as if you had not dared to show your real feelings +before, when it was not safe--and later--let me see, now! I didn't +get jealous--strange, was it not? And I remember the baptism--you +were acting as godmother, and I made him kiss you--and he did, but +both of you looked terribly embarrassed--that is, I didn't think of +it then--or afterwards, even--I never thought of it—-till--_now_! +[Rises impulsively] Why don't you say something? You have not +uttered a single word all this time. You've just let me go on +talking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, and your +eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying in me +like silk in a cocoon--thoughts--bad thoughts maybe--let me think. +Why did you break your engagement? Why have you never called on us +afterward? Why don't you want to be with us to-night? + +[MISS Y. makes a motion as if intending to speak.] + +MRS. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All is clear to +me now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes! Everything fits +together now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same table +with you. [Moves her things to another table] That's why I must put +those hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them. +[Throws the slippers on the floor] That's why we have to spend the +summer in the mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell of +the ocean; that's why my boy had to be called Eskil--because that +was your father's name; that's why I had to wear your colour, and +read your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink your +drinks--this chocolate, for instance; that's why--great heavens!-- +it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! Everything was forced +on me by you—-even your passions. Your soul bored itself into mine +as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate, and burrowed and +burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a little +black dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You were +always on hand like a snake with your black eyes to charm me--I +felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--I was in the +water, with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my +arms, the further down I went--down, down, till I sank to the +bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with +your claws--and now I'm there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hate +you, hate you! But you, you just sit there, silent and calm and +indifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it's +Christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy. +You are incapable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. As a +cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there!--you can't +drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait +it. Here you sit in this corner--do you know they've nicknamed it +"the mouse-trap" on your account? Here you read the papers to see +if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged +from the theatre. Here you watch your victims and calculate your +chances and take your tributes. Poor Amèlia! Do you know, I pity +you all the same, for I know you are unhappy--unhappy as one who +has been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought to +be angry with you, but really I can't--you are so small after all-- +and as to Bob, why that does not bother me in the least. What does +it matter to me anyhow? If you or somebody else taught me to drink +chocolate--what of that? [Takes a spoonful of chocolate; then +sententiously] They say chocolate is very wholesome. And if I have +learned from you how to dress--_tant mieux_!--it has only given me +a stronger hold on my husband--and you have lost where I have +gained. Yes, judging by several signs, I think you have lost him +already. Of course, you meant me to break with him--as you did, and +as you are now regretting--but, you see, _I_ never would do that. +It won't do to be narrow-minded, you know. And why should I take +only what nobody else wants? Perhaps, after all, I am the stronger +now. You never got anything from me; you merely gave--and thus +happened to me what happened to the thief--I had what you missed +when you woke up. How explain in any other way that, in your hand, +everything proved worthless and useless? You were never able to +keep a man's love, in spite of your tulips and your passions--and I +could; you could never learn the art of living from the books--as I +learned it; you bore no little Eskil, although that was your +father's name. And why do you keep silent always and everywhere-- +silent, ever silent? I used to think it was because you were so +strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had anything to +say--because you were unable to-think! [Rises and picks up the +slippers] I'm going home now--I'll take the tulips with me—-your +tulips. You couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't bend +and so you broke like a dry stem--and I didn't. Thank you, Amèlia, +for all your instructions. I thank you that you have taught me how +to love my husband. Now I'm going home--to him! [Exit.] + +(Curtain.) + + + + +CREDITORS + +INTRODUCTION + +This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at the head +of his dramatic production during the middle ultra-naturalistic +period, the other two being "The Father" and "Miss Julia." It is, +in many ways, one of the strongest he ever produced. Its rarely +excelled unity of construction, its tremendous dramatic tension, +and its wonderful psychological analysis combine to make it a +masterpiece. + +In Swedish its name is "Fordringsägare." This indefinite form may +be either singular or plural, but it is rarely used except as a +plural. And the play itself makes it perfectly clear that the +proper translation of its title is "Creditors," for under this +aspect appear both the former and the present husband of _Tekla_. +One of the main objects of the play is to reveal her indebtedness +first to one and then to the other of these men, while all the +time she is posing as a person of original gifts. + +I have little doubt that Strindberg, at the time he wrote this +play--and bear in mind that this happened only a year before he +finally decided to free himself from an impossible marriage by an +appeal to the law--believed _Tekla_ to be fairly representative of +womanhood in general. The utter unreasonableness of such a view +need hardly be pointed out, and I shall waste no time on it. A +question more worthy of discussion is whether the figure of _Tekla_ +be true to life merely as the picture of a personality--as one out +of numerous imaginable variations on a type decided not by sex but +by faculties and qualities. And the same question may well be +raised in regard to the two men, both of whom are evidently +intended to win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate stronger +than himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse and +humiliating circumstances. + +Personally, I am inclined to doubt whether a _Tekla_ can be found +in the flesh--and even if found, she might seem too exceptional to +gain acceptance as a real individuality. It must be remembered, +however, that, in spite of his avowed realism, Strindberg did not +draw his men and women in the spirit generally designated as +impressionistic; that is, with the idea that they might step +straight from his pages into life and there win recognition as +human beings of familiar aspect. His realism is always mixed with +idealism; his figures are always "doctored," so to speak. And they +have been thus treated in order to enable their creator to drive +home the particular truth he is just then concerned with. + +Consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what may be +designated as "pure cultures" of certain human qualities. But +these he took great pains to arrange in their proper psychological +settings, for mental and moral qualities, like everything else, +run in groups that are more or less harmonious, if not exactly +homogeneous. The man with a single quality, like Molière's +_Harpagon_, was much too primitive and crude for Strindberg's art, +as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "Miss Julia." +When he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did it +by setting it in the midst of related qualities of a kind most +likely to be attracted by it. + +_Tekla_ is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally correlated +mental and moral qualities and functions and tendencies--of a +personality built up logically around a dominant central note. +There are within all of us many personalities, some of which +remain for ever potentialities. But it is conceivable that any one +of them, under circumstances different from those in which we have +been living, might have developed into its severely logical +consequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would be +held abnormal if actually encountered. + +This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time and again, +both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as in +his plays. In all of us a _Tekla_, an _Adolph_, a _Gustav_--or a +_Jean_ and a _Miss Julia_--lie more or less dormant. And if we search +our souls unsparingly, I fear the result can only be an admission +that--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we might +have come unpleasantly close to one of those Strindbergian +creatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman. + +Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great Swedish +dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How could it otherwise +happen that so many critics, of such widely differing temperaments, +have recorded identical feelings as springing from a study of his +work: on one side an active resentment, a keen unwillingness to +be interested; on the other, an attraction that would not be denied +in spite of resolute resistance to it! For Strindberg _does_ hold +us, even when we regret his power of doing so. And no one familiar +with the conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such a +paradox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelings +provide us with something that our minds instinctively recognise as +true to life in some way, and for that reason valuable to the art of +living. + +There are so many ways of presenting truth. Strindberg's is only +one of them--and not the one commonly employed nowadays. Its main +fault lies perhaps in being too intellectual, too abstract. For +while Strindberg was intensely emotional, and while this fact +colours all his writings, he could only express himself through +his reason. An emotion that would move another man to murder would +precipitate Strindberg into merciless analysis of his own or +somebody else's mental and moral make-up. At any rate, I do not +proclaim his way of presenting truth as the best one of all +available. But I suspect that this decidedly strange way of +Strindberg's--resulting in such repulsively superior beings as +_Gustav_, or in such grievously inferior ones as _Adolph_--may come +nearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways of much +more plausible writers. This does not need to imply that the +future will imitate Strindberg. But it may ascertain what he aimed +at doing, and then do it with a degree of perfection which he, the +pioneer, could never hope to attain. + + + + +CREDITORS +A TRAGICOMEDY +1889 + + +PERSONS + +TEKLA +ADOLPH, her husband, a painter +GUSTAV, her divorced husband, a high-school teacher (who is +travelling under an assumed name) + + +SCENE + +(A parlor in a summer hotel on the sea-shore. The rear wall has a +door opening on a veranda, beyond which is seen a landscape. To +the right of the door stands a table with newspapers on it. There +is a chair on the left side of the stage. To the right of the +table stands a sofa. A door on the right leads to an adjoining +room.) + + +(ADOLPH and GUSTAV, the latter seated on the sofa by the table to +the right.) + +ADOLPH. [At work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling stand; +his crutches are placed beside him]--and for all this I have to +thank you! + +GUSTAV. [Smoking a cigar] Oh, nonsense! + +ADOLPH. Why, certainly! During the first days after my wife had +gone, I lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but long for her. +It was as if she had taken away my crutches with her, so that I +couldn't move from the spot. When I had slept a couple of days, I +seemed to come to, and began to pull myself together. My head +calmed down after having been working feverishly. Old thoughts +from days gone by bobbed up again. The desire to work and the +instinct for creation came back. My eyes recovered their faculty +of quick and straight vision--and then you showed up. + +GUSTAV. I admit you were in a miserable condition when I first met +you, and you had to use your crutches when you walked, but this is +not to say that my presence has been the cause of your recovery. +You needed a rest, and you had a craving for masculine company. + +ADOLPH. Oh, that's true enough, like everything you say. Once I +used to have men for friends, but I thought them superfluous after +I married, and I felt quite satisfied with the one I had chosen. +Later I was drawn into new circles and made a lot of acquaintances, +but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keep me to herself: +worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends to herself. And so +I was left alone with my own jealousy. + +GUSTAV. Yes, you have a strong tendency toward that kind of +disease. + +ADOLPH. I was afraid of losing her--and I tried to prevent it. +There is nothing strange in that. But I was never afraid that she +might be deceiving me-- + +GUSTAV. No, that's what married men are never afraid of. + +ADOLPH. Yes, isn't it queer? What I really feared was that her +friends would get such an influence over her that they would begin +to exercise some kind of indirect power over me--and _that_ is +something I couldn't bear. + +GUSTAV. So your ideas don't agree--yours and your wife's? + +ADOLPH. Seeing that you have heard so much already, I may as well +tell you everything. My wife has an independent nature--what are +you smiling at? + +GUSTAV. Go on! She has an independent nature-- + +ADOLPH. Which cannot accept anything from me-- + +GUSTAV. But from everybody else. + +ADOLPH. [After a pause] Yes.--And it looked as if she especially +hated my ideas because they were mine, and not because there was +anything wrong about them. For it used to happen quite often that +she advanced ideas that had once been mine, and that she stood up +for them as her own. Yes, it even happened that friends of mine +gave her ideas which they had taken directly from me, and then +they seemed all right. Everything was all right except what came +from me. + +GUSTAV. Which means that you are not entirely happy? + +ADOLPH. Oh yes, I am happy. I have the one I wanted, and I have +never wanted anybody else. + +GUSTAV. And you have never wanted to be free? + +ADOLPH. No, I can't say that I have. Oh, well, sometimes I have +imagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. But the moment +she leaves me, I begin to long for her--long for her as for my own +arms and legs. It is queer that sometimes I have a feeling that +she is nothing in herself, but only a part of myself--an organ +that can take away with it my will, my very desire to live. It +seems almost as if I had deposited with her that centre of +vitality of which the anatomical books tell us. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is just +what has happened. + +ADOLPH. How could it be so? Is she not an independent being, with +thoughts of her own? And when I met her I was nothing--a child of +an artist whom she undertook to educate. + +GUSTAV. But later you developed her thoughts and educated her, +didn't you? + +ADOLPH. No, she stopped growing and I pushed on. + +GUSTAV. Yes, isn't it strange that her "authoring" seemed to fall +off after her first book--or that it failed to improve, at least? +But that first time she had a subject which wrote itself--for I +understand she used her former husband for a model. You never knew +him, did you? They say he was an idiot. + +ADOLPH. I never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time. +But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture of +him. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the picture was correct. + +GUSTAV. I do!--But why did she ever take him? + +ADOLPH. Because she didn't know him well enough. Of course, you +never _do_ get acquainted until afterward! + +GUSTAV. And for that reason one ought not to marry until-- +afterward.--And he was a tyrant, of course? + +ADOLPH. Of course? + +GUSTAV. Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way] And you not +the least. + +ADOLPH. I? Who let my wife come and go as she pleases-- + +GUSTAV. Well, that's nothing. You couldn't lock her up, could you? +But do you like her to stay away whole nights? + +ADOLPH. No, really, I don't. + +GUSTAV. There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to tell the +truth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it. + +ADOLPH. Ridiculous? Can a man be ridiculous because he trusts his +wife? + +GUSTAV. Of course he can. And it's just what you are already--and +thoroughly at that! + +ADOLPH. [Convulsively] I! It's what I dread most of all--and +there's going to be a change. + +GUSTAV. Don't get excited now--or you'll have another attack. + +ADOLPH. But why isn't she ridiculous when I stay out all night? + +GUSTAV. Yes, why? Well, it's nothing that concerns you, but that's +the way it is. And while you are trying to figure out why, the +mishap has already occurred. + +ADOLPH. What mishap? + +GUSTAV. However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took him +only to get her freedom. You see, a girl cannot have freedom +except by providing herself with a chaperon--or what we call a +husband. + +ADOLPH. Of course not. + +GUSTAV. And now you are the chaperon. + +ADOLPH. I? + +GUSTAV. Since you are her husband. + +(ADOLPH keeps a preoccupied silence.) + +GUSTAV. Am I not right? + +ADOLPH. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman for years, +and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, +and then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--Gustav, you +are my friend. The only male friend I have. During this last week +you have given me courage to live again. It is as if your own +magnetism had been poured into me. Like a watchmaker, you have +fixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again. Can't +you hear, yourself, how I think more clearly and speak more to the +point? And to myself at least it seems as if my voice had +recovered its ring. + +GUSTAV. So it seems to me also. And why is that? + +ADOLPH. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower your +voice in talking to women. I know at least that Tekla always used +to accuse me of shouting. + +GUSTAV. And so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule of +the slipper? + +ADOLPH. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After some +reflection] I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk of +something else!--What was I saying?--Yes, you came here, and you +enabled me to see my art in its true light. Of course, for some +time I had noticed my growing lack of interest in painting, as it +didn't seem to offer me the proper medium for the expression of +what I wanted to bring out. But when you explained all this to me, +and made it clear why painting must fail as a timely outlet for +the creative instinct, then I saw the light at last--and I +realised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to express +myself by means of colour only. + +GUSTAV. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting-- +that you may not have a relapse? + +ADOLPH. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself. When I went to +bed that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argument point by +point, and I knew you had it right. But when I woke up from a good +night's sleep and my head was clear again, then it came over me in +a flash that you might be mistaken after all. And I jumped out of +bed and got hold of my brushes and paints--but it was no use! +Every trace of illusion was gone--it was nothing but smears of +paint, and I quaked at the thought of having believed, and having +made others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but a +painted canvas. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and it was just +as impossible for me to paint any more as it was to become a child +again. + +GUSTAV. And then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, +its craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find its +proper form in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in all +three dimensions-- + +ADOLPH. [Vaguely] The three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word! + +GUSTAV. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or rather, you +have been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothing +was needed but a guide to put you on the right road--Tell me, do +you experience supreme joy now when you are at work? + +ADOLPH. Now I am living! + +GUSTAV. May I see what you are doing? + +ADOLPH. A female figure. + +GUSTAV. Without a model? And so lifelike at that! + +ADOLPH. [Apathetically] Yes, but it resembles somebody. It is +remarkable that this woman seems to have become a part of my body +as I of hers. + +GUSTAV. Well, that's not so very remarkable. Do you know what +transfusion is? + +ADOLPH. Of blood? Yes. + +GUSTAV. And you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. When +I look at the figure here I comprehend several things which I +merely guessed before. You have loved her tremendously! + +ADOLPH. Yes, to such an extent that I couldn't tell whether she +was I or I she. When she is smiling, I smile also. When she is +weeping, I weep. And when she--can you imagine anything like it?-- +when she was giving life to our child--I felt the birth pangs +within myself. + +GUSTAV. Do you know, my dear friend--I hate to speak of it, but +you are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy. + +ADOLPH. [Agitated] I! How can you tell? + +GUSTAV. Because I have watched the symptoms in a younger brother +of mine who had been worshipping Venus a little too excessively. + +ADOLPH. How--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of? + +[During the following passage GUSTAV speaks with great animation, +and ADOLPH listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitates +many of GUSTAV'S gestures.] + +GUSTAV. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strong +enough I won't inflict a description of it on you. + +ADOLPH. [Nervously] Yes, go right on--just go on! + +GUSTAV. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent little +creature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face of +a child and the pure soul of an angel. But nevertheless she +managed to usurp the male prerogative-- + +ADOLPH. What is that? + +GUSTAV. Initiative, of course. And with the result that the angel +nearly carried him off to heaven. But first he had to be put on +the cross and made to feel the nails in his flesh. It was +horrible! + +ADOLPH. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened? + +GUSTAV. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting together +talking, he and I--and when I had been speaking for a while his +face would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs would grow +stiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the palms of his +hands--like this. [He illustrates the movement and it is imitated +by ADOLPH] Then his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to chew-- +like this. [He chews, and again ADOLPH imitates him] The saliva +was rattling in his throat. His chest was squeezed together as if +it had been closed in a vice. The pupils of his eyes flickered +like gas-jets. His tongue beat the saliva into a lather, and he +sank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he were +drowning. And then-- + +ADOLPH. [In a whisper] Stop now! + +GUSTAV. And then--Are you not feeling well? + +ADOLPH. No. + +GUSTAV. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now. And +we'll talk of something else. + +ADOLPH. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on! + +GUSTAV. Well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything at +all. He had simply lost consciousness. Has that ever happened to +you? + +ADOLPH. Yes, I have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but my +physician says it's only anaemia. + +GUSTAV. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But, believe +me, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself. + +ADOLPH. What can I do? + +GUSTAV. To begin with, you will have to observe complete +abstinence. + +ADOLPH. For how long? + +GUSTAV. For half a year at least. + +ADOLPH. I cannot do it. That would upset our married life. + +GUSTAV. Good-bye to you then! + +ADOLPH. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it! + +GUSTAV. Can you not save your own life?--But tell me, as you have +already given me so much of your confidence--is there no other +canker, no secret wound, that troubles you? For it is very rare to +find only one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety and +so fruitful in chances for false relationships. Is there not a +corpse in your cargo that you are trying to hide from yourself?-- +For instance, you said a minute ago that you have a child which +has been left in other people's care. Why don't you keep it with +you? + +ADOLPH. My wife doesn't want us to do so. + +GUSTAV. And her reason? Speak up now! + +ADOLPH. Because, when it was about three years old, it began to +look like him, her former husband. + +GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband? + +ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poor +portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightest +resemblance. + +GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, +he might have changed considerably since it was made. However, I +hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you? + +ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage, +and the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happened +right here, in this very house even, and that's why we come here +every summer. + +GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And you +wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the +children of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to her +dead husband. It is annoying, of course, and that's why they used +to burn all widows in India, as you know.--But tell me: have you +ever felt jealous of him--of his memory? Would it not sicken you +to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your Tekla, +use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We! + +ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that very +thought. + +GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There are +discords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. For +this reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. If +you work, and grow old, and pile masses of new impressions on the +hatches, then the corpse will stay quiet in the hold. + +ADOLPH. Pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful how +you resemble Tekla now and then while you are talking. You have a +way of blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, and +your eyes have the same influence on me as hers have at times. + +GUSTAV. No, really? + +ADOLPH. And now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferent +way that she does. She also has the habit of saying "no, really" +quite often. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all human +beings are said to be of one family. At any rate, it will be +interesting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if what you +say is true. + +ADOLPH. And do you know, she never takes an expression from me. +She seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and I have never caught +her using any of my gestures. And yet people as a rule develop +what is called "marital resemblance." + +GUSTAV. And do you know why this has not happened in your case?-- +That woman has never loved you. + +ADOLPH. What do you mean? + +GUSTAV. I hope you will excuse what I am saying--but woman's love +consists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takes +nothing does not have her love. She has never loved you! + +ADOLPH. Don't you think her capable of loving more than once? + +GUSTAV. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once. Then our +eyes are opened once for all. You have never been deceived, and so +you had better beware of those that have. They are dangerous, I +tell you. + +ADOLPH. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I fool as if +something were being severed within me, but I cannot help it. And +this cutting brings a certain relief, too. For it means the +pricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen.--She has never +loved me!--Why, then, did she ever take me? + +GUSTAV. Tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it was +you who took her or she who took you? + +ADOLPH. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all!--How did it +happen? Well, it didn't come about in one day. + +GUSTAV. Would you like to have me tell you how it did happen? + +ADOLPH. That's more than you can do. + +GUSTAV. Oh, by using the information about yourself and your wife +that you have given me, I think I can reconstruct the whole event. +Listen now, and you'll hear. [In a dispassionate tone, almost +humorously] The husband had gone abroad to study, and she was +alone. At first her freedom seemed rather pleasant. Then came a +sense of vacancy, for I presume she was pretty empty when she had +lived by herself for a fortnight. Then _he_ appeared, and by and by +the vacancy was filled up. By comparison the absent one seemed to +fade out, and for the simple reason that he was at a distance--you +know the law about the square of the distance? But when they felt +their passions stirring, then came fear--of themselves, of their +consciences, of him. For protection they played brother and +sister. And the more their feelings smacked of the flesh, the more +they tried to make their relationship appear spiritual. + +ADOLPH. Brother and sister? How could you know that? + +GUSTAV. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing papa +and mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--in +order to hide what should be hidden!--And then they took the vow +of chastity--and then they played hide-and-seek--until they got +in a dark corner where they were sure of not being seen by +anybody. [With mock severity] But they felt that there was _one_ +whose eye reached them in the darkness--and they grew frightened-- +and their fright raised the spectre of the absent one--his figure +began to assume immense proportions--it became metamorphosed: +turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous slumbers; a +creditor who knocked at all doors. Then they saw his black hand +between their own as these sneaked toward each other across the +table; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness of +the night that should have been broken only by the beating of +their own pulses. He did not prevent them from possessing each +other but he spoiled their happiness. And when they became aware +of his invisible interference with their happiness; when they took +flight at last--a vain flight from the memories that pursued them, +from the liability they had left behind, from the public opinion +they could not face--and when they found themselves without the +strength needed to carry their own guilt, then they had to send +out into the fields for a scapegoat to be sacrificed. They were +free-thinkers, but they did not have the courage to step forward +and speak openly to him the words: "We love each other!" To sum it +up, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. Is +that right? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled +my head with new thoughts-- + +GUSTAV. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could she not +educate the other man also--into a free-thinker? + +ADOLPH. Oh, he was an idiot! + +GUSTAV. Oh, of course--he was an idiot! But that's rather an +ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems +mainly to have consisted in failure to understand her. Pardon me a +question: but is your wife so very profound after all? I have +discovered nothing profound in her writings. + +ADOLPH. Neither have I.--But then I have also to confess a certain +difficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs of our brain +wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went to +pieces in my head when I try to comprehend her. + +GUSTAV. Maybe you are an idiot, too? + +ADOLPH. I don't _think_ so! And it seems to me all the time as if +she were in the wrong--Would you care to read this letter, for +instance, which I got today? + +[Takes out a letter from his pocket-book.] + +GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwriting seems +strangely familiar. + +ADOLPH. Rather masculine, don't you think? + +GUSTAV. Well, I know at least _one_ man who writes that kind of +hand--She addresses you as "brother." Are you still playing +comedy to each other? And do you never permit yourselves any +greater familiarity in speaking to each other? + +ADOLPH. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that +way. + +GUSTAV. And is it to make you respect her that she calls herself +your sister? + +ADOLPH. I want to respect her more than myself. I want her to be +the better part of my own self. + +GUSTAV. Why don't you be that better part yourself? Would it be +less convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? Do +you want to place yourself beneath your wife? + +ADOLPH. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to +her. I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoy +hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. +To begin with, I merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order +to raise her courage. And so it ended with my actually being her +inferior, more of a coward than she. It almost seemed to me as if +she had actually taken my courage away from me. + +GUSTAV. Have you taught her anything else? + +ADOLPH. Yes--but it must stay between us--I have taught her how to +spell, which she didn't know before. But now, listen: when she +took charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of the +habit of writing. And think of it: as the years passed on, lack of +practice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar. But +do you think she recalls that I was the one who taught her at the +start? No--and so I am "the idiot," of course. + +GUSTAV. So you _are_ an idiot already? + +ADOLPH. Oh, it's just a joke, of course! + +GUSTAV. Of course! But this is clear cannibalism, I think. Do you +know what's behind that sort of practice? The savages eat their +enemies in order to acquire their useful qualities. And this woman +has been eating your soul, your courage, your knowledge-- + +ADOLPH. And my faith! It was I who urged her to write her first +book-- + +GUSTAV. [Making a face] Oh-h-h! + +ADOLPH. It was I who praised her, even when I found her stuff +rather poor. It was I who brought her into literary circles where +she could gather honey from our most ornamental literary flowers. +It was I who used my personal influence to keep the critics from +her throat. It was I who blew her faith in herself into flame; +blew on it until I lost my own breath. I gave, gave, gave--until I +had nothing left for myself. Do you know--I'll tell you everything +now--do you know I really believe--and the human soul is so +peculiarly constituted--I believe that when my artistic successes +seemed about to put her in the shadow--as well as her reputation-- +then I tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and by +making my own art seem inferior to hers. I talked so long about +the insignificant part played by painting on the whole--talked so +long about it, and invented so many reasons to prove what I said, +that one fine day I found myself convinced of its futility. So all +you had to do was to breathe on a house of cards. + +GUSTAV. Pardon me for recalling what you said at the beginning of +our talk--that she had never taken anything from you. + +ADOLPH. She doesn't nowadays. Because there is nothing more to +take. + +GUSTAV. The snake being full, it vomits now. + +ADOLPH. Perhaps she has been taking a good deal more from me than +I have been aware of? + +GUSTAV. You can be sure of that. She took when you were not +looking, and that is called theft. + +ADOLPH. Perhaps she never did educate me? + +GUSTAV. But you her? In all likelihood! But it was her trick to +make it appear the other way to you. May I ask how she set about +educating you? + +ADOLPH. Oh, first of all--hm! + +GUSTAV. Well? + +ADOLPH. Well, I-- + +GUSTAV. No, we were speaking of her. + +ADOLPH. Really, I cannot tell now. + +GUSTAV. Do you see! + +ADOLPH. However--she devoured my faith also, and so I sank further +and further down, until you came along and gave me a new faith. + +GUSTAV. [Smiling] In sculpture? + +ADOLPH. [Doubtfully] Yes. + +GUSTAV. And have you really faith in it? In this abstract, +antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of civilisation? +Do you believe that you can obtain your effect by pure form--by +the three dimensions--tell me? That you can reach the practical +mind of our own day, and convey an illusion to it, without the use +of colour--without colour, mind you--do you really believe that? + +ADOLPH. [Crushed] No! + +GUSTAV. Well, I don't either. + +ADOLPH. Why, then, did you say you did? + +GUSTAV. Because I pitied you. + +ADOLPH. Yes, I am to be pitied! For now I am bankrupt! Finished!-- +And worst of all: not even she is left to me! + +GUSTAV. Well, what could you do with her? + +ADOLPH. Oh, she would be to me what God was before I became an +atheist: an object that might help me to exercise my sense of +veneration. + +GUSTAV. Bury your sense of veneration and let something else grow +on top of it. A little wholesome scorn, for instance. + +ADOLPH. I cannot live without having something to respect-- + +GUSTAV. Slave! + +ADOLPH.--without a woman to respect and worship! + +GUSTAV. Oh, HELL! Then you had better take back your God--if you +needs must have something to kow-tow to! You're a fine atheist, +with all that superstition about woman still in you! You're a fine +free-thinker, who dare not think freely about the dear ladies! Do +you know what that incomprehensible, sphinx-like, profound +something in your wife really is? It is sheer stupidity!--Look +here: she cannot even distinguish between th and t. And that, you +know, means there is something wrong with the mechanism. When you +look at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the works +inside are those of an ordinary cheap watch.--Nothing but the +skirts-that's all! Put trousers on her, give her a pair of +moustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober look at +her, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find the +instrument has another sound to it. A phonograph, and nothing +else--giving yon back your own words, or those of other people-- +and always in diluted form. Have you ever looked at a naked woman-- +oh yes, yes, of course! A youth with over-developed breasts; an +under-developed man; a child that has shot up to full height and +then stopped growing in other respects; one who is chronically +anaemic: what can you expect of such a creature? + +ADOLPH. Supposing all that to be true--how can it be possible that +I still think her my equal? + +GUSTAV. Hallucination--the hypnotising power of skirts! Or--the +two of you may actually have become equals. The levelling process +has been finished. Her capillarity has brought the water in both +tubes to the same height.--Tell me [taking out his watch]: our +talk has now lasted six hours, and your wife ought soon to be +here. Don't you think we had better stop, so that you can get a +rest? + +ADOLPH. No, don't leave me! I don't dare to be alone! + +GUSTAV. Oh, for a little while only--and then the lady will come. + +ADOLPH. Yes, she is coming!--It's all so queer! I long for her, +but I am afraid of her. She pets me, she is tender to me, but +there is suffocation in her kisses--something that pulls and +numbs. And I feel like a circus child that is being pinched by the +clown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when it appears +before the public. + +GUSTAV. I feel very sorry for you, my friend. Without being a +physician, I can tell that you are a dying man. It is enough to +look at your latest pictures in order to see that. + +ADOLPH. You think so? How can you see it? + +GUSTAV. Your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that the +cadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. And it impresses +me as if your own hollow, putty-coloured checks were showing +beneath-- + +ADOLPH. Oh, stop, stop! + +GUSTAV. Well, this is not only my personal opinion. Have you read +to-day's paper? + +ADOLPH. [Shrinking] No! + +GUSTAV. It's on the table here. + +ADOLPH. [Reaching for the paper without daring to take hold of it] +Do they speak of it there? + +GUSTAV. Read it--or do you want me to read it to you? + +ADOLPH. No! + +GUSTAV. I'll leave you, if you want me to. + +ADOLPH. No, no, no!--I don't know--it seems as if I were beginning +to hate you, and yet I cannot let you go.--You drag me out of the +hole into which I have fallen, but no sooner do you get me on firm +ice, than you knock me on the head and shove me into the water +again. As long as my secrets were my own, I had still something +left within me, but now I am quite empty. There is a canvas by an +Italian master, showing a scene of torture--a saint whose +intestines are being torn out of him and rolled on the axle of a +windlass. The martyr is watching himself grow thinner and thinner, +while the roll on the axle grows thicker.--Now it seems to me as +if you had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when you +leave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing but +an empty shell behind. + +GUSTAV. How you do let your fancy run away with you!--And +besides, your wife is bringing back your heart. + +ADOLPH. No, not since you have burned her to ashes. Everything is +in ashes where you have passed along: my art, my love, my hope, my +faith! + +GUSTAV. All of it was pretty nearly finished before I came along. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but it might have been saved. Now it's too late-- +incendiary! + +GUSTAV. We have cleared some ground only. Now we'll sow in the +ashes. + +ADOLPH. I hate you! I curse you! + +GUSTAV. Good symptoms! There is still some strength left in you. +And now I'll pull you up on the ice again. Listen now! Do you want +to listen to me, and do you want to obey me? + +ADOLPH. Do with me what you will--I'll obey you! + +GUSTAV. [Rising] Look at me! + +ADOLPH. [Looking at GUSTAV] Now you are looking at me again with +that other pair of eyes which attracts me. + +GUSTAV. And listen to me! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't talk of me any longer: I +am like an open wound and cannot bear being touched. + +GUSTAV. No, there is nothing to say about me. I am a teacher of +dead languages, and a widower--that's all! Take my hand. + +ADOLPH. What terrible power there must be in you! It feels as if I +were touching an electrical generator. + +GUSTAV. And bear in mind that I have been as weak as you are now.-- +Stand up! + +ADOLPH. [Rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throwing +his arms around the neck of GUSTAV] I am like a boneless baby, and +my brain seems to lie bare. + +GUSTAV. Take a turn across the floor! + +ADOLPH. I cannot! + +GUSTAV. Do what I say, or I'll strike you! + +ADOLPH. [Straightening himself up] What are you saying? + +GUSTAV. I'll strike you, I said. + +ADOLPH. [Leaping backward in a rage] You! + +GUSTAV. That's it! Now you have got the blood into your head, and +your self-assurance is awake. And now I'll give you some +electriticy: where is your wife? + +ADOLPH. Where is she? + +GUSTAV. Yes. + +ADOLPH. She is--at--a meeting. + +GUSTAV. Sure? + +ADOLPH. Absolutely! + +GUSTAV. What kind of meeting? + +ADOLPH. Oh, something relating to an orphan asylum. + +GUSTAV. Did you part as friends? + +ADOLPH. [With some hesitation] Not as friends. + +GUSTAV. As enemies then!--What did you say that provoked her? + +ADOLPH. You are terrible. I am afraid of you. How could you know? + +GUSTAV. It's very simple: I possess three known factors, and with +their help I figure out the unknown one. What did you say to her? + +ADOLPH. I said--two words only, but they were dreadful, and I +regret them--regret them very much. + +GUSTAV. Don't do it! Tell me now? + +ADOLPH. I said: "Old flirt!" + +GUSTAV. What more did you say? + +ADOLPH. Nothing at all. + +GUSTAV. Yes, you did, but you have forgotten it--perhaps because +you don't dare remember it. You have put it away in a secret +drawer, but you have got to open it now! + +ADOLPH. I can't remember! + +GUSTAV. But I know. This is what you said: "You ought to be +ashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any more lovers!" + +ADOLPH. Did I say that? I must have said it!--But how can you know +that I did? + +GUSTAV. I heard her tell the story on board the boat as I came +here. + +ADOLPH. To whom? + +GUSTAV. To four young men who formed her company. She is already +developing a taste for chaste young men, just like-- + +ADOLPH. But there is nothing wrong in that? + +GUSTAV. No more than in playing brother and sister when you are +papa and mamma. + +ADOLPH. So you have seen her then? + +GUSTAV. Yes, I have. But you have never seen her when you didn't-- +I mean, when you were not present. And there's the reason, you +see, why a husband can never really know his wife. Have you a +portrait of her? + +(Adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. There is a look of +aroused curiosity on his face.) + +GUSTAV. You were not present when this was taken? + +ADOLPH. No. + +GUSTAV. Look at it. Does it bear much resemblance to the portrait +you painted of her? Hardly any! The features are the same, but the +expression is quite different. But you don't see this, because +your own picture of her creeps in between your eyes and this one. +Look at it now as a painter, without giving a thought to the +original. What does it represent? Nothing, so far as I can see, +but an affected coquette inviting somebody to come and play with +her. Do you notice this cynical line around the mouth which you +are never allowed to see? Can you see that her eyes are seeking +out some man who is not you? Do you observe that her dress is cut +low at the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, that +her sleeve has managed to slip back from her arm? Can you see? + +ADOLPH. Yes--now I see. + +GUSTAV. Look out, my boy! + +ADOLPH. For what? + +GUSTAV. For her revenge! Bear in mind that when you said she could +not attract a man, you struck at what to her is most sacred--the +one thing above all others. If you had told her that she wrote +nothing but nonsense, she would have laughed at your poor taste. +But as it is--believe me, it will not be her fault if her desire +for revenge has not already been satisfied. + +ADOLPH. I must know if it is so! + +GUSTAV. Find out! + +ADOLPH. Find out? + +GUSTAV. Watch--I'll assist you, if you want me to. + +ADOLPH. As I am to die anyhow--it may as well come first as last! +What am I to do? + +GUSTAV. First of all a piece of information: has your wife any +vulnerable point? + +ADOLPH. Hardly! I think she must have nine lives, like a cat. + +GUSTAV. There--that was the boat whistling at the landing--now +she'll soon be here. + +ADOLPH. Then I must go down and meet her. + +GUSTAV. No, you are to stay here. You have to be impolite. If +her conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your ears tingle. +If she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you. + +ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? + +GUSTAV. Not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn and run in +loops, but I'll follow. My room is nest to this. [He points to the +door on the right] There I shall take up my position and watch you +while you are playing the game in here. But when you are done, +we'll change parts: I'll enter the cage and do tricks with the +snake while you stick to the key-hole. Then we meet in the park to +compare notes. But keep your back stiff. And if you feel yourself +weakening, knock twice on the floor with a chair. + +ADOLPH. All right!--But don't go away. I must be sure that you are +in the next room. + +GUSTAV. You can be quite sure of that. But don't get scared +afterward, when you watch me dissecting a human soul and laying +out its various parts on the table. They say it is rather hard on +a beginner, but once you have seen it done, you never want to miss +it.--And be sure to remember one thing: not a word about having +met me, or having made any new acquaintance whatever while she was +away. Not one word! And I'll discover her weak point by myself. +Hush, she has arrived--she is in her room now. She's humming to +herself. That means she is in a rage!--Now, straight in the back, +please! And sit down on that chair over there, so that she has to +sit here--then I can watch both of you at the same time. + +ADOLPH. It's only fifteen minutes to dinner--and no new guests +have arrived--for I haven't heard the bell ring. That means we +shall be by ourselves--worse luck! + +GUSTAV. Are you weak? + +ADOLPH. I am nothing at all!--Yes, I am afraid of what is now +coming! But I cannot keep it from coming! The stone has been set +rolling--and it was not the first drop of water that started it-- +nor wad it the last one--but all of them together. + +GUSTAV. Let it roll then--for peace will come in no other way. +Good-bye for a while now! [Goes out] + +(ADOLPH nods back at him. Until then he has been standing with the +photograph in his hand. Now he tears it up and flings the pieces +under the table. Then he sits down on a chair, pulls nervously at +his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, crumples his coat +lapel, and so on.) + +TEKLA. [Enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss; her +manner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] Hello, little +brother! How is he getting on? + +ADOLPH. [Almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if in jest] +What mischief have you been up to now that makes you come and kiss +me? + +TEKLA. I'll tell you: I've spent an awful lot of money. + +ADOLPH. You have had a good time then? + +TEKLA. Very! But not exactly at that crèche meeting. That was +plain piffle, to tell the truth.--But what has little brother +found to divert himself with while his Pussy was away? + +(Her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking for +somebody or sniffing something.) + +ADOLPH. I've simply been bored. + +TEKLA. And no company at all? + +ADOLPH. Quite by myself. + +TEKLA. [Watching him; she sits down on the sofa] Who has been +sitting here? ADOLPH. Over there? Nobody. + +TEKLA. That's funny! The seat is still warm, and there is a hollow +here that looks as if it had been made by an elbow. Have you had +lady callers? + +ADOLPH. I? You don't believe it, do you? + +TEKLA. But you blush. I think little brother is not telling the +truth. Come and tell Pussy now what he has on his conscience. + +(Draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his head +resting in her lap.) + +ADOLPH. You're a little devil--do you know that? + +TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all about myself. + +ADOLPH. You never think about yourself, do you? + +TEKLA. [Sniffing and taking notes] I think of nothing but myself-- +I am a dreadful egoist. But what has made you turn so philosophical +all at once? + +ADOLPH. Put your hand on my forehead. + +TEKLA. [Prattling as if to a baby] Has he got ants in his head +again? Does he want me to take them away, does he? [Kisses him on +the forehead] There now! Is it all right now? + +ADOLPH. Now it's all right. [Pause] + +TEKLA. Well, tell me now what you have been doing to make the time +go? Have you painted anything? + +ADOLPH. No, I am done with painting. + +TEKLA. What? Done with painting? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but don't scold me for it. How can I help it that I +can't paint any longer! + +TEKLA. What do you mean to do then? + +ADOLPH. I'll become a sculptor. + +TEKLA. What a lot of brand new ideas again! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but please don't scold! Look at that figure over +there. + +TEKLA. [Uncovering the wax figure] Well, I declare!--Who is that +meant for? + +ADOLPH. Guess! + +TEKLA. Is it Pussy? Has he got no shame at all? + +ADOLPH. Is it like? + +TEKLA. How can I tell when there is no face? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but there is so much else--that's beautiful! + +TEKLA. [Taps him playfully on the cheek] Now he must keep still or +I'll have to kiss him. + +ADOLPH. [Holding her back] Now, now!--Somebody might come! + +TEKLA. Well, what do I care? Can't I kiss my own husband, perhaps? +Oh yes, that's my lawful right. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but don't you know--in the hotel here, they don't +believe we are married, because we are kissing each other such a +lot. And it makes no difference that we quarrel now and then, for +lovers are said to do that also. + +TEKLA. Well, but what's the use of quarrelling? Why can't he +always be as nice as he is now? Tell me now? Can't he try? Doesn't +he want us to be happy? + +ADOLPH. Do I want it? Yes, but-- + +TEKLA. There we are again! Who has put it into his head that he is +not to paint any longer? + +ADOLPH. Who? You are always looking for somebody else behind me +and my thoughts. Are you jealous? + +TEKLA. Yes, I am. I'm afraid somebody might take him away from me. + +ADOLPH. Are you really afraid of that? You who know that no other +woman can take your place, and that I cannot live without you! + +TEKLA. Well, I am not afraid of the women--it's your friends that +fill your head with all sorts of notions. + +ADOLPH. [Watching her] You are afraid then? Of what are you +afraid? + +TEKLA. [Getting up] Somebody has been here. Who has been here? + +ADOLPH. Don't you wish me to look at you? + +TEKLA. Not in that way: it's not the way you are accustomed to +look at me. + +ADOLPH. How was I looking at you then? + +TEKLA. Way up under my eyelids. + +ADOLPH. Under your eyelids--yes, I wanted to see what is behind +them. + +TEKLA. See all you can! There is nothing that needs to be hidden. +But--you talk differently, too--you use expressions--[studying +him] you philosophise--that's what you do! [Approaches him +threateningly] Who has been here? + +ADOLPH. Nobody but my physician. + +TEKLA. Your physician? Who is he? + +ADOLPH. That doctor from Strömstad. + +TEKLA. What's his name? + +ADOLPH. Sjöberg. + +TEKLA. What did he have to say? + +ADOLPH. He said--well--among other things he said--that I am on +the verge of epilepsy-- + +TEKLA. Among other things? What more did he say? + +ADOLPH. Something very unpleasant. + +TEKLA. Tell me! + +ADOLPH. He forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. + +TEKLA. Oh, that's it! Didn't I just guess it! They want to +separate us! That's what I have understood a long time! + +ADOLPH. You can't have understood, because there was nothing to +understand. + +TEKLA. Oh yes, I have! + +ADOLPH. How can you see what doesn't exist, unless your fear of +something has stirred up your fancy into seeing what has never +existed? What is it you fear? That I might borrow somebody else's +eyes in order to see you as you are, and not as you seem to be? + +TEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolph! It is the beast +that dwells in man's soul. + +ADOLPH. Where did you learn that? From those chaste young men on +the boat--did you? + +TEKLA. [Not at all abashed] Yes, there is something to be learned +from youth also. + +ADOLPH. I think you are already beginning to have a taste for +youth? + +TEKLA. I have always liked youth. That's why I love you. Do you +object? + +ADOLPH. No, but I should prefer to have no partners. + +TEKLA. [Prattling roguishly] My heart is so big, little brother, +that there is room in it for many more than him. + +ADOLPH. But little brother doesn't want any more brothers. + +TEKLA. Come here to Pussy now and get his hair pulled because he +is jealous--no, envious is the right word for it! + +(Two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining room, where +GUSTAV is.) + +ADOLPH. No, I don't want to play now. I want to talk seriously. + +TEKLA. [Prattling] Mercy me, does he want to talk seriously? +Dreadful, how serious he's become! [Takes hold of his head and +kisses him] Smile a little--there now! + +ADOLPH. [Smiling against his will] Oh, you're the--I might almost +think you knew how to use magic! + +TEKLA. Well, can't he see now? That's why he shouldn't start any +trouble--or I might use my magic to make him invisible! + +ADOLPH. [Gets up] Will you sit for me a moment, Tekla? With the +side of your face this way, so that I can put a face on my figure. + +TEKLA. Of course, I will. + +[Turns her head so he can see her in profile.] + +ADOLPH. [Gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the figure] +Don't think of me now--but of somebody else. + +TEKLA. I'll think of my latest conquest. + +ADOLPH. That chaste young man? + +TEKLA. Exactly! He had a pair of the prettiest, sweetest +moustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach--it was so soft and +rosy that you just wanted to bite it. + +ADOLPH. [Darkening] Please keep that expression about the mouth. + +TEKLA. What expression? + +ADOLPH. A cynical, brazen one that I have never seen before. + +TEKLA. [Making a face] This one? + +ADOLPH. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how Bret Harte +pictures an adulteress? + +TEKLA. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something. + +ADOLPH. As a pale creature that cannot blush. + +TEKLA. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, then she must +blush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret may not be +allowed to see it. + +ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? + +TEKLA. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable of +bringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold the +charming spectacle. + +ADOLPH. [Enraged] Tekla! + +TEKLA. Oh, you little ninny! + +ADOLPH. Tekla! + +TEKLA. He should call her Pussy--then I might get up a pretty +little blush for his sake. Does he want me to? + +ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I could +bite you! + +TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!--Come! + +[Opens her arms to him.] + +ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'll +bite you to death! + +TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out--somebody might come! + +ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the world +if I can only have you! + +TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer? + +ADOLPH. Then I shall die! + +TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as I am too +old to be wanted by anybody else? + +ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it all +back now! + +TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so +cock-sure? + +ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possible +that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still +be gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our love +were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion +kept up as a matter of honor--and I can't think of anything that +would give me more pain than to have _him_ know that I am unhappy. +Oh, I have never seen him--but the mere thought that a person +exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily +calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when I +perish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, +fascinates me, paralyses me! + +TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think I +would make his prophecy come true? + +ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would. + +TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then? + +ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do you +play that kind of game? + +TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired--that's all! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men! + +TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women. + +ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently? + +TEKLA. Not in the last sis months. + +ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him? + +TEKLA. No!--Since the child died we have broken off our +correspondence. + +ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all? + +TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West +Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now? + +ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was +alone, I kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he was +left alone that time. + +TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience? + +ADOLPH. I am. + +TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you? + +ADOLPH. Almost! + +TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal +children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal +property. I am very much obliged to you! + +ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more +than property--for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If +you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish +notions would leave you.--Have you not taken his place with me? + +ADOLPH. Well, have I?--And did you ever love him? + +TEKLA. Of course, I did! + +ADOLPH. And then-- + +TEKLA. I grew tired of him! + +ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also? + +TEKLA. But I won't! + +ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up--one who had all the +qualities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then you +would leave me? + +TEKLA. No. + +ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live without +him? Then you would leave me, of course? + +TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow. + +ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you? + +TEKLA. Yes! Why not? + +ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand. + +TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. All +persons are not made in the same way, you know. + +ADOLPH. I begin to see now! + +TEKLA. No, really! + +ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems to +struggle with some--memory that will not come back] Do you know, +Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful? + +TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, and +one that you taught me. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something +behind that frankness of yours. + +TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know. + +ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly become +offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home--this +evening! + +TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and I +don't feel like starting on another trip. + +ADOLPH. But I want to. + +TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?--You can go! + +ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me! + +TEKLA. Demand?--What arc you talking about? + +ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife? + +TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband? + +ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things. + +TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!--You have never +loved me! + +ADOLPH. Haven't I? + +TEKLA. No, for to love is to give. + +ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to +take.--And I have given, given, given! + +TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given? + +ADOLPH. Everything! + +TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it. +Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if I +have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A woman +cannot receive anything except from her lover. + +ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have been +your lover, but never your husband. + +TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playing +chaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'll +send you packing, for I don't want a husband. + +ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when you +began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when +you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my +plumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you of +your debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom you +wanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, and +in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my +safe and began to try those of other people instead. Without +having done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband. +And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, +as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer, + +TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet +little idiot! + +ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but +oneself! + +TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks. + +ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he--your former +husband--was not so much of an idiot after all. + +TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with--him? + +ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it, + +TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance +and pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a striking +picture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I am +growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was at +least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me. + +ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud--we +might be overheard. + +TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people? + +ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at +the same time you have a taste for chaste young men? + +TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. My +heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the +small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--I love the +whole world. + +ADOLPH. Do you know what that means? + +TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just _feel_. + +ADOLPH. It means that old age is near. + +TEKLA. There you are again! Take care! + +ADOLPH. Take care yourself! + +TEKLA. Of what? + +ADOLPH. Of the knife! + +TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such +dangerous things. + +ADOLPH. I have quit playing. + +TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you +that--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, never +know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll +suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another +moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of +being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's +what married men never get. + +ADOLPH. You hate me then? + +TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's +probably because you are nothing to me but a child. + +ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while +the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms +and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss +your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that +you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to +the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to +sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were +afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a +single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of +public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was +dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was +strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so +I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you +admired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you had +just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled +new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty +brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back +your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a +little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let +themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my +house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and +blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then +where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St. +Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom King +Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I +compelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuated +vision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literally +down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything +possible became yours at last--and you could stand on your own +feet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and +I collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, I had pushed +myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance +to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you-- +and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a +secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your +rise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, +and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part of +little brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and even +increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had +in it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn as +my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in some +mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry +up when I could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wanted +to show its independence of me. And at last both of us began to +lose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. +A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your own +burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoat +and doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn't +realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time +our years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shoot +sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before +the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you +couldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its main +branch--and so stem and branch must die together. + +TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you have +written my books. + +ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me +out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and I +spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, +all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ has +only a single note in it. + +TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have +written my books. + +ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into a +single note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one +figure. I have made no blunt statements like that of having +written your books. + +TEKLA. But that's what you meant! + +ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it. + +TEKLA. But the sum of it-- + +ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You get +an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does +not work out evenly. I have not added anything. + +TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself. + +ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it. + +TEKLA. No. but that's what you wanted to do. + +ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no--don't speak to +me--you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone! +You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your claws +into my thoughts and tear them to pieces! + +(He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while +his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.) + +TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick? + +(ADOLPH motions her away.) + +TEKLA. Adolph! + +(ADOLPH shakes his head at her.) + +TEKLA. Adolph. + +ADOLPH. Yes. + +TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago? + +ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit! + +TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon? + +ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon--if you only won't speak +to me! + +TEKLA. Kiss my hand then! + +ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand--if you only don't +speak to me! + +TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air +before dinner. + +ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave. + +TEKLA. No! + +ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason. + +TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to- +night. + +ADOLPH. Oh, that's it! + +TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend-- + +ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, and +that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go. + +TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word. + +ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to +live up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there is +somebody who has made you promise to go. + +TEKLA. Yes. + +ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise because +your husband is sick. + +TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to +be kept from going with me. + +ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel safer +then? + +TEKLA. I don't know what you mean. + +ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean something +that--doesn't please you. + +TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me? + +ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again--Good-bye for a +while! + +(Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the +right.) + +(TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goes +straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. He +pretends not to see TEKLA.) + +TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is it +you? + +GUSTAV. Yes, it's me--I beg your pardon! + +TEKLA. Which way did you come? + +GUSTAV. By land. But--I am not going to stay, as-- + +TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.--Well, it was +some time ago-- + +GUSTAV. Yes, some time. + +TEKLA. You have changed a great deal. + +GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if +anything. Excuse me, however--I am not going to spoil your +happiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, I +should never-- + +TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay. + +GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear--well, +whatever I say, I am sure to offend you. + +TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possess +that rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness. + +GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect--that +your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light +as you. + +TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very +sympathetic terms. + +GUSTAV. Oh!--Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like +names cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itself +permanently in our minds. + +TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. And +as for me, I have always cherished a dream--that of seeing you +come together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for once +in my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go your +different ways again. + +GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used +to love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in good +hands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am +familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, +before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take +good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession. +In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have +developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace +and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through +the rest of my sorrowful days. + +TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood +me. I thank you for it! + +GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too +insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way of +living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could not +satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. But +you understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it cost +me to make such a confession to myself. + +TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own +shortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs] +But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable +nature--one that I had to respect--but-- + +GUSTAV. Not always--not at that time! But suffering purifies, +sorrow ennobles, and--I have suffered! + +TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you? + +GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive. + +TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us--we who +are old enough to know better! + +GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you--you grow +younger every day. + +(He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the +left and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa.) + +TEKLA. Do you think so? + +GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress. + +TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figured +out what colors would be most becoming to me? + +GUSTAV. No. + +TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember--hm!--I can even recall how you +used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least a +touch of crimson about my dress. + +GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you. + +TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do you +remember? For that was something I couldn't do at all. + +GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human being +does. And you have become quite keen at it--at least when you +write. + +TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dear +Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a +peaceful way like this. + +GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a +pretty peaceful time with me. + +TEKLA. Perhaps too much so. + +GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It was +at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged. + +TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time? +And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course. + +GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you can +wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and I +don't think your husband can be called a sluggard. + +TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing. + +GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are still +wearing the ear-rings I gave you? + +TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel between +us--and then I thought I might wear them as a token--and a +reminder--that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it is +impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes off +one of her ear-rings.] + +GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of +it? + +TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says? + +GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?--But you may be doing him an injury. +It is likely to make him ridiculous. + +TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was that +before! + +GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the +ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps? + +TEKLA. Oh--thank you! + +GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!--Think only if your +husband could see us now! + +TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though! + +GUSTAV. Is he jealous also? + +TEKLA. Is he? I should say so! + +[A noise is heard from the room on the right.] + +GUSTAV. Who lives in that room? + +TEKLA. I don't know.--But tell me how you are getting along and +what you are doing? + +GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along? + +(TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she is +doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.) + +GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?--Well!--It must be you! + +TEKLA. I don't believe so. + +GUSTAV. But it is very like you. + +TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so? + +GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story--you know it--"How could +your majesty see that?" + +TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!--Do you know any new +stories? + +GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some. + +TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays. + +GUSTAV. Is he modest also? + +TEKLA. Oh--well-- + +GUSTAV. Not an everything? + +TEKLA. He isn't well just now. + +GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into other +people's hives? + +TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing! + +GUSTAV. Poor chap!--Do you remember once when we were just +married--we lived in this very room. It was furnished differently +in those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wall +there--and over there stood the big bed. + +TEKLA. Now you stop! + +GUSTAV. Look at me! + +TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I? + +[They look hard at each other.] + +GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that has +made a very deep impression on him? + +TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularly +the memories of our youth. + +GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were a +pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had +made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled it +with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the +slate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why I +shouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's his +business! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meeting +you again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit here +and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own +bottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in +flavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely +picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For the +woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes +hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy. + +TEKLA. Are you going to marry again? + +GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I am +going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a +spill. + +TEKLA. Is she good looking? + +GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer--now when +chance has brought me together with you again--I am beginning to +doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again. + +TEKLA. How do you mean? + +GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old +wounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman, +Tekla! + +TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no more +conquests. + +GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you. + +TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him. + +GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at last +you cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You have +had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his +courage. There _are_ some drawbacks to a change, I tell you--there +are drawbacks to it, indeed. + +TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach-- + +GUSTAV. Not at all! Whatever happens is to a certain extent +necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would--but now +it did happen, and so it had to happen. + +TEKLA. _You_ are a man of discernment. And I have never met anybody +with whom I liked so much to exchange ideas. You are so utterly +free from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little of +people, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. Do you +know, I am jealous of your intended wife! + +GUSTAV. And do you realise that I am jealous of your husband? + +TEKLA. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever! + +GUSTAV. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell--or what do +you say? + +TEKLA. [Agitated] No! + +GUSTAV. [Following after her] Yes!--Let us have a farewell! Let us +drown our memories--you know, there are intoxications so deep that +when you wake up all memories are gone. [Putting his arm around +her waist] You have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who is +infecting you with his own anaemia. I'll breathe new life into +you. I'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, like +a remontant rose. I'll--- + +(Two LADIES in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading to +the veranda. They look surprised. Then they point at those within, +laugh, and disappear.) + +TEKLA. [Freeing herself] Who was that? + +GUSTAV. [Indifferently] Some tourists. + +TEKLA. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you! + +GUSTAV. Why? + +TEKLA. You take my soul away from me! + +GUSTAV. And give you my own in its place! And you have no soul for +that matter--it's nothing but a delusion. + +TEKLA. You have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody can +be angry with you. + +GUSTAV. It's because you feel that I hold the first mortgage on +you--Tell me now, when--and--where? + +TEKLA. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still in +love with me, and I don't want to do any more harm. + +GUSTAV. He does not love you! Do you want proofs? + +TEKLA, Where can you get them? + +GUSTAV. [Picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor] +Here! See for yourself! + +TEKLA. Oh, that's an outrage! + +GUSTAV. Do you see? Now then, when? And where? + +TEKLA. The false-hearted wretch! + +GUSTAV. When? + +TEKLA. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat. + +GUSTAV. And then-- + +TEKLA. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room] Who can +be living in there that makes such a racket? + +GUSTAV. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the keyhole] +There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe-- +that's all! I shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up in +there.--At nine o'clock then? + +TEKLA. All right! And let him answer for it himself.--What a depth +of deceit! And he who has always preached about truthfulness, +and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--But wait a little—how +was it now? He received me with something like hostility--didn't +meet me at the landing--and then--and then he made some remark +about young men on board the boat, which I pretended not to hear—- +but how could he know? Wait--and then he began to philosophise +about women--and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting +him--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art +of the time--exactly in accordance with your old speculations! + +GUSTAV. No, really! + +TEKLA. No, really?--Oh, now I understand! Now I begin to see what +a hideous creature you are! You have been here before and stabbed +him to death! It was you who had been sitting there on the sofa; +it was you who made him think himself an epileptic--that he had to +live in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against his +wife; yes, it was you!--How long have you been here? + +GUSTAV. I have been here a week. + +TEKLA. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat? + +GUSTAV. It was. + +TEKLA. And now you were thinking you could trap me? + +GUSTAV. It has been done. + +TEKLA. Not yet! + +GUSTAV. Yes! + +TEKLA. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came here with a +villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying it +out, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled you. + +GUSTAV. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it happened +in reality. Of course, it has been my secret hope that disaster +might overtake you. But I felt practically certain that no +interference on my part was required. And besides, I have been far +too busy to have any time left for intriguing. But when I happened +to be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those young +men on board the boat, then I guessed the time had come for me to +take a look at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threw +itself into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sort +of reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough to +explain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemed +to be in the same fix as I was once. But then he happened to touch +old wounds--that book, you know, and "the idiot"--and I was seized +with a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these so +thoroughly that they couldn't be put together again--and I +succeeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done the +work of preparation. Then I had to deal with you. For you were the +spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be taken +apart--and what a buzzing followed!--When I came in here, I didn't +know exactly what to say. Like a chess-player, I had laid a number +of tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on your +moves. One thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, and +finally I had you where I wanted you.--Now you are caught! + +TEKLA. No! + +GUSTAV. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has happened. The +world at large, represented by two lady tourists--whom I had not +sent for, as I am not an intriguer--the world has seen how you +became reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked back +repentantly into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough? + +TEKLA. It ought to be enough for your revenge--But tell me, how +can you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded--how is it +possible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, and +that all our actions are determined in advance-- + +GUSTAV. [Correcting her] To a certain extent determined. + +TEKLA. That's the same thing! + +GUSTAV. No! + +TEKLA. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, who hold me +guiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the circumstances into +acting as I did--how can you think yourself entitled to revenge--? + +GUSTAV. For that very reason--for the reason that my nature and +the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. Isn't that giving +both sides a square deal? But do you know why you two had to get +the worst of it in this struggle? + +(TEKLA looks scornful.) + +GUSTAV. And why you were doomed to be fooled? Because I am +stronger than you, and wiser also. You have been the idiot--and +he! And now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiot +because he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. It might be +well for you to bear this in mind. + +TEKLA. Are you then entirely without feelings? + +GUSTAV. Entirely! And for that very reason, you know, I am capable +of thinking--in which you have had no experience whatever-and of +acting--in which you have just had some slight experience. + +TEKLA. And all this merely because I have hurt your vanity? + +GUSTAV. Don't call that MERELY! You had better not go around +hurting other people's vanity. They have no more sensitive spot +than that. + +TEKLA. Vindictive wretch--shame on you! + +GUSTAV. Dissolute wretch--shame on you! + +TEKLA. Oh, that's my character, is it? + +GUSTAV. Oh, that's my character, is it?--You ought to learn +something about human nature in others before you give your own +nature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and then there will +be wailing and gnashing of teeth. + +TEKLA. You can never forgive:-- + +GUSTAV. Yes, I have forgiven you! + +TEKLA. You! + +GUSTAV. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you during all +these years? No! And now I came here only to have a look at you, +and it was enough to burst your bubble. Have I uttered a single +reproach? Have I moralised or preached sermons? No! I played a +joke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed to +finish him.--But there is no reason why I, the complainant, +should be defending myself as I am now--Tekla! Have you nothing at +all to reproach yourself with? + +TEKLA. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions are +governed by Providence; others call it Fate; in either case, are +we not free from all liability? + +GUSTAV. In a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow margin +left unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. +And sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. +Guiltless, but accountable! Guiltless in regard to one who is no +more; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings. + +TEKLA. So you came here to dun me? + +GUSTAV. I came to take back what you had stolen, not what you had +received as a gift. You had stolen my honour, and I could recover +it only by taking yours. This, I think, was my right--or was it +not? + +TEKLA. Honour? Hm! And now you feel satisfied? + +GUSTAV. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter.] + +TEKLA. And now you are going home to your fiancee? + +GUSTAV. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have one. I am +not going home, for I have no home, and don't want one. + +(A WAITER comes in.) + +GUSTAV. Get me my bill--I am leaving by the eight o'clock boat. + +(THE WAITER bows and goes out.) + +TEKLA. Without making up? + +GUSTAV. Making up? You use such a lot of words that have lost +their--meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps you want all three +of us to live together? You, if anybody, ought to make up by +making good what you took away, but this you cannot do. You just +took, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothing +left to restore.--Will it satisfy you if I say like this: forgive +me that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced +me; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils +through every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I set +you free from parental restraints, that I released you from the +tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule my +house, that I gave you position and friends, that I made a woman +out of the child you were before? Forgive me as I forgive you!-- +Now I have torn up your note! Now you can go and settle your +account with the other one! + +TEKLA. What have you done with him? I am beginning to suspect-- +something terrible! + +GUSTAV. With him? Do you still love him? + +TEKLA. Yes! + +GUSTAV. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true? + +TEKLA. It was true. + +GUSTAV. Do you know what you are then? + +TEKLA. You despise me? + +GUSTAV. I pity you. It is a trait--I don't call it a fault--just +a trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. Poor +Tekla! I don't know--but it seems almost as if I were feeling a +certain regret, although I am as free from any guilt--as you! But +perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I felt that time.-- +Do you know where your husband is? + +TEKLA. I think I know now--he is in that room in there! And he has +heard everything! And seen everything! And the man who sees his +own wraith dies! + +(ADOLPH appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. His face is +white as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. +His eyes are staring and void of all expression. His lips are +covered with froth.) + +GUSTAV. [Shrinking back] No, there he is!--Now you can settle with +him and see if he proves as generous as I have been.--Good-bye! + +(He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door.) + +TEKLA. [Goes to meet ADOLPH with open arms] Adolph! + +(ADOLPH leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to the +floor.) + +TEKLA. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressing +him] Adolph! My own child! Are you still alive--oh, speak, speak!-- +Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me, forgive me, forgive +me!--Little brother must say something, I tell him!--No, good God, +he doesn't hear! He is dead! O God in heaven! O my God! Help! + +GUSTAV. Why, she really must have loved _him_, too!--Poor creature! + +(Curtain.) + + + + +PARIAH + +INTRODUCTION + + +Both "Creditors" and "Pariah" were written in the winter of 1888- +89 at Holte, near Copenhagen, where Strindberg, assisted by his +first wife, was then engaged in starting what he called a +"Scandinavian Experimental Theatre." In March, 1889, the two plays +were given by students from the University of Copenhagen, and with +Mrs. von Essen Strindberg as _Tekla_. A couple of weeks later the +performance was repeated across the Sound, in the Swedish city of +Malmö, on which occasion the writer of this introduction, then a +young actor, assisted in the stage management. One of the actors +was Gustav Wied, a Danish playwright and novelist, whose exquisite +art since then has won him European fame. In the audience was Ola +Hansson, a Swedish novelist and poet who had just published a +short story from which Strindberg, according to his own +acknowledgment on playbill and title-page, had taken the name and +the theme of "Pariah." + +Mr. Hansson has printed a number of letters (_Tilskueren_, +Copenhagen, July, 1912) written to him by Strindberg about that +time, as well as some very informative comments of his own. +Concerning the performance of Malmö he writes: "It gave me a very +unpleasant sensation. What did it mean? Why had Strindberg turned +my simple theme upsidedown so that it became unrecognisable? Not a +vestige of the 'theme from Ola Hansson' remained. Yet he had even +suggested that he and I act the play together, I not knowing that +it was to be a duel between two criminals. And he had at first +planned to call it 'Aryan and Pariah'--which meant, of course, +that the strong Aryan, Strindberg, was to crush the weak Pariah, +Hansson, _coram populo_." + +In regard to his own story Mr. Hansson informs us that it dealt +with "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about it, doing +both in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby everything is left +vague and undefined." At that moment "Raskolnikov" was in the air, +so to speak. And without wanting in any way to suggest imitation, +I feel sure that the groundnote of the story was distinctly +Dostoievskian. Strindberg himself had been reading Nietzsche and +was--largely under the pressure of a reaction against the popular +disapproval of his anti-feministic attitude--being driven more and +more into a superman philosophy which reached its climax in the +two novels "Chandalah" (1889) and "At the Edge of the Sea" (1890). +The Nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two plays contained in +the present volume. + +But these plays are strongly colored by something else--by +something that is neither Hansson-Dostoievski nor Strindberg- +Nietzsche. The solution of the problem is found in the letters +published by Mr. Hansson. These show that while Strindberg was +still planning "Creditors," and before he had begun "Pariah," he +had borrowed from Hansson a volume of tales by Edgar Allan Poe. It +was his first acquaintance with the work of Poe, though not with +American literature--for among his first printed work was a +series of translations from American humourists; and not long ago +a Swedish critic (Gunnar Castrén in _Samtiden_, Christiania, June, +1912) wrote of Strindberg's literary beginnings that "he had +learned much from Swedish literature, but probably more from Mark +Twain and Dickens." + +The impression Poe made on Strindberg was overwhelming. He returns +to it in one letter after another. Everything that suits his mood +of the moment is "Poesque" or "E. P-esque." The story that seems +to have made the deepest impression of all was "The Gold Bug," +though his thought seems to have distilled more useful material +out of certain other stories illustrating Poe's theories about +mental suggestion. Under the direct influence of these theories, +Strindberg, according to his own statements to Hansson, wrote the +powerful one-act play "Simoom," and made _Gustav_ in "Creditors" +actually _call forth_ the latent epileptic tendencies in _Adolph_. +And on the same authority we must trace the method of: psychological +detection practised by _Mr. X._ in "Pariah" directly to "The Gold +Bug." + +Here we have the reason why Mr. Hansson could find so little of +his story in the play. And here we have the origin of a theme +which, while not quite new to him, was ever afterward to remain a +favourite one with Strindberg: that of a duel between intellect +and cunning. It forms the basis of such novels as "Chandalah" and +"At the Edge of the Sea," but it recurs in subtler form in works +of much later date. To readers of the present day, _Mr. X._--that +striking antithesis of everything a scientist used to stand for in +poetry--is much less interesting as a superman _in spe_ than as an +illustration of what a morally and mentally normal man can do with +the tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways and +human motives. And in giving us a play that holds our interest as +firmly as the best "love plot" ever devised, although the stage +shows us only two men engaged in an intellectual wrestling match, +Strindberg took another great step toward ridding the drama of its +old, shackling conventions. + +The name of this play has sometimes been translated as "The +Outcast," whereby it becomes confused with "The Outlaw," a much +earlier play on a theme from the old Sagas. I think it better, +too, that the Hindu allusion in the Swedish title be not lost, for +the best of men may become an outcast, but the baseness of the +Pariah is not supposed to spring only from lack of social +position. + + +PARIAH +AN ACT +1889 + + +PERSONS + + +MR. X., an archaeologist, Middle-aged man. +MR. Y., an American traveller, Middle-aged man. + + +SCENE + +(A simply furnished room in a farmhouse. The door and the windows +in the background open on a landscape. In the middle of the room +stands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books, writing +materials, and antiquities; at the other end, by a microscope, +insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol.) + +(On the left side hangs a bookshelf. Otherwise the furniture is +that of a well-to-do farmer.) + +(MR. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net and +a botany-can. He goes straight up to the bookshelf and takes down +a book, which he begins to read on the spot.) + +(The landscape outside and the room itself are steeped in +sunlight. The ringing of church bells indicates that the morning +services are just over. Now and then the cackling of hens is heard +from the outside.) + +(MR. X. enters, also in his shirt-sleeves.) + +(MR. Y. starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf +upside-down, and pretends to be looking for another volume.) + +MR. X. This heat is horrible. I guess we are going to have a +thunderstorm. + +MR. Y. What makes you think so? + +MR. X. The bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies are +sticky, and the hens cackle. I meant to go fishing, but I couldn't +find any worms. Don't you feel nervous? + +MR. Y. [Cautiously] I?--A little. + +MR. X. Well, for that matter, you always look as if you were +expecting thunderstorms. + +MR. Y. [With a start] Do I? + +MR. X. Now, you are going away tomorrow, of course, so it is not +to be wondered at that you are a little "journey-proud."-- +Anything new?--Oh, there's the mail! [Picks up some letters from +the table] My, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a +letter! Nothing but debts, debts, debts! Have you ever had any +debts? + +MR. Y. [After some reflection] N-no. + +MR. X. Well, then you don't know what it means to receive a lot of +overdue bills. [Reads one of the letters] The rent unpaid--the +landlord acting nasty--my wife in despair. And here am I sitting +waist-high in gold! [He opens an iron-banded box that stands on +the table; then both sit down at the table, facing each other] +Just look--here I have six thousand crowns' worth of gold which I +have dug up in the last fortnight. This bracelet alone would bring +me the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I +might make a fine career for myself. Then I could get the +illustrations made for my treatise at once; I could get my work +printed, and--I could travel! Why don't I do it, do you suppose? + +MR. Y. I suppose you are afraid to be found out. + +MR. X. That, too, perhaps. But don't you think an intelligent +fellow like myself might fix matters so that he was never found +out? I am alone all the time--with nobody watching me--while I am +digging out there in the fields. It wouldn't be strange if I put +something in my own pockets now and then. + +MR. Y. Yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the stuff. + +MR. X. Pooh! I'd melt it down, of course--every bit of it--and +then I'd turn it into coins--with just as much gold in them as +genuine ones, of course-- + +MR. Y. Of course! + +MR. X. Well, you can easily see why. For if I wanted to dabble in +counterfeits, then I need not go digging for gold first. [Pause] +It is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody else did what I +cannot make myself do, then I'd be willing to acquit him--but I +couldn't possibly acquit myself. I might even make a brilliant +speech in defence of the thief, proving that this gold was _res +nullius_, or nobody's, as it had been deposited at a time when +property rights did not yet exist; that even under existing rights +it could belong only to the first finder of it, as the ground-owner +has never included it in the valuation of his property; and so on. + +MR. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do this if +the--hm!--the thief had not been prompted by actual need, but by a +mania for collecting, for instance--or by scientific aspirations-- +by the ambition to keep a discovery to himself. Don't you think +so? + +MR. X. You mean that I could not acquit him if actual need had +been the motive? Yes, for that's the only motive which the law +will not accept in extenuation. That motive makes a plain theft of +it. + +MR. Y. And this you couldn't excuse? + +MR. X. Oh, excuse--no, I guess not, as the law wouldn't. On the +other hand, I must admit that it would be hard for me to charge a +collector with theft merely because he had appropriated some +specimen not yet represented in his own collection. + +MR. Y. So that vanity or ambition might excuse what could not be +excused by need? + +MR. X. And yet need ought to be the more telling excuse--the only +one, in fact? But I feel as I have said. And I can no more change +this feeling than I can change my own determination not to steal +under any circumstances whatever. + +MR. Y. And I suppose you count it a great merit that you cannot-- +hm!--steal? + +MR. X. No, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible as +the inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. So it +cannot be called a merit. I cannot do it, and the other one cannot +refrain!--But you understand, of course, that I am not without a +desire to own this gold. Why don't I take it then? Because I +cannot! It's an inability--and the lack of something cannot be +called a merit. There! + +[Closes the box with a slam. Stray clouds have cast their shadows +on the landscape and darkened the room now and then. Now it grows +quite dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching.] + +MR. X. How close the air is! I guess the storm is coming all +right. + +[MR. Y. gets up and shuts the door and all the windows.] + +MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder? + +MR. Y. It's just as well to be careful. + +(They resume their seats at the table.) + +MR. X. You're a curious chap! Here you come dropping down like a +bomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as a Swedish-American +who is collecting flies for a small museum-- + +MR. Y. Oh, never mind me now! + +MR. X. That's what you always say when I grow tired of talking +about myself and want to turn my attention to you. Perhaps that +was the reason why I took to you as I did--because you let me +talk about myself? All at once we seemed like old friends. There +were no angles about you against which I could bump myself, no +pins that pricked. There was something soft about your whole +person, and you overflowed with that tact which only well-educated +people know how to show. You never made a noise when you came home +late at night or got up early in the morning. You were patient in +small things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemed +threatening. In a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion! +But you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering about +you in the long run--and you are too timid, too easily frightened. +It seems almost as if you were made up of two different +personalities. Why, as I sit here looking at your back in the +mirror over there--it is as if I were looking at somebody else. + +(MR. Y. turns around and stares at the mirror.) + +MR. X. No, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back, man!--In +front you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one meeting his +fate with bared breast, but from behind--really, I don't want to +be impolite, but--you look as if you were carrying a burden, or as +if you were crouching to escape a raised stick. And when I look at +that red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, it +looks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a +packing-box-- + +MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon-- + +MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks as +if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face +quite different in type from yours. And your ears come so close +together behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to. +[A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as if +that might have struck the sheriff's house! + +MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's! + +MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll get +much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as you +are going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you, +with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that yon +are one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away from +them. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, I +always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not +resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common. + +MR. Y. Who is he? + +MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years to +take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table +where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met a +little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderful +faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling +anybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary place +down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he +wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. He +seemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybody +he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he +would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human +face for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if +eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watched +him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character. +But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, for +then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man had +just your quality of being indefinite. At different times I made +him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non- +commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective-- +and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the +front of him never quite fitted the back. One day I happened to +read in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-known +government official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentleman +had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name was +Strawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used to +run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter +of a big daily. How in the world could I hope to establish a +connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man's +peculiar manners? It was beyond me; and when I asked a friend +whether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend +couldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [Pause.] + +MR. Y. Well, had he ever been--punished? + +MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had such +an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending +people? + +MR. X. Exactly! + +MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward? + +MR. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he +had been--punished? + +MR. X. Perfectly! + +(MR. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.) + +MR. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still? + +MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions? Are +you a Christian? + +MR. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not? + +(MR. Y. makes a face.) + +MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I require +punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, +be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to know the +difference. + +MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X., first with wild, +hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How--could--you-- +know--that? + +MR. X. Why, I could see it. + +MR. Y. How? How could you see it? + +MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others. +But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch, +arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and +hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs. +Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I am +going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to +the city with you. + +MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo. + +MR. X. Oh, you are not? + +MR. Y. No. + +MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature. + +MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind-- + +MR. X.--any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused to +write your own name. The first time nothing more serious was +involved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began to +watch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid +fear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a single +letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote +with a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out the +exact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like the +seventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which +place you have not visited at all during all this time. And yet +you came the whole way from America merely to have a look at +Malmo! And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old +mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance. +And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and look +out through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, yon +can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney of +the county jail.--And now I hope you see that it's your own +stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everything +clear to me. + +MR. Y. This means that you despise me? + +MR. X. Oh, no! + +MR. Y. Yes, you do--you cannot but do it! + +MR. X. No--here's my hand. + +(MR. Y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.) + +MR. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog! + +MR. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let me +touch his hand after learning-- + +MR. X. And now you call me "sir!"--What scares me about you is +that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the old +level, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered your +punishment. Do you care to tell me how it happened? Would you? + +MR. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what I say. +But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I am no +ORDINARY criminal. You'll become convinced, I think, that there +are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again] +which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without being +willed by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible-- +May I open the door a little now, since the storm seems to have +passed over? + +MR. X. Suit yourself. + +MR. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and begins +to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures, +and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was a +student in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan from +a bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned some +property--not a great deal, of course. However, I had sent the +note to the second man of the two who were to act as security, +and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. For a +while I was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a very +unpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! The note was lying in front +of me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. At first my eyes +stared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is, +not a death-doom, of course, for I could easily find other +securities, as many as I wanted--but as I have already said, it +was very annoying just the same. And as I was sitting there quite +unconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the +signature of the letter, which would have made my future secure if +it had only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well- +written signature--and you know how sometimes one may absent- +mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. I +had a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] like +this. And somehow it just began to run--I don't want to claim that +there was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic nature +back of it--for that kind of thing I don't believe in! It was a +wholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of that +beautiful autograph over and over again. When all the clean space +on the letter was used up, I had learned to reproduce the +signature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholder +with a violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night I +slept long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that I +had been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself. At +times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I seemed +to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distant +memory--and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to the table, +just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed an +irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. All +thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had disappeared— +no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I was fulfilling +some sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet] What could +it be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case of mental +suggestion, as they call it? But from whom could it come? I +was sleeping alone in that room. Could it possibly be my primitive +self--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing-- +which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep-- +together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability to +calculate the results of an action? Tell me, what do you think of +it? + +MR. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself] Frankly +speaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it, +but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details-- +and I have read something about criminal suggestion--or I think I +have, at least--hm! But all that is neither here nor there! You +have taken your medicine--and you have had the courage to +acknowledge your fault. Now we won't talk of it any more. + +MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till I become sure of my +innocence. + +MR. X. Well, are you not? + +MR. Y. No, I am not! + +MR. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's exactly what +is bothering me!--Don't you feel fairly sure that every human +being hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we not, all of us, +stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly! Well, now there are +persons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannot +control their unlawful desires. Then comes the opportunity, and +there you have your criminal.--But I cannot understand why you +don't feel innocent. If the child is not held responsible, why +should the criminal be regarded differently? It is the more +strange because--well, perhaps I may come to repent it later. +[Pause] I, for my part, have killed a man, and I have never +suffered any qualms on account of it. + +MR. Y. [Very much interested] Have--you? + +MR. X, Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to shake +hands with a murderer? + +MR. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense! + +MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished, + +ME. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] So +much the better for you!--How did you get out of it? + +MR. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses. +This is the way it happened. One Christmas I was invited to hunt +with a fellow-student a little way out of Upsala. He sent a +besotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellow +went to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upset +the whole _equipage_ in a ditch. I am not going to pretend that my +life was in danger. It was sheer impatience which made me hit him +across the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--just +to wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all, +but collapsed then and there. + +MR. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it? + +MR. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so. The man +left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life could +be of the slightest use. He had already outlived his allotted +period of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filled +by somebody more in need of it. On the other hand, my life was +necessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhaps +also to the progress of my science. The outcome had once for all +cured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and I +didn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents for +the sake of an abstract principle of justice. + +MR. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life? + +MR. X. In the present case, yes. + +MR. Y. But the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of? + +MR. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no crime. As a +boy I had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, and +the fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by my +ignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderly +person. + +MR. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man is +punished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactly +what one gets for--writing names. + +MR. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And more than one +night I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell me now--is it really as +bad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar? + +MR. Y. You bet it is!--First of all they disfigure you by cutting +off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, you +are sure to do so afterward. And when you catch sight of yourself +in a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit. + +MR. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? Which +wouldn't be a bad idea, I should say. + +MR. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it!--And then they +cut down your food, so that every day and every hour you become +conscious of the border line between life and death. Every vital +function is more or less checked. You can feel yourself shrinking. +And your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead put +on a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlived +ages. You are not permitted to read anything but what was written +for the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. You +hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and what +actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. You are +torn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, put +beneath those who are really beneath yourself. Then you get a +sense of living in the bronze age. You come to feel as if you were +dressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating out +of a trough--ugh! + +MR. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts as if he +belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don the +proper costume. + +MR. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved like a man +from the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the golden +age. + +MR. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean with that +last expression--the golden age? + +MR. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all. + +MR. X. Now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to say +all you think. + +MR. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no coward when I +dared to show myself around here, where I had had to suffer as I +did.--But can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?-- +It is that the others are not in there too! + +MR. X. What others? + +MR. Y. Those that go unpunished. + +MR. X. Are you thinking of me? + +MR. Y. I am. + +MR. X. But I have committed no crime. + +MR. Y. Oh, haven't you? + +MR. X. No, a misfortune is no crime. + +MR. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder? + +MR. X. I have not committed murder. + +MR. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person? + +MR. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killing +in self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentional +and unintentional killing. However--now you really frighten me, +for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the most +dangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid. + +MR. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen--would you +like me to show you how clever I am? + +MR. X. Come on! + +MR. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both logic and +wisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you. You have +suffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years at +hard labor. You have completely escaped the disgrace of being +punished. And here you see before you a man--who has also suffered +a misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who has +had to stand two years of hard labor for it. Only by some great +scientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that has +become attached to him without any fault of his own--but in order +to arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot of +money--and money this minute! Don't you think that the other one, +the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into these +unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of a +fine? Don't you think so? + +MR. X. [Calmly] Yes. + +MR. Y. Then we understand each other.--Hm! [Pause] What do you +think would be reasonable? + +MR. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is fixed by the +law at fifty crowns. But this whole question is settled by the +fact that the dead man left no relatives. + +MR. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then I'll have to +speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine. + +MR. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to collect +fines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there is no +prosecutor. + +MR. Y. There isn't? Well--how would I do? + +MR. X. Oh, _now_ we are getting the matter cleared up! How much do +you want for becoming my accomplice? + +MR. Y. Six thousand crowns. + +MR. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them? + +(MR. Y. points to the box.) + +MR. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to become a +thief. + +MR. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll believe +that you haven't helped yourself out of that box before? + +MR. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could let +myself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with these soft +natures. You like them, and then it's so easy to believe that they +like you. And that's the reason why I have always been on my guard +against people I take a liking to!--So you are firmly convinced +that I have helped myself out of the box before? + +MR. Y. Certainly! MR. X. And you are going to report me if you +don't get six thousand crowns? + +MR. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's no use +trying. + +MR. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief for son, my +wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, my +fellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will never happen!-- +Now I am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself. + +MR. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait a moment! + +MR. X. For what? + +MR. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought--as I am no longer needed--it +wouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and I might just as well +leave. + +MR. X. No, you may not!--Sit down there at the table, where you +sat before, and we'll have another talk before you go. + +MR. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are you up +to now? + +MR. X. [Looking into the mirror back of MR. Y.] Oh, now I have it! +Oh-h-h! + +MR. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you discovering +now? + +MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinary +thief! A moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, I +could notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. I +couldn't make out just what it was, for I had to listen to you and +watch you. But as my antipathy increased, my vision became more +acute. And now, with your black coat to furnish the needed color +contrast For the red back of the book, which before couldn't be +seen against the red of your suspenders--now I see that you have +been reading about forgeries in Bernheim's work on mental +suggestion--for you turned the book upside-down in putting it back. +So even that story of yours was stolen! For tins reason I think +myself entitled to conclude that your crime must have been +prompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure. + +MR. Y. By need! If you only knew-- + +MR. X. If _you_ only knew the extent of the need I have had to face +and live through! But that's another story! Let's proceed with +your case. That you have been in prison--I take that for granted. +But it happened in America, for it was American prison life you +described. Another thing may also be taken for granted, namely, +that you have not borne your punishment on this side. + +MR. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind? + +MR. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn all +about it. + +(MR. Y. gets up.) + +ME. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the sheriff, in +connection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. And when a +person has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an old +mill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by the +window--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. And +that's why it was so hard to make you out. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now? + +MR. X. Now you can go. + +MR. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me? + +MR. X. Yes--would you prefer me to pity you? + +MR. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better than I? + +MR. X. Of course I do, as I AM better than you. I am wiser, and I +am less of a menace to prevailing property rights. + +MR. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as clever as +you. For the moment you have me checked, but in the next move I +can mate you--all the same! + +MR. X. [Looking hard at MR. Y.] So we have to have another bout! +What kind of mischief are you up to now? + +MR. Y. That's my secret. + +MR. X. Just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymous +letter giving away MY secret! + +MR. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't dare to +have me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And when I am gone, +I can do what I please. + +MR. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable spot! Do you +want to make a real murderer out of me? + +MR. Y. That's more than you'll ever become--coward! + +MR. X. There you see how different people are. You have a feeling +that I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. And +that gives you the upper hand. But suppose you forced me to treat +you as I treated that coachman? + +[He lifts his hand as if ready to hit MR. Y.] + +MR. Y. [Staring MR. X. straight in the face] You can't! It's too +much for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box over +there. + +ME. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of the box? + +MR. Y. You were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly to +tell your wife that she had married a murderer. + +MR. X. You are a different man from what I took you to be--if +stronger or weaker, I cannot tell--if more criminal or less, +that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much is +quite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote another person's +name instead of begging--as I have had to do. Stupid you were when +you stole things out of my book--could you not guess that I might +have read my own books? Stupid you were when you thought yourself +cleverer than me, and when you thought that I could be lured into +becoming a thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance could +be restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. But +most stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed to +provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and write +my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husband +having killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!-- +Have you had enough now? + +MR. Y. May I go? + +MR. X. Now you _have_ to go! And at once! I'll send your things +after you!--Get out of here! + +(Curtain.) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Plays by August Strindberg, Second +series, by August Strindberg + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYS BY STRINDBERG *** + +***** This file should be named 14347-8.txt or 14347-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/3/4/14347/ + +Produced by Nicole Apostola + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/14347-8.zip b/old/14347-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd1b1fa --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14347-8.zip diff --git a/old/14347.txt b/old/14347.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e86450b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14347.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10202 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Plays by August Strindberg, Second series +by August Strindberg + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Plays by August Strindberg, Second series + +Author: August Strindberg + +Release Date: December 13, 2004 [EBook #14347] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYS BY STRINDBERG *** + + + + +Produced by Nicole Apostola + + + + +PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG + +SECOND SERIES + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +MISS JULIA +THE STRONGER +CREDITORS +PARIAH + +TRANSLATED WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY EDWIN BJOeRKMAN + +AUTHORIZED EDITION + + + +CONTENTS + +Introduction to "There Are Crimes and Crimes" +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES + +Introduction to "Miss Julia" +Author's Preface +MISS JULIA + +Introduction to "The Stronger" +THE STRONGER + +Introduction to "Creditors" +CREDITORS + +Introduction to "Pariah" +PARIAH + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +INTRODUCTION + + +Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There Are Crimes and +Crimes." In the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finest +historical dramas: "The Saga of the Folkungs," "Gustavus Vasa," +and "Eric XIV." Just before, he had finished "Advent," which he +described as "A Mystery," and which was published together with +"There Are Crimes and Crimes" under the common title of "In a +Higher Court." Back of these dramas lay his strange confessional +works, "Inferno" and "Legends," and the first two parts of his +autobiographical dream-play, "Toward Damascus"--all of which were +finished between May, 1897, and some time in the latter part of +1898. And back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, +when, at Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by the +transmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spirit +was travelling through all the seven hells in its search for the +heaven promised by the great mystics of the past. + +"There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as his +first definite step beyond that crisis, of which the preceding +works were at once the record and closing chord. When, in 1909, he +issued "The Author," being a long withheld fourth part of his +first autobiographical series, "The Bondwoman's Son," he prefixed +to it an analytical summary of the entire body of his work. +Opposite the works from 1897-8 appears in this summary the +following passage: "The great crisis at the age of fifty; +revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings, +Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells." But concerning "There Are Crimes +and Crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year he +writes triumphantly: "Light after darkness; new productivity, with +recovered Faith, Hope and Love--and with full, rock-firm +Certitude." + +In its German version the play is named "Rausch," or +"Intoxication," which indicates the part played by the champagne +in the plunge of _Maurice_ from the pinnacles of success to the +depths of misfortune. Strindberg has more and more come to see +that a moderation verging closely on asceticism is wise for most +men and essential to the man of genius who wants to fulfil his +divine mission. And he does not scorn to press home even this +comparatively humble lesson with the naive directness and fiery +zeal which form such conspicuous features of all his work. + +But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their joint +publication we have a better clue to what the author himself +undoubtedly regards as the most important element of his work--its +religious tendency. The "higher court," in which are tried the +crimes of _Maurice_, _Adolphe_, and _Henriette_, is, of course, +the highest one that man can imagine. And the crimes of which they +have all become guilty are those which, as _Adolphe_ remarks, "are +not mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes against the +spirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against God. +The play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritual +change, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the waters +of life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled. + +There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramatic +revelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order-- +for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress is +implied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all in our +growing modern conviction that _any_ vital faith is better than none +at all. One of the currents in question refers to the means rather +than the end, to the road rather than the goal. It brings us back +to those uncanny soul-adventures by which Strindberg himself won +his way to the "full, rock-firm Certitude" of which the play in +its entirety is the first tangible expression. The elements +entering into this current are not only mystical, but occult. They +are derived in part from Swedenborg, and in part from that +picturesque French dreamer who signs himself "Sar Peladan"; but +mostly they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences in +moments of abnormal tension. + +What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris in 1895, +and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude in +his "Inferno" and "Legends," all this is here presented in +dramatic form, but a little toned down, both to suit the needs of +the stage and the calmer mood of the author. Coincidence is law. +It is the finger-point of Providence, the signal to man that he +must beware. Mystery is the gospel: the secret knitting of man to +man, of fact to fact, deep beneath the surface of visible and +audible existence. Few writers could take us into such a realm of +probable impossibilities and possible improbabilities without +losing all claim to serious consideration. If Strindberg has thus +ventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his success can be +explained only by the presence in the play of that second, +parallel current of thought and feeling. + +This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface is +fantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm Certitude" +to which I have already referred. And nothing will bring us nearer +to it than Strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his +"Speeches to the Swedish Nation" two years ago. In that pamphlet +there is a chapter headed "Religion," in which occurs this +passage: "Since 1896 I have been calling myself a Christian. I am +not a Catholic, and have never been, but during a stay of seven +years in Catholic countries and among Catholic relatives, I +discovered that the difference between Catholic and Protestant +tenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial, and that +the division which once occurred was merely political or else +concerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane to +the religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain, +but I can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but come +nearest to being a Swedenborgian. I use my Bible Christianity +internally and privately to tame my somewhat decivilized nature-- +decivilised by that veterinary philosophy and animal science +(Darwinism) in which, as student at the university, I was reared. +And I assure my fellow-beings that they have no right to complain +because, according to my ability, I practise the Christian +teachings. For only through religion, or the hope of something +better, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life as +that of an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it be +possible to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation." + +Here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg's +religiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself to +morality. At bottom he is first and last, and has always been, a +moralist--a man passionately craving to know what is RIGHT and to +do it. During the middle, naturalistic period of his creative +career, this fundamental tendency was in part obscured, and he +engaged in the game of intellectual curiosity known as "truth for +truth's own sake." One of the chief marks of his final and +mystical period is his greater courage to "be himself" in this +respect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance, to a +position which the late William James undoubtedly would have +acknowledged as "pragmatic." To combat the assertion of +over-developed individualism that we are ends in ourselves, +that we have certain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure +and happiness merely because we happen to appear here in human +shape, this is one of Strindberg's most ardent aims in all his +later works. + +As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives must +be held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may be another life. +He calls it God. And the code of service he finds in the tenets of +all the Christian churches, but principally in the Commandments. +The plain and primitive virtues, the faith that implies little +more than square dealing between man and man--these figure +foremost in Strindberg's ideals. In an age of supreme self-seeking +like ours, such an outlook would seem to have small chance of +popularity, but that it embodies just what the time most needs is, +perhaps, made evident by the reception which the public almost +invariably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes" when it is staged. + +With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly called +realism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use of +methods generally held superseded--such as the casual introduction +of characters at whatever moment they happen to be needed on the +stage--it has, from the start, been among the most frequently +played and most enthusiastically received of Strindberg's later +dramas. At Stockholm it was first taken up by the Royal Dramatic +Theatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the Intimate +Theatre, then devoted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It was +one of the earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was still +experimenting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has also +been given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna. + +Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a word of +explanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris. Not only the +scenery, but the people and the circumstances are French. Yet he +has made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect French +manners of speaking or ways of thinking. As he has given it to us, +the play is French only in its most superficial aspect, in its +setting--and this setting he has chosen simply because he needed a +certain machinery offered him by the Catholic, but not by the +Protestant, churches. The rest of the play is purely human in its +note and wholly universal in its spirit. For this reason I have +retained the French names and titles, but have otherwise striven +to bring everything as close as possible to our own modes of +expression. Should apparent incongruities result from this manner +of treatment, I think they will disappear if only the reader will +try to remember that the characters of the play move in an +existence cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeral +reality in order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduring +one. + + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES +A COMEDY +1899 + + +CHARACTERS + +MAURICE, a playwright +JEANNE, his mistress +MARION, their daughter, five years old +ADOLPHE, a painter +HENRIETTE, his mistress +EMILE, a workman, brother of Jeanne +MADAME CATHERINE +THE ABBE +A WATCHMAN +A HEAD WAITER +A COMMISSAIRE +TWO DETECTIVES +A WAITER +A GUARD +SERVANT GIRL + + + +ACT I, SCENE 1. THE CEMETERY + 2. THE CREMERIE + +ACT II, SCENE 1. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS + 2. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE + +ACT III, SCENE 1. THE CREMERIE + 2. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS + +ACT IV, SCENE 1. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS + 2. THE CREMERIE + +(All the scenes are laid in Paris) + + +THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES + + +ACT I FIRST SCENE + +(The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery at +Paris. The background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses on +which are inscribed "O Crux! Ave Spes Unica!" and the ruins of a +wind-mill covered with ivy.) + +(A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and muttering +prayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers.) + +(JEANNE is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody.) + +(MARION is playing with some withered flowers picked from a +rubbish heap on the ground.) + +(The ABBE is reading his breviary while walking along the further +end of the avenue.) + +WATCHMAN. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Look here, this is no +playground. + +JEANNE. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody who'll soon +be here-- + +WATCHMAN. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers. + +JEANNE. [To MARION] Drop the flowers, dear. + +ABBE. [Comes forward and is saluted by the WATCHMAN] Can't the +child play with the flowers that have been thrown away? + +WATCHMAN. The regulations don't permit anybody to touch even the +flowers that have been thrown away, because it's believed they may +spread infection--which I don't know if it's true. + +ABBE. [To MARION] In that case we have to obey, of course. What's +your name, my little girl? + +MARION. My name is Marion. + +ABBE. And who is your father? + +(MARION begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer.) + +ABBE. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention--I was just +talking to keep the little one quiet. + +(The WATCHMAN has gone out.) + +JEANNE. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish you would say +something to quiet me also. I feel very much disturbed after +having waited here two hours. + +ABBE. Two hours--for him! How these human beings torture each +other! O Crux! Ave spes unica! + +JEANNE. What do they mean, those words you read all around here? + +ABBE. They mean: O cross, our only hope! + +JEANNE. Is it the only one? + +ABBE. The only certain one. + +JEANNE. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father. + +ABBE. May I ask why? + +JEANNE. You have already guessed it. When he lets the woman and +the child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not far +off. + +ABBE. And when he has left you, what then? + +JEANNE. Then we have to go into the river. + +ABBE. Oh, no, no! + +JEANNE. Yes, yes! + +MARION. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry. + +JEANNE. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home. + +ABBE. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil. + +JEANNE. What is that woman doing at the grave over there? + +ABBE. She seems to be talking to the dead. + +JEANNE. But you cannot do that? + +ABBE. She seems to know how. + +JEANNE. This would mean that the end of life is not the end of our +misery? + +ABBE. And you don't know it? + +JEANNE. Where can I find out? + +ABBE. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to learn about +this well-known matter, you can look me up in Our Lady's Chapel at +the Church of St. Germain--Here comes the one you are waiting for, +I guess. + +JEANNE. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know him. + +ABBE. [To MARION] Good-bye, little Marion! May God take care of +you! [Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Germain des Pres. + +EMILE. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you doing here? + +JEANNE. I am waiting for Maurice. + +EMILE. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for I saw +him on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with some +friends. [Kissing the child] Good morning, Marion. + +JEANNE. Ladies also? + +EMILE. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He writes plays, +and his latest one has its first performance tonight. I suppose he +had with him some of the actresses. + +JEANNE. Did he recognise you? + +EMILE. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as well. I +know my place as a workman, and I don't care for any condescension +from those that are above me. + +JEANNE. But if he leaves us without anything to live on? + +EMILE. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose I +shall have to introduce myself. But you don't expect anything of +the kind, do you--seeing that he is fond of you and very much +attached to the child? + +JEANNE. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something dreadful +is in store for me. + +EMILE. Has he promised to marry you? + +JEANNE. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes. + +EMILE. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the start: don't +hope for anything, for those above us don't marry downward. + +JEANNE. But such things have happened. + +EMILE. Yes, they have happened. But, would you feel at home in his +world? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand what +they were talking of. Now and then I take my meals where he is +eating--out in the kitchen is my place, of course--and I don't +make out a word of what they say. + +JEANNE. So you take your meals at that place? + +EMILE. Yes, in the kitchen. + +JEANNE. And think of it, he has never asked me to come with him. + +EMILE. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has some +respect for the mother of his child. The women over there are a +queer lot. + +JEANNE. Is that so? + +EMILE. But Maurice never pays any attention to the women. There is +something _square_ about that fellow. + +JEANNE. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as there is +a woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer. + +EMILE. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you hard up +for money? + +JEANNE. No, nothing of that kind. + +EMILE. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet--Look! Over there! +There he comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye, little girl. + +JEANNE. Is he coming? Yes, that's him. + +EMILE. Don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, Jeanne! [Goes +out.] + +JEANNE. No, I won't. + +(MAURICE enters.) + +MARION. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] Papa, +papa! + +MAURICE. My little girl! [Greets JEANNE] Can you forgive me, +Jeanne, that I have kept you waiting so long? + +JEANNE. Of course I can. + +MAURICE. But say it in such a way that I can hear that you are +forgiving me. + +JEANNE. Come here and let me whisper it to you. + +(MAURICE goes up close to her.) + +(JEANNE kisses him on the cheek.) + +MAURICE. I didn't hear. + +(JEANNE kisses him on the mouth.) + +MAURICE. Now I heard! Well--you know, I suppose that this is the +day that will settle my fate? My play is on for tonight, and there +is every chance that it will succeed--or fail. + +JEANNE. I'll make sure of success by praying for you. + +MAURICE. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least do no +harm--Look over there, down there in the valley, where the haze is +thickest: there lies Paris. Today Paris doesn't know who Maurice +is, but it is going to know within twenty-four hours. The haze, +which has kept me obscured for thirty years, will vanish before my +breath, and I shall become visible, I shall assume definite shape +and begin to be somebody. My enemies--which means all who would +like to do what I have done--will be writhing in pains that shall +be my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that I have +suffered. + +JEANNE. Don't talk that way, don't! + +MAURICE. But that's the way it is. + +JEANNE. Yes, but don't speak of it--And then? + +MAURICE. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and Marion will +bear the name I have made famous. + +JEANNE. You love me then? + +MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion a +little more. + +JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not of +her. + +MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you? + +JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid of +something terrible-- + +MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, which +once more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of? + +JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without having +any particular reason to do so. + +MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasons +for doing so: the keen instincts of the management and their +knowledge of the public, not to speak of their personal +acquaintance with the critics. So now you must be in good spirits-- + +JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbe here a +while ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith--which you +haven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on a +window to clean it--I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, but +this old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the light +came through, and it was possible again to see that the people +within were at home--To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain. + +MAURICE. Now I am getting scared. + +JEANNE. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. + +MAURICE. God? What is that? Who is he? + +JEANNE. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to your +manhood. And it is he who will carry us through the terrors that +lie ahead of us. + +MAURICE. What is lying ahead of us? What do you know? Where have +you learned of this? This thing that I don't know? + +JEANNE. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heard +nothing. But during these two dreadful hours I have experienced +such an infinity of pain that I am ready for the worst. + +MARION. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am hungry. + +MAURICE. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [Takes her +into his arms.] + +MARION. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa! + +JEANNE. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye then, Maurice. +And good luck to you! + +MAURICE. [To MARION] How did I hurt you? Doesn't my little girl +know that I always want to be nice to her? + +MARION. If you are nice, you'll come home with us. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] When I hear the child talk like that, you +know, I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But then reason +and duty protest--Good-bye, my dear little girl! [He kisses the +child, who puts her arms around his neck.] + +JEANNE. When do we meet again? + +MAURICE. We'll meet tomorrow, dear. And then we'll never part +again. + +JEANNE. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again! [She makes the +sign of the cross on his forehead] May God protect you! + +MAURICE. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved Jeanne! + +(JEANNE and MARION go toward the right; MAURICE toward the left. +Both turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other.) + +MAURICE. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself. I am always +forgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. Here +are the tickets for tonight. + +JEANNE. Thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post of +duty alone, and so I have to take up mine--with Marion. + +MAURICE. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. +Yes, I am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure to +serve her husband--I must have my hands free tonight, and there is +no place for women and children on the battle-field--and this you +understood! + +JEANNE. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, and +then you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll see that I +can be as forgetful as you--I have bought you a tie and a pair of +gloves which I thought you might wear for my sake on your day of +honour. + +MAURICE. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear. + +JEANNE. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, +as you do all the time. I want you to be good-looking, so that +others will like you too. + +MAURICE. There is no jealousy in _you_! + +JEANNE. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it. + +MAURICE. Just now I feel as if I could give up this evening's +victory--for I am going to win-- + +JEANNE. Hush, hush! + +MAURICE. And go home with you instead. + +JEANNE. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny is waiting +for you. + +MAURICE. Good-bye then! And may that happen which must happen! +[Goes out.] + +JEANNE. [Alone with MARION] O Crux! Ave spes unica! + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Cremerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placed +an aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit, +preserves, etc. In the background is a door leading to the +kitchen, where workmen are taking their meals. At the other end of +the kitchen can be seen a door leading out to a garden. On the +left, in the background, stands a counter on a raised platform, +and back of it are shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On the +right, a long table with a marble top is placed along the wall, +and another table is placed parallel to the first further out on +the floor. Straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. The +walls are covered with oil-paintings.) + +(MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter.) + +(MAURICE stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and is +smoking a cigarette.) + +MME. CATHERINE. So it's tonight the great event comes off, +Monsieur Maurice? + +MAURICE. Yes, tonight. + +MME. CATHERINE. Do you feel upset? + +MAURICE. Cool as a cucumber. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you have +deserved it, Monsieur Maurice, after having had to fight against +such difficulties as yours. + +MAURICE. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have been very kind to +me, and without your help I should probably have been down and out +by this time. + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't let us talk of that now. I help along where +I see hard work and the right kind of will, but I don't want to be +exploited--Can we trust you to come back here after the play and +let us drink a glass with you? + +MAURICE. Yes, you can--of course, you can, as I have already +promised you. + +(HENRIETTE enters from the right.) + +(MAURICE turns around, raises his hat, and stares at HENRIETTE, +who looks him over carefully.) + +HENRIETTE. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, madame. But he'll soon be here now. Won't you +sit down? + +HENRIETTE. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him outside. [Goes +out.] + +MAURICE. Who--was--that? + +MME. CATHERINE. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend. + +MAURICE. Was--that--her? + +MME. CATHERINE. Have you never seen her before? + +MAURICE. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he was +afraid I might take her away from him. + +MME. CATHERINE. Ha-ha!--Well, how did you think she looked? + +MAURICE. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell--I didn't see +her, for it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at once +and come so close to me that I couldn't make out her features at +all. And she left her impression on the air behind her. I can +still see her standing there. [He goes toward the door and makes a +gesture as if putting his arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes a +gesture as if he had pricked his finger] There are pins in her +waist. She is of the kind that stings! + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies! + +MAURICE. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do you know, +Madame Catherine, I am going before she comes back, or else, or +else--Oh, that woman is horrible! + +MME. CATHERINE. Are you afraid? + +MAURICE. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some others. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, go then. + +MAURICE. She seemed to suck herself out through the door, and in +her wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--Yes, you +may laugh, but can't you see that the palm over there on the +buffet is still shaking? She's the very devil of a woman! + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all your +reason. + +MAURICE. I want to go, but I cannot--Do you believe in fate, +Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, I believe in a good God, who protects us +against evil powers if we ask Him in the right way. + +MAURICE. So there are evil powers after all! I think I can hear +them in the hallway now. + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tears +off a piece of linen for you. Get away now--through the kitchen. + +(MAURICE rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps into +EMILE.) + +EMILE. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came.] + +ADOLPHE. [Comes in first; after him HENRIETTE] Why, there's +Maurice. How are you? Let me introduce this lady here to my oldest +and best friend. Mademoiselle Henriette--Monsieur Maurice. + +MAURICE. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you. + +HENRIETTA. We have seen each other before. + +ADOLPHE. Is that so? When, if I may ask? + +MAURICE. A moment ago. Right here. + +ADOLPHE. O-oh!--But now you must stay and have a chat with us. + +MAURICE. [After a glance at MME. CATHERINE] If I only had time. + +ADOLPHE. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here very long. + +HENRIETTE. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business. + +MAURICE. The only business we have is so bad that we don't want to +talk of it. + +HENRIETTE. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the hat away +from MAURICE and hangs it up] Now be nice, and let me become +acquainted with the great author. + +MME. CATHERINE signals to MAURICE, who doesn't notice her. + +ADOLPHE. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him. [They +seat themselves at one of the tables.] + +HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] You certainly have a good friend in +Adolphe, Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of anything but you, and +in such a way that I feel myself rather thrown in the background. + +ADOLPHE. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side never +leaves me in peace about you, Maurice. She has read your works, +and she is always wanting to know where you got this and where +that. She has been questioning me about your looks, your age, your +tastes. I have, in a word, had you for breakfast, dinner, and +supper. It has almost seemed as if the three of us were living +together. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Heavens, why didn't you come over here and +have a look at this wonder of wonders? Then your curiosity could +have been satisfied in a trice. + +HENRIETTE. Adolphe didn't want it. + +(ADOLPHE looks embarrassed.) + +HENRIETTE. Not that he was jealous-- + +MAURICE. And why should he be, when he knows that my feelings are +tied up elsewhere? + +HENRIETTE. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings. + +MAURICE. I can't understand that, seeing that I am notorious for +my constancy. + +ADOLPHE. Well, it wasn't that-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because you have not +faced the fiery ordeal-- + +ADOLPHE. Oh, you don't know-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld a +faithful man. + +MAURICE. Then it's going to behold one. + +HENRIETTE. Where? + +MAURICE. Here. + +(HENRIETTE laughs.) + +ADOLPHE. Well, that's going it-- + +HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him and directing herself continuously to +MAURICE] Do you think I ever trust my dear Adolphe more than a +month at a time? + +MAURICE. I have no right to question your lack of confidence, but +I can guarantee that Adolphe is faithful. + +HENRIETTE. You don't need to do so--my tongue is just running away +with me, and I have to take back a lot--not only for fear of +feeling less generous than you, but because it is the truth. It is +a bad habit I have of only seeing the ugly side of things, and I +keep it up although I know better. But if I had a chance to be +with you two for some time, then your company would make me good +once more. Pardon me, Adolphe! [She puts her hand against his +cheek.] + +ADOLPHE. You are always wrong in your talk and right in your +actions. What you really think--that I don't know. + +HENRIETTE. Who does know that kind of thing? + +MAURICE. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who could +then clear himself? + +HENRIETTE. Do you also have evil thoughts? + +MAURICE. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of cruelties +in my dreams. + +HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course--Just think of it--- +No, I am ashamed of telling-- + +MAURICE. Go on, go on! + +HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting the +muscles on Adolphe's breast--you see, I am a sculptor--and he, +with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me instead +with the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than I. + +MAURICE. Was he dead? + +HENRIETTE. No, he was living. + +MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer? + +HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I am +rather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, +Adolphe? + +ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not the +least when animals are concerned. + +MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward the +sufferings both of myself and others. + +ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what do +you say, Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart than +Monsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because I +didn't give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on the +buffet. Just look at them: it is as if they could hear what I am +saying. + +MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, +and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind of +polite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--So +you are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette? + +HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one of +you--which has long been my cherished dream--I hold myself quite +capable. + +MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in coming +true. + +HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind until +this evening's success is over. Not until then will you have +become what you should be. + +MAURICE. How sure you are of victory! + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going to +win this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself. + +MAURICE. Why do you think so? + +HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, you +know, and now I am well. + +(ADOLPHE begins to look depressed.) + +MAURICE. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left--only +one. I place it at your disposal, Adolphe. + +ADOLPHE. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette. + +HENRIETTE. But that wouldn't do? + +ADOLPHE. Why not? And I never go to the theatre anyhow, as I +cannot stand the heat. + +HENRIETTE. But you will come and take us home at least after the +show is over. + +ADOLPHE. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to come back +here, where we shall all be waiting for him. + +MAURICE. You can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. In +fact, I ask, I beg you to do so--And if you don't want to wait +outside the theatre, you can meet us at the Auberge des Adrets-- +That's settled then, isn't it? + +ADOLPHE. Wait a little. You have a way of settling things to suit +yourself, before other people have a chance to consider them. + +MAURICE. What is there to consider--whether you are to see your +lady home or not? + +ADOLPHE. You never know what may be involved in a simple act like +that, but I have a sort of premonition. + +HENRIETTE. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks while the sun is +shining. Let him come or not, as it pleases him. We can always +find our way back here. + +ADOLPHE. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you--model, you know. +Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you, Maurice. To-morrow +you will be out on the right side. Good-bye, Henriette. + +HENRIETTE. Do you really have to go? + +ADOLPHE. I must. + +MAURICE. Good-bye then. We'll meet later. + +(ADOLPHE goes out, saluting MME. CATHERINE in passing.) + +HENRIETTE. Think of it, that we should meet at last! + +MAURICE. Do you find anything remarkable in that? + +HENRIETTE. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe has done +his best to prevent it. + +MAURICE. Has he? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, you must have noticed it. + +MAURICE. I have noticed it, but why should you mention it? + +HENRIETTE. I had to. + +MAURICE. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted to run +away through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and was +stopped by a guest who closed the door in front of me. + +HENRIETTE. Why do you tell me about it now? + +MAURICE. I don't know. + +(MME. CATHERINE upsets a number of glasses and bottles.) + +MAURICE. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's nothing to be +afraid of. + +HENRIETTE. Was that meant as a signal or a warning? + +MAURICE. Probably both. + +HENRIETTE. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to have +flagmen ahead of it? + +MAURICE. And switchmen! The danger is always greatest at the +switches. + +HENRIETTE. How nasty you can be! + +MME. CATHERINE. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all. So far nobody +has been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him. + +MAURICE. Sh, sh, sh! + +HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] The old lady is rather impertinent. + +MAURICE. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so. + +HENRIETTE. With pleasure. This is not the place for me. I can just +feel their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out.] + +MAURICE. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine. + +MME. CATHERINE. A moment! May I speak a word to you, Monsieur +Maurice? + +MAURICE. [Stops unwillingly] What is it? + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! Don't do it! + +MAURICE. What? + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! + +MAURICE. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind, but she +interests me. Or hardly that even. + +MME. CATHERINE, Don't trust yourself! + +MAURICE. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out.] + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT II + +FIRST SCENE + +(The Auberge des Adrets: a cafe in sixteenth century style, with a +suggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are scattered +in corners and nooks. The walls are decorated with armour and +weapons. Along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses and +jugs.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are in evening dress and sit facing each +other at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and three +filled glasses. The third glass is placed at that side of the +table which is nearest the background, and there an easy-chair is +kept ready for the still missing "third man.") + +MAURICE. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table] If he +doesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming at +all. And suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [Touches +the third glass with the rim of his own.] + +HENRIETTE. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe! + +MAURICE. He won't come. + +HENRIETTE. He will come. + +MAURICE. He won't. + +HENRIETTE. He will. + +MAURICE. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I can hardly grasp +that a new life has begun. Think only: the manager believes that I +may count on no less than one hundred thousand francs. I'll spend +twenty thousand on a villa outside the city. That leaves me eighty +thousand. I won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for I +am tired, tired, tired. [Sinks back into the chair] Have you ever +felt really happy? + +HENRIETTE. Never. How does it feel? + +MAURICE. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot express it, +but I seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. It +isn't nice, but that's the way it is. + +HENRIETTE. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies? + +MAURICE. Why, the victor has to count his killed and wounded +enemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory. + +HENRIETTE. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that? + +MAURICE. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pressure of other +people's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant to +shake off the enemy and draw a full breath at last. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you find it strange that yon are sitting here, +alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you-- +and on an evening like this, when you ought to have a craving to +show yourself like a triumphant hero to all the people, on the +boulevards, in the big restaurants? + +MAURICE. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to be +here, and your company is all I care for. + +HENRIETTE. You don't look very hilarious. + +MAURICE. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep a +little. + +HENRIETTE. What is the meaning of that? + +MAURICE. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness and +waiting for misfortune to appear. + +HENRIETTE. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing anyhow? + +MAURICE. I miss the only thing that gives value to life. + +HENRIETTE. So you love her no longer then? + +MAURICE. Not in the way I understand love. Do you think she has +read my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh, she is so good, so +self-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for a +night's fun she would regard as sinful. Once I treated her to +champagne, you know, and instead of feeling happy over it, she +picked up the wine list to see what it cost. And when she read the +price, she wept--wept because Marion was in need of new stockings. +It is beautiful, of course: it is touching, if you please. But I +can get no pleasure out of it. And I do want a little pleasure +before life runs out. So far I have had nothing but privation, but +now, now--life is beginning for me. [The clock strikes twelve] Now +begins a new day, a new era! + +HENRIETTE. Adolphe is not coming. + +MAURICE. No, now he won't, come. And now it is too late to go back +to the Cremerie. + +HENRIETTE. But they are waiting for you. + +MAURICE. Let them wait. They have made me promise to come, and I +take back my promise. Are you longing to go there? + +HENRIETTE. On the contrary! + +MAURICE. Will you keep me company then? + +HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me. + +MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, you +know, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't place +it at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless when +you have not a woman. + +HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you? + +MAURICE. Well, that's the question. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hour +of success and fame? + +MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it. + +HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are the +most envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps your +conscience is troubling you because you have neglected that +invitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at the +milk shop? + +MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and +even here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, +their well-grounded anger. My comrades in distress had the right +to demand my presence this evening. The good Madame Catherine had +a privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope was +to spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. And I +have robbed them of their faith in me. I can hear the vows they +have been making: "Maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; he +doesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his word." Now I +have made them forswear themselves. + +(While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begun +to play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. +3). The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and at +last passionately, violently, with complete abandon.) + +MAURICE. Who can be playing at this time of the night? + +HENRIETTE. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. But +listen! Your presentation of the case is not correct. Remember +that Adolphe promised to meet us here. We waited for him, and he +failed to keep his promise. So that you are not to blame-- + +MAURICE. You think so? While you are speaking, I believe you, but +when you stop, my conscience begins again. What have you in that +package? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send up +to the stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me give it to you +now--it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. +[She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him on +the forehead] Hail to the victor! + +MAURICE. Don't! + +HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King! + +MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me. + +HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid of +fortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you +into a dwarf? + +MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in the +clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my +weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You think +that my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. On the +contrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I am +afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over +there and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which you +don't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glass +off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--you +absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. You +stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself +already beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I will +crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no +longer yours. + +HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero! + +MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful +helper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied? + +HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think you +love me, Maurice. + +MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man's +courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do +you lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when I +heard them speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, your +soul poured itself into mine. And when you left, I could still +feel your presence in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, but +something held me back, and this evening we have been driven +together as the prey is driven into the hunter's net. Whose is the +fault? Your friend's, who pandered for us! + +HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what does +it mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together +before. He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, +to which he had no right himself. I am jealous of him on your +behalf. I hate him because he has cheated you out of your +mistress. I should like to blot him from the host of the living, +and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make him +unmade, unborn! + +MAURICE. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. We'll +cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and +then we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will never +look up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is sealed. Woe unto +us! What will come next? + +HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package? + +MAURICE. I cannot remember. + +HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of +gloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fifty +centimes. + +MAURICE. [Snatching the things away from her] Don't you touch +them! + +HENRIETTE. They are from her? + +MAURICE. Yes, they are. + +HENRIETTE. Give them to me. + +MAURICE. No, she's better than we, better than everybody else. + +HENRIETTE. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider and +stingier. One who weeps because you order champagne-- + +MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a good +woman. + +HENRIETTE. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I am an +artist, and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's cap +instead of the laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne? + +MAURICE. How do you know? + +HENRIETTE. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers. + +MAURICE. Henriette! + +(HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into the +fireplace.) + +MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. +You shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, +then I'll send you packing. + +HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me? + +MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. But +I believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. I +believe that the evil within you draws me with the irresistible +lure of novelty. + +HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime? + +MAURICE. No real one. Have you? + +HENRIETTE. Yes. + +MAURICE. Well, how did you find it? + +HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by that +we are placed on equality with others; it was greater than to +perform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised above +others and rewarded. That crime placed me outside and beyond life, +society, and my fellow-beings. Since then I am living only a +partial life, a sort of dream life, and that's why reality never +gets a hold on me. + +MAURICE. What was it you did? + +HENRIETTE. I won't tell, for then you would get scared again. + +MAURICE. Can you never be found out? + +HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, +frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where the +scaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open a +pack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds. + +MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind. + +MAURICE. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. Have you +no conscience? + +HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk of +something else. + +MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love? + +HENRIETTE. Of that you don't talk until it is over. + +MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe? + +HENRIETTE. I don't know. The goodness of his nature drew me like +some beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet there +was much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had to +spend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, +before I could make a presentable figure of him. When he talked, I +could notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson was +often badly digested and awkwardly applied. You can imagine then +how miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted to +study the original. That's why he was afraid of having us two +meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his time +was up. + +MAURICE. Poor Adolphe! + +HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must be +suffering beyond all bounds-- + +MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming. + +HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he? + +MAURICE. That would be unbearable. + +HENRIETTE. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you think +the situation would have shaped itself? + +MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you because +he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried to +find us in several other cafes--but his soreness would have +changed into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had not +deceived him. And in the joy at having wronged us by his +suspicions, he would love both of us. And so it would make him +happy to notice that we had become such good friends. It had +always been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dream +that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the +world a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, I +trust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly +because your feelings are tied up elsewhere." + +HENRIETTE. Bravo! You must have been in a similar situation +before, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. Do you +know that Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannot +enjoy his mistress without having his friend along? + +MAURICE. That's why I had to be called in to entertain you--Hush! +There is somebody outside--It must be he. + +HENRIETTE. No, don't you know these are the hours when ghosts +walk, and then you can see so many things, and hear them also. To +keep awake at night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me the +same charm as a crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond the +laws of nature. + +MAURICE. But the punishment is fearful--I am shivering or +quivering, with cold or with fear. + +HENRIETTE. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this on. It will +make you warm. + +MAURICE. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your skin, as +if my body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were being +remoulded in your shape. I can feel the moulding process going on. +But I am also growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, where +your bosom has left an impression, I can feel my own beginning to +bulge. + +(During this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has been +practicing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimes +wildly fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a little +while, and at other times nothing has been heard but a part of the +finale: bars 96 to 107.) + +MAURICE. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing on the +piano. It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know what I propose? Let +us drive out to the Bois de Boulogne and take breakfast in the +Pavilion, and see the sun rise over the lakes. + +HENRIETTE. Bully! + +MAURICE. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail and the +morning papers sent out by messenger to the Pavilion. Tell me, +Henriette: shall we invite Adolphe? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that's going too far! But why not? The ass can also +be harnessed to the triumphal chariot. Let him come. [They get +up.] + +MAURICE. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring. + +HENRIETTE. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms.] + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois de +Boulogne. It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, +and divans. There are glass doors in the background, and beside +them windows overlooking the lakes. In the foreground a table is +spread, with flowers in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine in +decanters, oysters on platters, many different kinds of wine +glasses, and two lighted candelabra. On the right there is a round +table full of newspapers and telegrams.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are sitting opposite each other at this +small table.) + +(The sun is just rising outside.) + +MAURICE. There is no longer any doubt about it. The newspapers +tell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on my +success. This is the beginning of a new life, and my fate is +wedded to yours by this night, when you were the only one to share +my hopes and my triumph. From your hand I received the laurel, and +it seems to me as if everything had come from you. + +HENRIETTE. What a wonderful night! Have we been dreaming, or is +this something we have really lived through? + +MAURICE. [Rising] And what a morning after such a night! I feel as +if it were the world's first day that is now being illumined by +the rising sun. Only this minute was the earth created and +stripped of those white films that are now floating off into +space. There lies the Garden of Eden in the rosy light of dawn, +and here is the first human couple--Do you know, I am so happy I +could cry at the thought that all mankind is not equally happy--Do +you hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves beating against a +rocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest? Do you know +what it is? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the columns +of smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands? +They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, +then it must become so, for I will it. At this moment all the +telegraph instruments of Europe are clicking out my name. The +Oriental Express is carrying the newspapers to the Far East, +toward the rising sun; and the ocean steamers are carrying them to +the utmost West. The earth is mine, and for that reason it is +beautiful. Now I should like to have wings for us two, so that we +might rise from here and fly far, far away, before anybody can +soil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out of my +dream--for it is probably a dream! + +HENRIETTE. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can feel that +you are not dreaming. + +MAURICE. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a poor young +man, you know, when I was walking in the woods down there, and +looked up to this Pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, +and always my thoughts carried me up to this room, with the +balcony outside and the heavy curtains, as to a place of supreme +bliss. To be sitting here in company with a beloved woman and see +the sun rise while the candles were still burning in the +candelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my youth. Now it +has come true, and now I have no more to ask of life--Do you want +to die now, together with me? + +HENRIETTE. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living. + +MAURICE. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes reality. I +can hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting with alarm, and +his heart is beating with dread of having lost what it holds most +precious. Can you believe me if I tell you that Adolphe is under +this roof? Within a minute he will be standing in the middle of +this floor. + +HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him to come +here, and I am already regretting it--Well, we shall see anyhow if +your forecast of the situation proves correct. + +MAURICE. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings. + +(The HEAD WAITER enters with a card.) + +MAURICE. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To HENRIETTE] I am afraid +we'll regret this. + +HENRIETTE. Too late to think of that now--Hush! + +(ADOLPHE enters, pale and hollow-eyed.) + +MAURICE. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are! What +became of you last night? + +ADOLPHE. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and waited a +whole hour. + +MAURICE. So you went to the wrong place. We were waiting several +hours for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and we are still waiting +for you, as you see. + +ADOLPHE. [Relieved] Thank heaven! + +HENRIETTE. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always expecting the +worst and worrying yourself needlessly. I suppose you imagined +that we wanted to avoid your company. And though you see that we +sent for you, you are still thinking yourself superfluous. + +ADOLPHE. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was dreadful. + +(They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows.) + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Well, are you not going to congratulate +Maurice on his great success? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and envy itself +cannot deny it. Everything is giving way before you, and even I +have a sense of my own smallness in your presence. + +MAURICE. Nonsense!--Henriette, are you not going to offer Adolphe +a glass of wine? + +ADOLPHE. Thank you, not for me--nothing at all! + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] What's the matter with you? Are you ill? + +ADOLPHE. Not yet, but-- + +HENRIETTE. Your eyes-- + +ADOLPHE. What of them? + +MAURICE. What happened at the Cremerie last night? I suppose they +are angry with me? + +ADOLPHE. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused a +depression which it hurt me to watch. But nobody was angry with +you, believe me. Your friends understood, and they regarded your +failure to come with sympathetic forbearance. Madame Catherine +herself defended you and proposed your health. We all rejoiced in +your success as if it had been our own. + +HENRIETTE. Well, those are nice people! What good friends you +have, Maurice. + +MAURICE. Yes, better than I deserve. + +ADOLPHE. Nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are a +man greatly blessed in his friends--Can't you feel how the air is +softened to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that stream +toward you from a thousand breasts? + +(MAURICE rises in order to hide his emotion.) + +ADOLPHE. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of the +nightmare that had been crushing them during a lifetime. Humanity +had been slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why men +feel grateful toward you. To-day they are once more holding their +heads high and saying: You see, we are a little better than our +reputation after all. And that thought makes them better. + +(HENRIETTE tries to hide her emotion.) + +ADOLPHE. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a little in your +sunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go. + +MAURICE. Why should you go when you have only just arrived? + +ADOLPHE. Why? Because I have seen what I need not have seen; +because I know now that my hour is past. [Pause] That you sent for +me, I take as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of what +has happened, a frankness that hurts less than deceit. You hear +that I think well of my fellow-beings, and this I have learned +from you, Maurice. [Pause] But, my friend, a few moments ago I +passed through the Church of St. Germain, and there I saw a woman +and a child. I am not wishing that you had seen them, for what has +happened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought or a word to +them before you set them adrift on the waters of the great city, +then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. And now I bid you +good-by. + +HENRIETTE. Why must you go? + +ADOLPHE. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell you? + +HENRIETTE. No, I don't. + +ADOLPHE. Good-by then! [Goes out.] + +MAURICE. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked." + +HENRIETTE. What a difference between this scene and the one we +imagined! He is better than we. + +MAURICE. It seems to me now as if all the rest were better than +we. + +HENRIETTE. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, and +that the woods have lost their rose colour? + +MAURICE. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black. Let us +flee to some place where the sky is always blue and the trees are +always green. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, let us--but without any farewells. + +MAURICE. No, with farewells. + +HENRIETTE. We were to fly. You spoke of wings--and your feet are +of lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and get +two pairs of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourself +away. + +MAURICE. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little arms +is needed to hold me fast. + +HENRIETTE. It is the child that holds you then, and not the woman? + +MAURICE. It is the child. + +HENRIETTE. The child! Another woman's child! And for the sake of +it I am to suffer. Why must that child block the way where I want +to pass, and must pass? + +MAURICE. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never existed. + +HENRIETTE. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But now it +does exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in the +ground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage. + +MAURICE. The triumphal chariot!--The ass is driven to death, but +the rock remains. Curse it! [Pause.] + +HENRIETTE. There is nothing to do. + +MAURICE. Yes, we must get married, and then our child will make us +forget the other one. + +HENRIETTE. This will kill this! + +MAURICE. Kill! What kind of word is that? + +HENRIETTE. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love. + +MAURICE. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, +but it will not be killed. + +HENRIETTE. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] Look +at it! Five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! Can it be possible +that our fates are determined in advance? That our thoughts are +guided as if through pipes to the spot for which they are bound, +without chance for us to stop them? But I don't want it, I don't +want it!--Do you realise that I must go to the scaffold if my +crime should be discovered? + +MAURICE. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time for it. + +HENRIETTE. No, I should regret it afterward, and you would despise +me--no, no, no!--Have you ever heard that a person could be hated +to death? Well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and my +sisters, and he melted away like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let us +talk of something else. And, above all, let us get away. The air +is poisoned here. To-morrow your laurels will be withered, the +triumph will be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant hero +will hold the public attention. Away from here, to work for new +victories! But first of all, Maurice, you must embrace your child +and provide for its immediate future. You don't have to see the +mother at all. + +MAURICE. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour, and I love +you doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide. + +HENRIETTE. And then you go to the Cremerie and say good-by to the +old lady and your friends. Leave no unsettled business behind to +make your mind heavy on our trip. + +MAURICE. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at the +railroad station. + +HENRIETTE. Agreed! And then: away from here--away toward the sea +and the sun! + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT III + +FIRST SCENE + +(In the Cremerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at the +counter, ADOLPHE at a table.) + +MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young ones +are always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubber +over it afterward. + +ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond as +ever of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick at +heart. You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; so +much that I wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give him +pleasure--but now I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the +loss of her. I have lost both of them, and so my loneliness is +made doubly painful. And then there is still something else which +I have not yet been able to clear up. + +MME. CATHERINE. Don't brood so much. Work and divert yourself. +Now, for instance, do you ever go to church? + +ADOLPHE. What should I do there? + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, there's so much to look at, and then there is +the music. There is nothing commonplace about it, at least. + +ADOLPHE. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold, I guess, +for it never stirs me to any devotion. And then, Madame Catherine, +faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven't got it yet. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, wait till you get it--But what is this I +heard a while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture in +London for a high price, and that you have got a medal? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, it's true. + +MME. CATHERINE. Merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say about +it? + +ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost +worthless to me at this moment. I am afraid of it as of a spectre: +it brings disaster to speak of having seen it. + +MME. CATHERINE. You're a queer fellow, and that's what you have +always been. + +ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune come +in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings out +true friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of +success--You asked me if I ever went to church, and I answered +evasively. This morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germain +without really knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I were +looking for somebody in there--somebody to whom I could silently +offer my gratitude. But I found nobody. Then I dropped a gold coin +in the poor-box. It was all I could get out of my church-going, +and that was rather commonplace, I should say. + +MME. CATHERINE. It was always something; and then it was fine to +think of the poor after having heard good news. + +ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something I +did because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurred +while I was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, +and her child. Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they +seemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune. + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shape +you keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful and +considerate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden desert +a woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain. + +ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understand +it himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quite +natural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagine +anything else. It was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction +of a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, +Madame Catherine, that we cannot explain, and for this reason it +is not for us to judge. And besides, you saw how it happened. +Maurice felt the danger in the air. I foresaw it and tried to +prevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run away from it, but +nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid by some +invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile into +each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this case, but +I wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty." + +MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that's +what I call religion. + +ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowing +it. + +MME. CATHERINE. But then, to _let_ oneself be driven or tempted +into evil, as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or bad +character. And if you feel your strength failing you, then you ask +for help, and then you get it. But he was too conceited to do +that--Who is this coming? The Abbe, I think. + +ADOLPHE. What does he want here? + +ABBE. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening, Monsieur. + +MME. CATHERINE. Can I be of any service? + +ABBE. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here to-day? + +MME. CATHERINE. Not to-day. His play has just been put on, and +that is probably keeping him busy. + +ABBE. I have--sad news to bring him. Sad in several respects. + +MME. CATHERINE. May I ask of what kind? + +ABBE. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that girl, +Jeanne, is dead. + +MME. CATHERINE. Dead! + +ADOLPHE. Marion dead! + +ABBE. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previous +illness. + +MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways! + +ABBE. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Maurice +look after her, so we must try to find him. But first a question +in confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond of +the child, or was indifferent to it? + +MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know how +he loved her. + +ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that. + +ABBE. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as I +am concerned. + +MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it? + +ABBE. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in the +neighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its mother in +order to go away with a strange woman. In a few hours this rumour +has grown into definite accusations, and at the same time the +feeling against him has risen to such a point that his life is +threatened and he is being called a murderer. + +MME. CATHERINE. Good God, what is _this_? What does it mean? + +ABBE. Now I'll tell you my opinion--I am convinced that the man is +innocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about it +as I do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I think +he will find it rather hard to clear himself when the police come +to question him. + +ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter? + +ABBE. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him against +all those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably the +Commissaire will be here soon. + +MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a man +cannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when he +trifles with vice. God will punish! + +ADOLPHE. Then he is more merciless than man. + +ABBE. What do you know about that? + +ADOLPHE. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what happens-- + +ABBE. And you understand it also? + +ADOLPHE. Not yet perhaps. + +ABBE. Let us look more closely at the matter--Oh, here comes the +Commissaire. + +COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have to +trouble you for a moment with a few questions concerning Monsieur +Maurice. As you have probably heard, he has become the object of a +hideous rumour, which, by the by, I don't believe in. + +MME. CATHERINE. None of us believes in it either. + +COMMISSAIRE. That strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sake +I must give him a chance to defend himself. + +ABBE. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although it +may come hard. + +COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I have +seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocence +was discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. The +little girl, Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretly +visited by the father, who seems to have made sure of the time +when the child was to be found alone. Fifteen minutes after his +visit the mother returned home and found the child dead. All this +makes the position of the accused man very unpleasant--The post- +mortem examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison, +but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that leave +no traces behind them. To me all this is mere coincidence of the +kind I frequently come across. But here's something that looks +worse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge des +Adrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, +they were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and the +scaffold were both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for a +pair of lovers of good breeding and good social position! But even +this may be passed over, as we know by experience that people who +have been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to dig +up all the worst that lies at the bottom of their souls. Far more +serious is the evidence given by the head waiter as to their +champagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this morning. He says +that he heard them wish the life out of a child. The man is said +to have remarked that, "It would be better if it had never +existed." To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it does +exist." And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "This +will kill this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word is +that?" And also: "The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, the +Place de Roquette." All this, you see, will be hard to get out of, +and so will the foreign journey planned for this evening. These +are serious matters. + +ADOLPHE. He is lost! + +MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what to +believe. + +ABBE. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on him! + +ADOLPHE. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it. + +MME. CATHERINE. He had no business to get in. + +ADOLPHE. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame Catherine? + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes and no. I have got beyond having an opinion in +this matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as you +turn your hand, and then become angels again? + +COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have to +wait and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judged +unheard. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Madame Catherine. +[Goes out.] + +ABBE. This is not the work of man. + +ADOLPHE. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for the +undoing of man. + +ABBE. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is a +terrible test. + +JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me for +asking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice? + +MME. CATHERINE. No, madame, but I think he may be here any minute. +You haven't met him then since-- + +JEANNE. Not since this morning. + +MME. CATHERINE. Let me tell you that I share in your great sorrow. + +JEANNE. Thank you, madame. [To the ABBE] So you are here, Father. + +ABBE. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use to you. And +it was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to the +Commissaire. + +JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he? + +ABBE. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances are +against him in a most appalling manner. + +JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--it +means nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Maurice +had had a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimes +and their punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman in +his company who dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should like +to have a look into that woman's eyes. + +ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman may +have done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, she +had no intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of her +nature. I know her to be a good soul and one who can very well +bear being looked straight in the eye. + +JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value to +me, and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot hold +anybody but myself responsible for what has happened. It is my +carelessness that is now being punished. [She begins to cry.] + +ABBE. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the serious +spirit in which you have regarded your motherhood. That your +assumption of this responsibility had not been sanctioned by +religion and the civil law was not your fault. No, we are here +facing something quite different. + +ADOLPHE. What then? + +ABBE. Who can tell? + +(HENRIETTE enters, dressed in travelling suit.) + +ADOLPHE. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to meet +HENRIETTE] You here? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice? + +ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you? + +HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but I +was ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. +[To ADOLPHE] Who is that woman?--Oh! + +(HENRIETTE and JEANNE stare at each other.) + +(EMILE appears in the kitchen door.) + +HENRIETTE. [To JEANNE] I ought to say something, but it matters +very little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or a +mockery. But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deep +sorrow as much as anybody standing closer to you, then you must +not turn away from me. You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if not +your forbearance. [Holds out her hand.] + +JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the next +moment I don't. [Takes HENRIETTE'S hand.] + +HENRIETTE. [Kisses JEANNE'S hand] Thank you! + +JEANNE. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't deserve it! I +don't deserve it! + +ABBE. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems to +prevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, +shed some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surrounding +the main point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend among +friends, to tell us what you meant with all that talk about +killing, and crime, and the Place de Roquette. That your words had +no connection with the death of the child, we have reason to +believe, but it would give us added assurance to hear what you +were really talking about. Won't you tell us? + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I cannot! + +ADOLPHE. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will relieve us +all. + +HENRIETTE. I cannot! Don't ask me! + +ABBE. This is not the work of man! + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in this manner! +[To JEANNE] Madame, I swear that I am not guilty of your child's +death. Is that enough? + +JEANNE. Enough for us, but not for Justice. + +HENRIETTE. Justice! If you knew how true your words are! + +ABBE. [To HENRIETTE] And if you knew what you were saying just +now! + +HENRIETTE. Do you know that better than I? + +ABBE. Yes, I do. + +(HENRIETTE looks fixedly at the ABBE.) + +ABBE. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will not +be exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, but +a great deal with divine mercy. + +MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't look +at the others, who are standing in the background, but goes +straight up to the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting.] You +are not angry at me, Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. I +have come now to apologise to you before I start for the South at +eight o'clock this evening. + +(MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word.) + +MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does all +this mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see that +it is all real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, +looking like a statue and dressed in black--And Henriette looking +like a corpse--What does it mean? + +(All remain silent.) + +MAURICE. Nobody answers. It must mean something dreadful. +[Silence] But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my friend, what is +it? [Pointing to EMILE] And there is a detective! + +ADOLPHE. [Comes forward] You don't know then? + +MAURICE. Nothing at all. But I must know! + +ADOLPHE. Well, then--Marion is dead. + +MAURICE. Marion--dead? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, she died this morning. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] So that's why you are in mourning. Jeanne, +Jeanne, who has done this to us? + +JEANNE. He who holds life and death in his hand. + +MAURICE. But I saw her looking well and happy this morning. How +did it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyes +seek HENRIETTE.] + +ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none to +he found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion in +a direction where none ought to exist. + +MAURICE. What direction is that? + +ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk last +night and this morning has placed you in a light that is anything +but favourable. + +MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were we +saying--I remember!--Then I am lost! + +ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believe +you. + +MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, but +it doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead! And I have killed her! + +(General consternation.) + +ADOLPHE. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your words! Do you +realise what you said just now? + +MAURICE. What did I say? + +ADOLPHE. You said that you had killed Marion. + +MAURICE. Is there a human being here who could believe me a +murderer, and who could hold me capable of taking my own child's +life? You who know me, Madame Catherine, tell me: do you believe, +can you believe-- + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't know any longer what to believe. What the +heart thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spoken +evil words. + +MAURICE. She doesn't believe me! + +ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant by +saying that "your love would kill everything that stood in its +way." + +MAURICE. So they know that too--Are you willing to explain it, +Henriette? + +HENRIETTE. No, I cannot do that. + +ABBE. There is something wrong behind all this and you have lost +our sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that you +were innocent, and I wouldn't do that now. + +MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me than +anything else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who was +it you cursed during that orgie out there? + +MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet I +am guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed of +myself, and I have done more wrong than I can forgive myself. + +HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't do +himself any harm. + +ADOLPHE. Shall I--? + +HENRIETTE. Who else? + +ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! A +carriage is stopping outside. + +MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen of +life, I could never have believed that success and fame were such +short-lived things. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrol +wagon! + +JEANNE. [Simply] And the ass--who was that? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, that must have been me. + +COMMISSAIRE. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons to Police +Headquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gerard--and +for Mademoiselle Henrietta Mauclerc--both here? + +MAURICE and HENRIETTE. Yes. + +MAURICE. Is this an arrest? + +COMMISSAIRE. Not yet. Only a summons. + +MAURICE. And then? + +COMMISSAIRE. We don't know yet. + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE go toward the door.) + +MAURICE. Good-bye to all! + +(Everybody shows emotion. The COMMISSAIRE, MAURICE, and HENRIETTE +go out.) + +EMILE. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Now I'll take you home, +sister. + +JEANNE. And what do you think of all this? + +EMILE. The man is innocent. + +ABBE. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, something +despicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonable +when a woman and her child are involved. + +EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when it +concerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented from +throwing the first stone because I have done the same thing +myself. + +ABBE. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am not +throwing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is +punished by its consequences. + +JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them! + +ABBE. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence +to want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happened +here is, indeed, not the work of man. + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at the +same table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the second +act. A cup of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE has +ordered nothing.) + +ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here? + +HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack of +evidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets before +it was dark. + +ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to me +since yesterday. + +HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardly +breathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody is +spying not only on my words but on my thoughts. + +ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't find +you? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame when +I think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, +stuff than he or I-- + +ADOLPHE. Sh, sh, sh! + +HENRIETTE. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made me stay here? I +was lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched +me--I cannot explain it. But if you had come, it would never have +happened. And to-day you are great, and he is small--less than the +least of all. Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-day +he has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And public +opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will be +judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that see +farthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he was +responsible for it anyhow. + +ADOLPHE. You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, +but I should like to know that both of you are spotless. Won't you +tell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be a +chance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so +largely with killing and the scaffold. + +HENRIETTE. It was no chance. It was something that had to be said, +something I cannot tell you--probably because I have no right to +appear spotless in your eyes, seeing that I am not spotless. + +ADOLPHE. All this is beyond me. + +HENRIETTE. Let us talk of something else--Do you believe there are +many unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may even +be our intimate friends? + +ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean? + +HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some time +or another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fall +under the law if it were discovered? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapes +being punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises and +unbuttons his coat] And--nobody is really good who has not erred. +[Breathing heavily] For in order to know how to forgive, one must +have been in need of forgiveness--I had a friend whom we used to +regard as a model man. He never spoke a hard word to anybody; he +forgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with a +strange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. At last, late in +life, he gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent! [He +sits down again.] + +(HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise.) + +ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes not +mentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, for +they have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be more +severe than we are against our own selves. + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he find +peace? + +ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree of +composure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. He +never dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared to +feel himself entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise: +in a word, he could never quite forgive himself. + +HENRIETTE. Never? What had he done then? + +ADOLPHE. He had wished the life out of his father. And when his +father suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. +Those imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, +and he was sent to an asylum. From this he was discharged after a +time as wholly recovered--as they put it. But the sense of guilt +remained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for his +evil thoughts. + +HENRIETTE. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill? + +ADOLPHE. You mean in some mystic way? + +HENRIETTE. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my own family--I +am sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with their +hatred. You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all our +tastes and inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, he +tried to root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance that +accumulated until it became like an electrical battery charged +with hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished away, +became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came to +wish himself dead. + +ADOLPHE. And your conscience never troubled you? + +HENRIETTE. No, and furthermore, I don't know what conscience is. + +ADOLPHE. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn. [Pause] How do +you believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you think +he will say? + +HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make the +same kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you. + +ADOLPHE. Well? + +HENRIETTE. We guessed entirely wrong. + +ADOLPHE. Can you tell me why you sent for me? + +HENRIETTE. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty! + +ADOLPHE. How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yet +not repent of them. + +HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible for +them. They are like the dirt left behind by things handled during +the day and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do you +really think so highly of humanity as you profess to do? + +ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and a +little worse. + +HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer. + +ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me frankly +when I ask you: do you still love Maurice? + +HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment I +feel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well live +without him. + +ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chained +to his fate--Sh! Here he comes. + +HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is the +same, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting you +yesterday. + +MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, +my dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cell +changed me into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE and +ADOLPHE.] + +ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk +things over. + +MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Perhaps I am in the way? + +ADOLPHE. Now, don't get bitter. + +MAURICE. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, and +suspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And who +wants to keep company with a murderer? + +HENRIETTE. But you have been cleared of the charge. + +MAURICE. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not by +public opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gerard, once a +playwright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc-- + +HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters--my mother! Jesus have +mercy! + +MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? And +then it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't a +vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of my +own, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and +he is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, +Solon! Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate, +Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded. + +HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great success +in London and carried off the first prize? + +MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe? + +ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize. + +HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are also +prevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend? + +ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes! + +MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still +farther apart. + +ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonely +with my success as you with your adversity. Think of it--that +people feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive! + +MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyes +had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape +of all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the room +I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise both +of you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here and +search for words because I don't know what to say to you. I ought +to defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it +protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass +right through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don't +love me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you. To- +day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive. + +(Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a +table in the background.) + +ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That you +have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in +some of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the whole +matter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the +worst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and let +everything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind will +be exonerated yourself. + +MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha! + +ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, if +I ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of +looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. When +I, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what +must then be the wretchedness of the rest? + +ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and then +we'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different +way. + +MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!--It means +that I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myself +away by careless talking. + +ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. I +recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.] + +MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette and +I may come to open explanations. + +ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Try +to keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goes +out.] + +HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt or +guiltlessness? + +MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot of +nonsense while I was drunk. But it is your crime that comes back, +and that crime you have grafted on to me. + +HENRIETTE. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--Was it not you +who cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, and +wanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was it +not I who made you visit Marion and show yourself to Madame +Catherine? + +MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself more +human than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But all +the same I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which I +can never free myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yet +guilty! Oh, it is driving me mad--Look, now they sit over there +and listen to us--And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll go +out and order a cup of tea. Do you want anything? + +HENRIETTE. Nothing. + +(MAURICE goes out.) + +FIRST DETECTIVE. [Goes up to HENRIETTE] Let me look at your +papers. + +HENRIETTE. How dare you speak to me? + +DETECTIVE. Dare? I'll show you! + +HENRIETTE. What do you mean? + +DETECTIVE. It's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. Yesterday +you came here with one man, and today with another. That's as good +as walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anything +here. So you'd better get out and come along with me. + +HENRIETTE. My escort will be back in a moment. + +DETECTIVE. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kind +that doesn't help a girl a bit! + +HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!--I am of good family, I +tell you. + +DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too well +known through the papers. Come along! + +HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean? + +DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nice +little card and a license that brings you free medical care. + +HENRIETTE. O Lord Jesus, you don't mean it! + +DETECTIVE. [Grabbing HENRIETTE by the arm] Don't I mean it? + +HENRIETTE. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice! Help! + +DETECTIVE. Shut up, you fool! + +(MAURICE enters, followed by WAITER.) + +WAITER. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here. You just pay +and get out! And take the girl along! + +MAURICE. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] Henriette, +pay for me, and let us get away from this place. I haven't a sou +left. + +WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Do +you know what that is? + +HENRIETTE. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful heavens! +I have no money either!--Why doesn't Adolphe come back? + +DETECTIVE. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out of here, +and put up something as security. That kind of ladies generally +have their fingers full of rings. + +MAURICE. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low? + +HENRIETTE. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the WAITER] The Abbe +was right: this is not the work of man. + +MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!--But if we leave before Adolphe +returns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away. + +HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest--But we'll go +into the river now, won't we? + +MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together] +Into the river--yes! + +(Curtain.) + + +ACT IV + +FIRST SCENE + +(In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The wind +is shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, and +pieces of paper from the ground.) + +(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are seated on a bench.) + +HENRIETTE. So you don't want to die? + +MAURICE. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going to be very +cold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and a +few shavings to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as if +there were still some task waiting for me, but I cannot make out +what it is. + +HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is. + +MAURICE. Tell me. + +HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanne +and Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such a +revenge on a rival none but a woman could devise. + +MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that my +suspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings during +these last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, for +instance, why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the head +waiter from the Pavilion were not called to testify at the +hearing? + +HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. They +had nothing to tell, because they had not been listening. + +MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had been +saying? + +HENRIETTE. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He was guessing, +and he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to deal with some similar +case before. + +MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had been +saying. There are those who can read other people's thoughts-- +Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we should +have called him an ass. It's the rule, I understand, although it's +varied at times by the use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearer +at hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages and +triumphal chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourth +fact, when you have three known ones to start from. + +HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so +completely. + +MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellow +beings. This is all you get out of it. But do you know, _I_ +suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, +must be a full-fledged scoundrel. + +HENRIETTE. You mean the Abbe, who was taking the part of a private +detective. + +MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds of +confessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been at +the Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there? +He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then the +priest put the questions together for the Commissaire. + +HENRIETTE. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe? + +MAURICE. I trust no human being any longer. + +HENRIETTE. Not even Adolphe? + +MAURICE. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy--a man from +whom I have taken away his mistress? + +HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'll +give you some data about our friend. You heard he had returned +that medal from London. Do you know his reason for doing so? + +MAURICE. No. + +HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a +penitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction. + +MAURICE. Can that he possible? But what has he done? + +HENRIETTE. He has committed a crime of the kind that is not +punishable under the law. That's what he gave me to understand +indirectly. + +MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, who +never speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything. + +HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse than +others. And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils +were after us. + +MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered--But if he +has been capable of _one_ crime, then you may expect anything of +him. Perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. +Coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us when +he saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insisted +that those fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you may +expect anything from a deceived lover. + +HENRIETTE. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is impossible, +impossible! + +MAURICE. Why so? If he is a scoundrel?--What were you two talking +of yesterday, before I came? + +HENRIETTE. He had nothing but good to say of you. + +MAURICE. That's a lie! + +HENRIETTE. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen. +There is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever-- +for what reason, I don't know. Have you thought of Madame +Catherine's wavering attitude in this matter? Didn't she say +finally that she believed you capable of anything? + +MAURICE. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is. +To think evil of other people without reason, you must be a +villain yourself. + +(HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause.) + +HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villain +yourself. + +MAURICE. What do you mean? + +HENRIETTE. What I said. + +MAURICE. Do you mean that I--? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here! Did you meet +anybody but Marion when you called there yesterday morning? + +MAURICE. Why do you ask? + +HENRIETTE. Guess! + +MAURICE. Well, as you seem to know--I met Jeanne, too. + +HENRIETTE. Why did you lie to me? + +MAURICE. I wanted to spare you. + +HENRIETTE. And now you want me to believe in one who has been +lying to me? No, my boy, now I believe you guilty of that murder. + +MAURICE. Wait a moment! We have now reached the place for which my +thoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as long +as possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last of +all, and what one doesn't _want_ to believe cannot be believed--Tell +me something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we parted +in the Bois? + +HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why? + +MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe--which you couldn't do, as he +was attending a lesson--or you went to--Marion! + +HENRIETTE. Now I am convinced that you are the murderer. + +MAURICE. And I, that you are the murderess! You alone had an +interest in getting the child out of the way--to get rid of the +rock on the road, as you so aptly put it. + +HENRIETTE. It was you who said that. + +MAURICE. And the one who had an interest in it must have committed +the crime. + +HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around in +this tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we get +to the point of sheer madness. + +MAURICE. You have reached that point already. + +HENRIETTE. Don't you think it's time for us to part, before we +drive each other insane? + +MAURICE. Yes, I think so. + +HENRIETTE. [Rising] Good-bye then! + +(Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background.) + +HENRIETTE. [Turns and comes back to MAURICE] There they are again! + +MAURICE. The dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden. + +HENRIETTE. And force us back upon each other as if we were chained +together. + +MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are we +really to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able to +close the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last? + +HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to +death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage +portion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and I +getting back at you with Jeanne--and Marion. + +MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you know +that she was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps? + +HENRIETTE. And you are not there? What does that mean? + +MAURICE. It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned me +against the rage of the people. + +HENRIETTE. A coward, too? + +MAURICE. All the vices! How could you ever have cared for me? + +HENRIETTE. Because two days ago you were another person, well +worthy of being loved-- + +MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth! + +HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt bad +qualities which are not your own. + +MAURICE. But yours? + +HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feel +myself at once a little better. + +MAURICE. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self- +respect. + +HENRIETTE. And how vulgar you have become, too! + +MAURICE. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myself +since that night in the cell. They put in one person and let out +another through that gate which separates us from the rest of +society. And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I should +like to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing +less than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour. + +HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widow +of a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of +honour and that kind of thing. Do you want to read the letter? No, +you don't!--Do you know that I am an outcast? My respectable +acquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I show +myself on the streets alone the police will take me. Do you +realise now that we have to get married? + +MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that is +hell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite our +destinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on more +equal terms. + +HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got into +trouble--you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole future +was at stake--and she died! + +MAURICE. That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, +too. + +HENRIETTE. You say so now, but the next time you lose your temper +you will accuse me of it. + +MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken my +faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is her +lover still alive, and does he know to what extent you were +responsible? + +HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I. + +MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him--such +things do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: then +you would be lost. + +HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has made +me rush from one dissipation to another--so that I should never +have time to wake up to full consciousness. + +MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out of +your dread. That's asking a little too much. + +HENRIETTE. But when I shared the shame of Maurice the murderer-- + +MAURICE. Oh, let's come to an end with it! + +HENRIETTE. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my hold +until I have put you where you belong. For you can't go around +thinking yourself better than I am. + +MAURICE. So you want to fight me then? All right, as you please! + +HENRIETTE. A fight on life and death! + +(The rolling of drums is heard in the distance.) + +MAURICE. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the ground for thy +sake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." + +HENRIETTE. "And the Lord God said unto the woman--" + +A GUARD. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but the +garden has to be closed. + +(Curtain.) + + +SECOND SCENE + +(The Cremerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter making +entries into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at +a table.) + +ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurance +that I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought you +had played me false, this ought to convince you. + +HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellows +were not policemen? + +ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wanted +to reassure you. + +HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must also +believe me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you. + +ADOLPHE. Go on. + +HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk of +fancies and delusions. + +ADOLPHE. You seem to have reason to fear that I may. + +HENRIETTE. I fear nothing, but I know you and your scepticism-- +Well, and then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me! + +ADOLPHE. I promise. + +HENRIETTE. Now think of it, although I must say it's something +terrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or at +least, I have reasonable suspicions-- + +ADOLPHE. You don't mean it! + +HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me in +the Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the mother +was out. And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet the +mother. So that he has been lying to me. + +ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may have +been the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is +guilty of a murder? + +HENRIETTE. Can't you see that?--Don't you understand? + +ADOLPHE. Not at all. + +HENRIETTE. Because you don't want to!--Then there is nothing left +for me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove an +alibi. + +ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, +have reached the border line of--insanity. The demons of distrust +have got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of +partial guilt to wound the other with. Let me see if I can make a +straight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing his +child? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, he's mad enough to do so. + +ADOLPHE. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own. + +HENRIETTE. You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspect +him unjustly. + +ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Marion +died of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannot +recall just now. + +HENRIETTE. Is it true? + +ADOLPHE. The official report is printed in today's paper. + +HENRIETTE. I don't take any stock in it. They can make up that +kind of thing. + +ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette--or you may, without knowing it, pass +across that border line. Beware especially of throwing out +accusations that may put you into prison. Beware! [He places his +hand on her head] You hate Maurice? + +HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds! + +ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted +from the start. + +HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you who +are the only one that understands me. + +ADOLPHE. But you don't want any sermons. + +HENRIETTE. Have you nothing else to offer me? + +ADOLPHE. Nothing else. But they have helped me. + +HENRIETTE. Preach away then! + +ADOLPHE. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put the knife +to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that _your_ trouble +roots. + +HENRIETTE. Explain yourself. + +ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse +your qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as an +artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for +freedom and fun--as they call it. And you have seen now how much +fun there is in it. Then go home to your mother. + +HENRIETTE. Never! + +ADOLPHE. Some other place then. + +HENRIETTE. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed your +secret and why you wouldn't accept the prize? + +ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told +story. + +HENRIETTE. Well--what did you do to get peace? + +ADOLPHE. What I have suggested: I became conscious of my guilt, +repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my life +like that of a penitent. + +HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have no +conscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith +is? + +ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless you +seek it--Seek! + +(HENRIETTE remains silent.) + +ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you may +harden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable. + +HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment? + +ADOLPHE. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by the +misdeeds of our lower selves. + +HENRIETTE. Then I must have a conscience also? + +ADOLPHE. Of course you have, but-- + +HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious? + +ADOLPHE. Not the least bit. + +HENRIETTE. It's all so queer--What is religion? + +ADOLPHE. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't think anybody +else can tell you. Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, +for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. +Good-bye, Adolphe! + +ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here? + +HENRIETTE. Yes, I am going--to where you said. Good-bye my friend! +Good-bye, Madame Catherine! + +MME. CATHERINE. Have you to go in such a hurry? + +HENRIETTE. Yes. + +ADOLPHE. Do you want me to go with you? + +HENRIETTE. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone as I came +here, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don't +belong, and believing there was something called freedom, which +does not exist. Good-bye! [Goes out.] + +MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish she +had never come here at all! + +ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fill +here? And at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity. + +MME. CATHERINE. I don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that. + +ADOLPHE. And she has even done less wrong than the rest of us. + +MME. CATHERINE. That's possible, but not probable. + +ADOLPHE. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine. Tell me: have +you never done anything wrong? + +MME. CATHERINE. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful human creature. +But if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right to +tell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severe +or uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that lady +entered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in. Just +like a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he has +to have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster. + +ADOLPHE. Well, hasn't he had his spanking? + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, as +he is still going around complaining. + +ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the whole +intricate question. + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise about +your vices, and while you are still at it the police come along +and solve the riddle. Now please leave me alone with my accounts! + +ADOLPHE. There's Maurice now. + +MME. CATHERINE. Yes, God bless him! + +MAURICE. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat near +ADOLPHE] Good evening. + +(MME. CATHERINE nods and goes on figuring.) + +ADOLPHE. Well, how's everything with you? + +MAURICE. Oh, beginning to clear up. + +ADOLPHE. [Hands him a newspaper, which MAURICE does not take] So +you have read the paper? + +MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothing +but infamies in them. + +ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first-- + +MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies--But listen: I have +found a new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder? + +ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody! + +MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hour +when the child was left alone?--She was _there_! And it is she who +has done it! + +ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man. + +MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and has +threatened to report me. + +ADOLPHE. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used the self- +same words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it has been proved +by a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, +the name of which I have forgotten. + +MAURICE. It isn't true! + +ADOLPHE. That's what she said also. But the official report is +printed in the paper. + +MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up! + +ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you are +suffering from the same mental trouble. But with her I got far +enough to make her realise her own condition. + +MAURICE. Where did she go? + +ADOLPHE. She went far away from here to begin a new life. + +MAURICE. Hm, hm!--Did you go to the funeral? + +ADOLPHE. I did. + +MAURICE. Well? + +ADOLPHE. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard word +to say about you. + +MAURICE. She is a good woman. + +ADOLPHE. Why did you desert her then? + +MAURICE. Because I _was_ crazy--blown up with pride especially--and +then we had been drinking champagne-- + +ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drank +champagne? + +MAURICE. Yes, I understand now--And for that reason I have already +written to her and asked her to forgive me--Do you think she will +forgive me? + +ADOLPHE. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody. + +MAURICE. Do you think she will forgive me completely, so that she +will come back to me? + +ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about _that_. You have shown yourself so +poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust +her fate to you any longer. + +MAURICE. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, +and I know she will come back to me. + +ADOLPHE. How can you know that? How can you believe it? Didn't you +even suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sent +the police after Henriette out of revenge? + +MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer--that is to say, I +guess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer. + +MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of Monsieur +Emile? Of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybody +kept as straight as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot of +sense and tact. + +EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gerard? + +MAURICE. That's me. + +EMILE. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you in private. + +MAURICE. Go right on. We are all friends here. + +(The ABBE enters and sits down.) + +EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBE] Perhaps after-- + +MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbe is also a friend, although he and I +differ. + +EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gerard? My sister has asked me +to give you this package as an answer to your letter. + +(MAURICE takes the package and opens it.) + +EMILE. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way my +sister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, I +acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tie +between you does not exist any longer. + +MAURICE. But you must have a grudge against me? + +EMILE. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I should like +to have a declaration from you, here in the presence of your +friends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable of +such a meanness as to send the police after Mademoiselle +Henriette. + +MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you my +apology, if you will accept it. + +EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goes +out.] + +EVERYBODY. Good evening! + +MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for the +opening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into the +fireplace. Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up; +everything comes back!--And when she gave them to me in the +cemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, so +that other people would like me also--And she herself stayed at +home--This hurt her too deeply, and well it might. I have no right +to keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have I done this? +Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrifice +offered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order to +get--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that +would have belonged in the pillory--Abbe, now I come over to you. + +ABBE. Welcome! + +MAURICE. Give me the word that I need. + +ABBE. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and +inform you that you have done nothing wrong? + +MAURICE. Speak the right word! + +ABBE. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found your +behaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself. + +MAURICE. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this? + +ABBE. You know as well as I do. + +MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, +my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever. + +ABBE. And so you are looking for a new existence in some better +world, which you are now beginning to believe in? + +MAURICE. Yes, that's it. + +ABBE. You have been living in the flesh and you want now to live +in the spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no more +attractions for you? + +MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry +leaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind your +consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled +two days and lasted two eternities. + +ABBE. All right! But this is not the place to go into the matter +more closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nine +o'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach to +the inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step along +the hard road of penitence. + +MAURICE. Penitence? + +ABBE. Well, didn't you wish-- + +MAURICE. Yes, yes! + +ABBE. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock. + +MAURICE. That will be splendid! + +ABBE. Give me your hand that you will not look back. + +MAURICE. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand, and my will +goes with it. + +SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call for +Monsieur Maurice. + +MAURICE. From whom? + +SERVANT GIRL. From the theatre. + +(MAURICE tries to get away, but the ABBE holds on to his hand.) + +ABBE. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is. + +SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going to +attend the performance tonight. + +ABBE. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let you +go. + +MAURICE. What performance is that? + +ADOLPHE. Why don't you read the paper? + +MME. CATHERINE and the ABBE. He hasn't read the paper? + +MAURICE. It's all lies and slander. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Tell +them that I am engaged for this evening: I am going to church. + +(The SERVANT GIRL goes out into the kitchen.) + +ADOLPHE. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall have to tell +you that your play has been put on again, now when you are +exonerated. And your literary friends have planned a demonstration +for this evening in recognition of your indisputable talent. + +MAURICE. It isn't true. + +EVERYBODY. It is true. + +MAURICE. [After a pause] I have not deserved it! + +ABBE. Good! + +ADOLPHE. And furthermore, Maurice-- + +MAURICE. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore! + +MME. CATHERINE. One hundred thousand francs! Do you see now that +they come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everything +is coming back except Mademoiselle Henriette. + +ABBE. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little more +seriously, Madame Catherine. + +MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot--I just can't keep serious any +longer! + +[She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smother +with her handkerchief.] + +ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight. + +ABBE. But the church services are at nine. + +ADOLPHE. Maurice! + +MME. CATHERINE. Let us hear what the end is going to be, Monsieur +Maurice. + +(MAURICE drops his head on the table, in his arms.) + +ADOLPHE. Loose him, Abbe! + +ABBE. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do that +himself. + +MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbe. + +ABBE. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but a +scolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty to +yourself and to your good name. That you have got through with +this as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have suffered +your punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. And +when Providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add. + +MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I was +innocent? + +ABBE. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we have +to stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. +And in your thought you became a murderer when your evil self +wished the life out of your child. + +MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I will +meet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself-- +but to-morrow evening I go to the theatre. + +MME. CATHERINE. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice. + +ADOLPHE. Yes, that is the solution. Whew! + +ABBE. Yes, so it is! + +(Curtain.) + + + + +MISS JULIA + +INTRODUCTION + +The volume containing the translation of "There Are Crimes and +Crimes" had barely reached the public when word came across the +ocean that August Strindberg had ended his long fight with life. +His family had long suspected some serious organic trouble. Early +in the year, when lie had just recovered from an illness of +temporary character, their worst fears became confirmed. An +examination disclosed a case of cancer in the stomach, and the +disease progressed so rapidly that soon all hope of recovery was +out of the question. On May 14, 1912, Strindberg died. + +With his death peace came in more senses than one. All the fear and +hatred which he had incurred by what was best as well as worst in +him seemed to be laid at rest with his own worn-out body. The love +and the admiration which he had son in far greater measure were +granted unchecked expression. His burial, otherwise as simple as he +himself had prescribed, was a truly national event. At the grave of +the arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representative +of the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous members of +the Riksdag. Thousands of men and women representing the best of +Sweden's intellectual and artistic life went to the cemetery, +though the hour of the funeral was eight o'clock in the morning. It +was an event in which the masses and the classes shared a common +sorrow, the standards of student organizations mingling with the +banners of labour unions. And not only the capital, but the whole +country, observed the day as one of mourning. + +A thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on Strindberg's +death by the European press was that, in some mysterious manner, +he, more than any other writer, appeared to be the incarnation of +the past century, with its nervous striving after truth, its fear +of being duped, and its fretting dread that evolution and progress +might prove antagonistic terms. And at that simple grave in +Stockholm more than one bareheaded spectator must have heard the +gravel rattle on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only a +great individual, but a whole human period--great in spite of all +its weaknesses--was being laid away for ever. + + +Among more than half a hundred plays produced by Strindberg during +his lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "Miss +Julia," both on account of its masterful construction and its +gripping theme. Whether liking or disliking it, critics have +repeatedly compared it with Ibsen's "Ghosts," and not always to the +advantage of the latter work. It represents, first of all, its +author's most determined and most daring endeavour to win the +modern stage for Naturalism. If he failed in this effort, it must +be recalled to his honour that he was among the first to proclaim +his own failure and to advocate the seeking of new paths. When the +work was still hot from his hands, however, he believed in it with +all the fervour of which his spirit was capable, and to bring home +its lesson the more forcibly, he added a preface, a sort of +dramatic creed, explaining just what he had tried to do, and why. +This preface, which has become hardly less famous than the play +itself, is here, as I believe, for the first time rendered into +English. The acuteness and exhaustiveness of its analysis serves +not only to make it a psychological document of rare value, but +also to save me much of the comment which without it might be +deemed needful. + +Years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the exclusive +performance of his own plays at Stockholm, Strindberg formulated a +new dramatic creed--that of his mystical period, in which he was +wont to sign himself "the author of 'Gustavus Vasa,' 'The Dream +Play,' 'The Last Knight,' etc." It took the form of a pamphlet +entitled "A Memorandum to the Members of the Intimate Theatre from +the Stage Director" (Stockholm, 1908). There he gave the following +data concerning "Miss Julia," and the movement which that play +helped to start: + +"In the '80's the new time began to extend its demands for reform +to the stage also. Zola declared war against the French comedy, +with its Brussels carpets, its patent-leather shoes and +patent-leather themes, and its dialogue reminding one of the +questions and answers of the Catechism. In 1887 Antoine opened his +Theatre Libre at Paris, and 'Therese Raquin,' although nothing but +an adapted novel, became the dominant model. It was the powerful +theme and the concentrated form that showed innovation, although +the unity of time was not yet observed, and curtain falls were +retained. It was then I wrote my dramas: 'Miss Julia,' 'The +Father,' and 'Creditors.' + +"'Miss Julia,' which was equipped with a now well-known preface, +was staged by Antoine, but not until 1892 or 1893, having previously +been played by the Students' Association of the Copenhagen +University in 1888 or 1889. In the spring of 1893 'Creditors' was +put on at the Theatre L'OEuvre, in Paris, and in the fall of the +same year 'The Father' was given at the same theatre, with Philippe +Garnier in the title part. + +"But as early as 1889 the Freie Buehne had been started at Berlin, +and before 1893 all three of my dramas had been performed. 'Miss +Julia' was preceded by a lecture given by Paul Schlenther, now +director of the Hofburg Theater at Vienna. The principal parts were +played by Rosa Bertens, Emanuel Reicher, Rittner and Jarno. And +Sigismund Lautenburg, director of the Residenz Theater, gave more +than one hundred performances of 'Creditors.' + +"Then followed a period of comparative silence, and the drama sank +back into the old ruts, until, with the beginning of the new +century, Reinhardt opened his Kleines Theater. There I was played +from the start, being represented by the long one-act drama 'The +Link,' as well as by 'Miss Julia' (with Eysoldt in the title part), +and 'There Are Crimes and Crimes.'" + +He went on to tell how one European city after another had got its +"Little," or "Free," or "Intimate" theatre. And had he known of it, +he might have added that the promising venture started by Mr. +Winthrop Ames at New York comes as near as any one of its earlier +rivals in the faithful embodiment of those theories which, with +Promethean rashness, he had flung at the head of a startled world in +1888. For the usual thing has happened: what a quarter-century ago +seemed almost ludicrous in its radicalism belongs to-day to the +established traditions of every progressive stage. + +Had Strindberg been content with his position of 1888, many honours +now withheld might have fallen to his share. But like Ibsen, he was +first and last--and to the very last!--an innovator, a leader of +human thought and human endeavour. And so it happened that when the +rest thought to have overtaken him, he had already hurried on to a +more advanced position, heedless of the scorn poured on him by +those to whom "consistency" is the foremost of all human virtues. +Three years before his death we find him writing as follows in +another pamphlet "An Open Letter to the Intimate Theatre," +Stockholm, 1909--of the position once assumed so proudly and so +confidently by himself: + +"As the Intimate Theatre counts its inception from the successful +performance of 'Miss Julia' in 1900, it was quite natural that the +young director (August Falck) should feel the influence of the +Preface, which recommended a search for actuality. But that was +twenty years ago, and although I do not feel the need of attacking +myself in this connection, I cannot but regard all that pottering +with stage properties as useless." + + +It has been customary in this country to speak of the play now +presented to the public as "Countess Julie." The noble title is, of +course, picturesque, but incorrect and unwarranted. It is, I fear, +another outcome of that tendency to exploit the most sensational +elements in Strindberg's art which has caused somebody to translate +the name of his first great novel as "The Scarlet Room,"--instead +of simply "The Red Room,"--thus hoping to connect it in the reader's +mind with the scarlet woman of the Bible. + +In Sweden, a countess is the wife or widow of a count. His daughter +is no more a countess than is the daughter of an English earl. Her +title is that of "Froeken," which corresponds exactly to the German +"Fraeulein" and the English "Miss." Once it was reserved for the +young women of the nobility. By an agitation which shook all Sweden +with mingled fury and mirth, it became extended to all unmarried +women. + +The French form of _Miss Julia's_ Christian name is, on the other +hand, in keeping with the author's intention, aiming at an +expression of the foreign sympathies and manners which began to +characterize the Swedish nobility in the eighteenth century, and +which continued to assert themselves almost to the end of the +nineteenth. But in English that form would not have the same +significance, and nothing in the play makes its use imperative. The +valet, on the other hand, would most appropriately be named _Jean_ +both in England and here, and for that reason I have retained this +form of his name. + +Almost every one translating from the Scandinavian languages +insists on creating a difficulty out of the fact that the three +northern nations--like the Germans and the French--still use the +second person singular of the personal pronoun to indicate a closer +degree of familiarity. But to translate the Swedish "du" with the +English "thou" is as erroneous as it is awkward. Tytler laid down +his "Principles of Translation" in 1791--and a majority of +translators are still unaware of their existence. Yet it ought to +seem self-evident to every thinking mind that idiomatic +equivalence, not verbal identity, must form the basis of a good and +faithful translation. When an English mother uses "you" to her +child, she establishes thereby the only rational equivalent for the +"du" used under similar circumstances by her Swedish sister. + +Nobody familiar with the English language as it actually springs +from the lips of living men and women can doubt that it offers ways +of expressing varying shades of intimacy no less effective than any +found in the Swedish tongue. Let me give an illustration from the +play immediately under discussion. Returning to the stage after the +ballet scene, _Jean_ says to _Miss Julia_: "I love you--can you +doubt it?" And her reply, literally, is: "You?--Say thou!" I have +merely made him say: "Can you doubt it, Miss Julia?" and her +answer: "Miss?--Call me Julia!" As that is just what would happen +under similar circumstances among English-speaking people, I +contend that not a whit of the author's meaning or spirit has been +lost in this translation. + +If ever a play was written for the stage, it is this one. And on +the stage there is nothing to take the place of the notes and +introductory explanations that so frequently encumber the printed +volume. On the stage all explanations must lie within the play +itself, and so they should in the book also, I believe. The +translator is either an artist or a man unfit for his work. As an +artist he must have a courage that cannot even be cowed by his +reverence for the work of a great creative genius. If, mistakenly, +he revere the letter of that work instead of its spirit, then he +will reduce his own task to mere literary carpentry, and from his +pen will spring not a living form, like the one he has been set to +transplant, but only a death mask! + + +AUTHOR'S PREFACE + +Like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed to me +a sort of _Biblia Pauperum_, or a Bible in pictures for those who +cannot read what is written or printed. And in the same way the +playwright has seemed to me a lay preacher spreading the thoughts +of his time in a form so popular that the middle classes, from +which theatrical audiences are mainly drawn, can know what is being +talked about without troubling their brains too much. For this +reason the theatre has always served as a grammar-school to young +people, women, and those who have acquired a little knowledge, all +of whom retain the capacity for deceiving themselves and being +deceived--which means again that they are susceptible to illusions +produced by the suggestions of the author. And for the same reason +I have had a feeling that, in our time, when the rudimentary, +incomplete thought processes operating through our fancy seem to be +developing into reflection, research, and analysis, the theatre +might stand on the verge of being abandoned as a decaying form, for +the enjoyment of which we lack the requisite conditions. The +prolonged theatrical crisis now prevailing throughout Europe speaks +in favour of such a supposition, as well as the fact that, in the +civilised countries producing the greatest thinkers of the age, +namely, England and Germany, the drama is as dead as are most of +the other fine arts. + +In some other countries it has, however, been thought possible to +create a new drama by filling the old forms with the contents of a +new time. But, for one thing, there has not been time for the new +thoughts to become so popularized that the public might grasp the +questions raised; secondly, minds have been so inflamed by party +conflicts that pure and disinterested enjoyment has been excluded +from places where one's innermost feelings are violated and the +tyranny of an applauding or hissing majority is exercised with the +openness for which the theatre gives a chance; and, finally, there +has been no new form devised for the new contents, and the new wine +has burst the old bottles. + +In the following drama I have not tried to do anything new--for +that cannot be done--but I have tried to modernize the form in +accordance with the demands which I thought the new men of a new +time might be likely to make on this art. And with such a purpose +in view, I have chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme that +might well be said to lie outside the partisan strife of the day: +for the problem of social ascendancy or decline, of higher or +lower, of better or worse, of men or women, is, has been, and will +be of lasting interest. In selecting this theme from real life, as +it was related to me a number of years ago, when the incident +impressed me very deeply, I found it suited to a tragedy, because +it can only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individual +perish, and this must be the case in still higher degree when we +see an entire family die out. But perhaps a time will arrive when +we have become so developed, so enlightened, that we can remain +indifferent before the spectacle of life, which now seems so +brutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have closed up those +lower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call feelings, +and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harmful by +the final growth of our reflective organs. + +The fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on our +weakness in not being able to resist the sense of fear that the +same fate could befall ourselves. And yet it is possible that a +very sensitive spectator might fail to find satisfaction in this +kind of pity, while the man believing in the future might demand +some positive suggestion for the abolition of evil, or, in other +words, some kind of programme. But, first of all, there is no +absolute evil. That one family perishes is the fortune of another +family, which thereby gets a chance to rise. And the alternation of +ascent and descent constitutes one of life's main charms, as +fortune is solely determined by comparison. And to the man with a +programme, who wants to remedy the sad circumstance that the hawk +eats the dove, and the flea eats the hawk, I have this question to +put: why should it be remedied? Life is not so mathematically +idiotic that it lets only the big eat the small, but it happens +just as often that the bee kills the lion, or drives it to madness +at least. + +That my tragedy makes a sad impression on many is their own fault. +When we grow strong as were the men of the first French revolution, +then we shall receive an unconditionally good and joyful impression +from seeing the national forests rid of rotting and superannuated +trees that have stood too long in the way of others with equal +right to a period of free growth--an impression good in the same +way as that received from the death of one incurably diseased. + +Not long ago they reproached my tragedy "The Father" with being too +sad--just as if they wanted merry tragedies. Everybody is clamouring +arrogantly for "the joy of life," and all theatrical managers are +giving orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in being +silly and picturing all human beings as so many sufferers from St. +Vitus' dance or idiocy. I find the joy of life in its violent and +cruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in knowing something and +learning something. And for this reason I have selected an unusual +but instructive case--an exception, in a word--but a great +exception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke all +lovers of the commonplace. And what also will offend simple brains +is that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, that +the view-point is not always the same. An event in real life--and +this discovery is quite recent--springs generally from a whole +series of more or less deep-lying motives, but of these the +spectator chooses as a rule the one his reason can master most +easily, or else the one reflecting most favourably on his power of +reasoning. A suicide is committed. Bad business, says the merchant. +Unrequited love, say the ladies. Sickness, says the sick man. +Crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. But now it may be that the +motive lay in all or none of these directions. It is possible that +the one who is dead may have hid the main motive by pushing forward +another meant to place his memory in a better light. + +In explanation of _Miss Julia's_ sad fate I have suggested many +factors: her mother's fundamental instincts; her father's mistaken +upbringing of the girl; her own nature, and the suggestive influence +of her fiance on a weak and degenerate brain; furthermore, and more +directly: the festive mood of the Midsummer Eve; the absence of her +father; her physical condition; her preoccupation with the animals; +the excitation of the dance; the dusk of the night; the strongly +aphrodisiacal influence of the flowers; and lastly the chance +forcing the two of them together in a secluded room, to which must +be added the aggressiveness of the excited man. + +Thus I have neither been one-sidedly physiological nor one-sidedly +psychological in my procedure. Nor have I merely delivered a moral +preachment. This multiplicity of motives I regard as praiseworthy +because it is in keeping with the views of our own time. And if +others have done the same thing before me, I may boast of not being +the sole inventor of my paradoxes--as all discoveries are named. + +In regard to the character-drawing I may say that I have tried to +make my figures rather "characterless," and I have done so for +reasons I shall now state. + +In the course of the ages the word character has assumed many +meanings. Originally it signified probably the dominant ground-note +in the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused with +temperament. Afterward it became the middle-class term for an +automaton, so that an individual whose nature had come to a stand +still, or who had adapted himself to a certain part in life--who +had ceased to grow, in a word--was named a character; while one +remaining in a state of development--a skilful navigator on life's +river, who did not sail with close-tied sheets, but knew when to +fall off before the wind and when to luff again--was called lacking +in character. And he was called so in a depreciatory sense, of +course, because he was so hard to catch, to classify, and to keep +track of. This middle-class notion about the immobility of the soul +was transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element has +always held sway. There a character became synonymous with a +gentleman fixed and finished once for all--one who invariably +appeared drunk, jolly, sad. And for the purpose of characterisation +nothing more was needed than some physical deformity like a +clubfoot, a wooden leg, a red nose; or the person concerned was +made to repeat some phrase like "That's capital!" or "Barkis is +willin'," or something of that kind. This manner of regarding human +beings as homogeneous is preserved even by the great Moliere. +_Harpagon_ is nothing but miserly, although _Harpagon_ might as +well have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a fine +father, and a public-spirited citizen. What is worse yet, his +"defect" is of distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, +who are his heirs, and for that reason should not find fault with +him, even if they have to wait a little for their wedding. I do not +believe, therefore, in simple characters on the stage. And the +summary judgments of the author upon men--this one stupid, and that +one brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy--should be +challenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of the +soul-complex, and who realise that "vice" has a reverse very much +resembling virtue. + +Because they are modern characters, living in a period of transition +more hysterically hurried than its immediate predecessor at least, +I have made my figures vacillating, out of joint, torn between the +old and the new. And I do not think it unlikely that, through +newspaper reading and overheard conversations, modern ideas may +have leaked down to the strata where domestic servants belong. + +My souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past and +present stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off pieces +of Sunday clothing turned into rags--all patched together as is the +human soul itself. And I have furthermore offered a touch of +evolutionary history by letting the weaker repeat words stolen from +the stronger, and by letting different souls accept "ideas"--or +suggestions, as they are called--from each other. + +_Miss Julia_ is a modern character, not because the man-hating +half-woman may not have existed in all ages, but because now, after +her discovery, she has stepped to the front and begun to make a +noise. The half-woman is a type coming more and more into +prominence, selling herself nowadays for power, decorations, +distinctions, diplomas, as formerly for money, and the type +indicates degeneration. It is not a good type, for it does not +last, but unfortunately it has the power of reproducing itself and +its misery through one more generation. And degenerate men seem +instinctively to make their selection from this kind of women, so +that they multiply and produce indeterminate sexes to whom life is +a torture. Fortunately, however, they perish in the end, either +from discord with real life, or from the irresistible revolt of +their suppressed instincts, or from foiled hopes of possessing the +man. The type is tragical, offering us the spectacle of a desperate +struggle against nature. It is also tragical as a Romantic +inheritance dispersed by the prevailing Naturalism, which wants +nothing but happiness: and for happiness strong and sound races are +required. + +But _Miss Julia_ is also a remnant of the old military nobility +which is now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain. +She is a victim of the discord which a mother's "crime" produces in +a family, and also a victim of the day's delusions, of the +circumstances, of her defective constitution--all of which may be +held equivalent to the old-fashioned fate or universal law. The +naturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe out +the results of an action--punishment, prison, or fear--and for the +simple reason that they remain without regard to his verdict. For +fellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured as +those on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can be +without cost to themselves. + +Even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, the +father should forego his vengeance, the daughter would take +vengeance upon herself, just as she does in the play, and she would +be moved to it by that innate or acquired sense of honour which the +upper classes inherit--whence? From the days of barbarism, from the +original home of the Aryans, from the chivalry of the Middle Ages? +It is beautiful, but it has become disadvantageous to the +preservation of the race. It is this, the nobleman's _harakiri_--or +the law of the inner conscience compelling the Japanese to cut open +his own abdomen at the insult of another--which survives, though +somewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the nobility. +For this reason the valet, _Jean_, continues to live, but _Miss +Julia_ cannot live on without honour. In so far as he lacks this +life--endangering superstition about honour, the serf takes +precedence of the earl, and in all of us Aryans there is something +of the nobleman, or of Don Quixote, which makes us sympathise with +the man who takes his own life because he has committed a +dishonourable deed and thus lost his honour. And we are noblemen to +the extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with the +living corpse of one who was once great--yes, even if the one thus +fallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds. + +_Jean_, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock--one in +whom the differentiation is clearly noticeable. He was a cotter's +child, and he has trained himself up to the point where the future +gentleman has become visible. He has found it easy to learn, having +finely developed senses (smell, taste, vision) and an instinct for +beauty besides. He has already risen in the world, and is strong +enough not to be sensitive about using other people's services. He +has already become a stranger to his equals, despising them as so +many outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing them because +they know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise with +envy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure. From this +relationship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating +between love of distinction and hatred of those who have already +achieved it. He says himself that he is an aristocrat, and has +learned the secrets of good company. He is polished on the outside +and coarse within. He knows already how to wear the frock-coat with +ease, but the cleanliness of his body cannot be guaranteed. + +He feels respect for the young lady, but he is afraid of _Christine_, +who has his dangerous secrets in her keeping. His emotional +callousness is sufficient to prevent the night's happenings from +exercising a disturbing influence on his plans for the future. +Having at once the slave's brutality and the master's lack of +squeamishness, he can see blood without fainting, and he can also +bend his back under a mishap until able to throw it off. For this +reason he will emerge unharmed from the battle, and will probably +end his days as the owner of a hotel. And if he does not become a +Roumanian count, his son will probably go to a university, and may +even become a county attorney. + +Otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant information as +to the way in which the lower classes look at life from beneath--- +that is, when he speaks the truth, which is not often, as he +prefers what seems favourable to himself to what is true. When +_Miss Julia_ suggests that the lower classes must feel the pressure +from above very heavily, _Jean_ agrees with her, of course, because +he wants to gain her sympathy. But he corrects himself at once, the +moment he realises the advantage of standing apart from the herd. + +And _Jean_ stands above _Miss Julia_ not only because his fate is in +ascendancy, but because he is a man. Sexually he is the aristocrat +because of his male strength, his more finely developed senses, and +his capacity for taking the initiative. His inferiority depends +mainly on the temporary social environment in which he has to live, +and which he probably can shed together with the valet's livery. + +The mind of the slave speaks through his reverence for the count +(as shown in the incident with the boots) and through his religious +superstition. But he reveres the count principally as a possessor +of that higher position toward which he himself is striving. And +this reverence remains even when he has won the daughter of the +house, and seen that the beautiful shell covered nothing but +emptiness. + +I don't believe that any love relation in a "higher" sense can +spring up between two souls of such different quality. And for this +reason I let _Miss Julia_ imagine her love to be protective or +commiserative in its origin. And I let _Jean_ suppose that, under +different social conditions, he might feel something like real love +for her. I believe love to be like the hyacinth, which has to +strike roots in darkness _before_ it can bring forth a vigorous +flower. In this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossom +and seed at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon. + +_Christine_, finally, is a female slave, full of servility and +sluggishness acquired in front of the kitchen fire, and stuffed +full of morality and religion that are meant to serve her at once +as cloak and scapegoat. Her church-going has for its purpose to +bring her quick and easy riddance of all responsibility for her +domestic thieveries and to equip her with a new stock of +guiltlessness. Otherwise she is a subordinate figure, and therefore +purposely sketched in the same manner as the minister and the +doctor in "The Father," whom I designed as ordinary human beings, +like the common run of country ministers and country doctors. And +if these accessory characters have seemed mere abstractions to some +people, it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certain +extent impersonal in the exercise of their callings. This means +that they are without individuality, showing only one side of +themselves while at work. And as long as the spectator does not +feel the need of seeing them from other sides, my abstract +presentation of them remains on the whole correct. + +In regard to the dialogue, I want to point out that I have departed +somewhat from prevailing traditions by not turning my figures into +catechists who make stupid questions in order to call forth witty +answers. I have avoided the symmetrical and mathematical +construction of the French dialogue, and have instead permitted the +minds to work irregularly as they do in reality, where, during +conversation, the cogs of one mind seem more or less haphazardly to +engage those of another one, and where no topic is fully exhausted. +Naturally enough, therefore, the dialogue strays a good deal as, in +the opening scenes, it acquires a material that later on is worked +over, picked up again, repeated, expounded, and built up like the +theme in a musical composition. + +The plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is concerned +only with two persons, I have concentrated my attention on these, +introducing only one subordinate figure, the cook, and keeping the +unfortunate spirit of the father hovering above and beyond the +action. I have done this because I believe I have noticed that the +psychological processes are what interest the people of our own day +more than anything else. Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot +rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how it +comes to happen! What we want to see are just the wires, the +machinery. We want to investigate the box with the false bottom, +touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into the +cards to discover how they are marked. + +In this I have taken for models the monographic novels of the +brothers de Goncourt, which have appealed more to me than any other +modern literature. + +Turning to the technical side of the composition, I have tried to +abolish the division into acts. And I have done so because I have +come to fear that our decreasing capacity for illusion might be +unfavourably affected by intermissions during which the spectator +would have time to reflect and to get away from the suggestive +influence of the author-hypnotist. My play will probably last an +hour and a half, and as it is possible to listen that length of +time, or longer, to a lecture, a sermon, or a debate, I have +imagined that a theatrical performance could not become fatiguing +in the same time. As early as 1872, in one of my first dramatic +experiments, "The Outlaw," I tried the same concentrated form, but +with scant success. The play was written in five acts and wholly +completed when I became aware of the restless, scattered effect it +produced. Then I burned it, and out of the ashes rose a single, +well-built act, covering fifty printed pages, and taking hour for +its performance. Thus the form of the present play is not new, but +it seems to be my own, and changing aesthetical conventions may +possibly make it timely. + +My hope is still for a public educated to the point where it can +sit through a whole-evening performance in a single act. But that +point cannot be reached without a great deal of experimentation. In +the meantime I have resorted to three art forms that are to provide +resting-places for the public and the actors, without letting the +public escape from the illusion induced. All these forms are +subsidiary to the drama. They are the monologue, the pantomime, and +the dance, all of them belonging originally to the tragedy of +classical antiquity. For the monologue has sprung from the monody, +and the chorus has developed into the ballet. + +Our realists have excommunicated the monologue as improbable, but +if I can lay a proper basis for it, I can also make it seem +probable, and then I can use it to good advantage. It is probable, +for instance, that a speaker may walk back and forth in his room +practising his speech aloud; it is probable that an actor may read +through his part aloud, that a servant-girl may talk to her cat, +that a mother may prattle to her child, that an old spinster may +chatter to her parrot, that a person may talk in his sleep. And in +order that the actor for once may have a chance to work independently, +and to be free for a moment from the author's pointer, it is better +that the monologues be not written out, but just indicated. As it +matters comparatively little what is said to the parrot or the cat, +or in one's sleep--because it cannot influence the action--it is +possible that a gifted actor, carried away by the situation and the +mood of the occasion, may improvise such matters better than they +could be written by the author, who cannot figure out in advance +how much may be said, and how long the talk may last, without +waking the public out of their illusions. + +It is well known that, on certain stages, the Italian theatre has +returned to improvisation and thereby produced creative actors-- +who, however, must follow the author's suggestions--and this may be +counted a step forward, or even the beginning of a new art form +that might well be called _productive_. + +Where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem unreal, I have +used the pantomime, and there I have left still greater scope for +the actor's imagination--and for his desire to gain independent +honours. But in order that the public may not be tried beyond +endurance, I have permitted the music--which is amply warranted by +the Midsummer Eve's dance--to exercise its illusory power while the +dumb show lasts. And I ask the musical director to make careful +selection of the music used for this purpose, so that incompatible +moods are not induced by reminiscences from the last musical comedy +or topical song, or by folk-tunes of too markedly ethnographical +distinction. + +The mere introduction of a scene with a lot of "people" could not +have taken the place of the dance, for such scenes are poorly acted +and tempt a number of grinning idiots into displaying their own +smartness, whereby the illusion is disturbed. As the common people +do not improvise their gibes, but use ready-made phrases in which +stick some double meaning, I have not composed their lampooning +song, but have appropriated a little known folk-dance which I +personally noted down in a district near Stockholm. The words don't +quite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it, and this is +intentional, for the cunning (i. e., weakness) of the slave keeps +him from any direct attack. There must, then, be no chattering +clowns in a serious action, and no coarse flouting at a situation +that puts the lid on the coffin of a whole family. + +As far as the scenery is concerned, I have borrowed from +impressionistic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abruptness, +and have thereby in my opinion strengthened the illusion. Because +the whole room and all its contents are not shown, there is a +chance to guess at things--that is, our imagination is stirred into +complementing our vision. I have made a further gain in getting rid +of those tiresome exits by means of doors, especially as stage +doors are made of canvas and swing back and forth at the lightest +touch. They are not even capable of expressing the anger of an +irate _pater familias_ who, on leaving his home after a poor +dinner, slams the door behind him "so that it shakes the whole +house." (On the stage the house sways.) I have also contented +myself with a single setting, and for the double purpose of making +the figures become parts of their surroundings, and of breaking +with the tendency toward luxurious scenery. But having only a +single setting, one may demand to have it real. Yet nothing is more +difficult than to get a room that looks something like a room, +although the painter can easily enough produce waterfalls and +flaming volcanoes. Let it go at canvas for the walls, but we might +be done with the painting of shelves and kitchen utensils on the +canvas. We have so much else on the stage that is conventional, and +in which we are asked to believe, that we might at least be spared +the too great effort of believing in painted pans and kettles. + +I have placed the rear wall and the table diagonally across the +stage in order to make the actors show full face and half profile +to the audience when they sit opposite each other at the table. In +the opera "Aida" I noticed an oblique background, which led the eye +out into unseen prospects. And it did not appear to be the result +of any reaction against the fatiguing right angle. + +Another novelty well needed would be the abolition of the foot-lights. +The light from below is said to have for its purpose to make the +faces of the actors look fatter. But I cannot help asking: why must +all actors be fat in the face? Does not this light from below tend +to wipe out the subtler lineaments in the lower part of the face, +and especially around the jaws? Does it not give a false appearance +to the nose and cast shadows upward over the eyes? If this be not +so, another thing is certain: namely, that the eyes of the actors +suffer from the light, so that the effective play of their glances +is precluded. Coming from below, the light strikes the retina in +places generally protected (except in sailors, who have to see the +sun reflected in the water), and for this reason one observes +hardly anything but a vulgar rolling of the eyes, either sideways +or upwards, toward the galleries, so that nothing but the white of +the eye shows. Perhaps the same cause may account for the tedious +blinking of which especially the actresses are guilty. And when +anybody on the stage wants to use his eyes to speak with, no other +way is left him but the poor one of staring straight at the public, +with whom he or she then gets into direct communication outside of +the frame provided by the setting. This vicious habit has, rightly +or wrongly, been named "to meet friends." Would it not be possible +by means of strong side-lights (obtained by the employment of +reflectors, for instance) to add to the resources already possessed +by the actor? Could not his mimicry be still further strengthened +by use of the greatest asset possessed by the face: the play of the +eyes? + +Of course, I have no illusions about getting the actors to play +_for_ the public and not _at_ it, although such a change would be +highly desirable. I dare not even dream of beholding the actor's +back throughout an important scene, but I wish with all my heart +that crucial scenes might not be played in the centre of the +proscenium, like duets meant to bring forth applause. Instead, I +should like to have them laid in the place indicated by the +situation. Thus I ask for no revolutions, but only for a few minor +modifications. To make a real room of the stage, with the fourth +wall missing, and a part of the furniture placed back toward the +audience, would probably produce a disturbing effect at present. + +In wishing to speak of the facial make-up, I have no hope that the +ladies will listen to me, as they would rather look beautiful than +lifelike. But the actor might consider whether it be to his +advantage to paint his face so that it shows some abstract type +which covers it like a mask. Suppose that a man puts a markedly +choleric line between the eyes, and imagine further that some +remark demands a smile of this face fixed in a state of continuous +wrath. What a horrible grimace will be the result? And how can the +wrathful old man produce a frown on his false forehead, which is +smooth as a billiard ball? + +In modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest movements of the +soul are to be reflected on the face rather than by gestures and +noise, it would probably be well to experiment with strong side-light +on a small stage, and with unpainted faces, or at least with a +minimum of make-up. + +If, in additon, we might escape the visible orchestra, with its +disturbing lamps and its faces turned toward the public; if we +could have the seats on the main floor (the orchestra or the pit) +raised so that the eyes of the spectators would be above the knees +of the actors; if we could get rid of the boxes with their +tittering parties of diners; if we could also have the auditorium +completely darkened during the performance; and if, first and last, +we could have a small stage and a small house: then a new dramatic +art might rise, and the theatre might at least become an +institution for the entertainment of people with culture. While +waiting for this kind of theatre, I suppose we shall have to write +for the "ice-box," and thus prepare the repertory that is to come. + +I have made an attempt. If it prove a failure, there is plenty of +time to try over again. + + +MISS JULIA +A NATURALISTIC TRAGEDY +1888 + + +PERSONS + +MISS JULIA, aged twenty-five +JEAN, a valet, aged thirty +CHRISTINE, a cook, aged thirty-five + +The action takes place on Midsummer Eve, in the kitchen of the +count's country house. + + +MISS JULIA + +SCENE + +(A large kitchen: the ceiling and the side walls are hidden by +draperies and hangings. The rear wall runs diagonally across the +stage, from the left side and away from the spectators. On this +wall, to the left, there are two shelves full of utensils made of +copper, iron, and tin. The shelves are trimmed with scalloped +paper.) + +(A little to the right may be seen three fourths of the big arched +doorway leading to the outside. It has double glass doors, through +which are seen a fountain with a cupid, lilac shrubs in bloom, and +the tops of some Lombardy poplars.) + +(On the left side of the stage is seen the corner of a big cook +stove built of glazed bricks; also a part of the smoke-hood above +it.) + +(From the right protrudes one end of the servants' dining-table +of white pine, with a few chairs about it.) + +(The stove is dressed with bundled branches of birch. Twigs of +juniper are scattered on the floor.) + +(On the table end stands a big Japanese spice pot full of lilac +blossoms.) + +(An icebox, a kitchen-table, and a wash-stand.) + +(Above the door hangs a big old-fashioned bell on a steel spring, +and the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube appears at the left of the +door.) + +(CHRISTINE is standing by the stove, frying something in a pan. She +has on a dress of light-coloured cotton, which she has covered up +with a big kitchen apron.) + +(JEAN enters, dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurred +riding boots, which he places on the floor in such manner that they +remain visible to the spectators.) + +JEAN. To-night Miss Julia is crazy again; absolutely crazy. + +CHRISTINE. So you're back again? + +JEAN. I took the count to the station, and when I came back by the +barn, I went in and had a dance, and there I saw the young lady +leading the dance with the gamekeeper. But when she caught sight of +me, she rushed right up to me and asked me to dance the ladies' +waltz with her. And ever since she's been waltzing like--well, I +never saw the like of it. She's crazy! + + +CHRISTINE. And has always been, but never the way it's been this +last fortnight, since her engagement was broken. + +JEAN. Well, what kind of a story was that anyhow? He's a fine +fellow, isn't he, although he isn't rich? Ugh, but they're so full +of notions. [Sits down at the end of the table] It's peculiar +anyhow, that a young lady--hm!--would rather stay at home with the +servants--don't you think?--than go with her father to their +relatives! + +CHRISTINE. Oh, I guess she feels sort of embarrassed by that rumpus +with her fellow. + +JEAN. Quite likely. But there was some backbone to that man just +the same. Do you know how it happened, Christine? I saw it, +although I didn't care to let on. + +CHRISTINE. No, did you? + +JEAN. Sure, I did. They were in the stable-yard one evening, and +the young lady was training him, as she called it. Do you know what +that meant? She made him leap over her horse-whip the way you teach +a dog to jump. Twice he jumped and got a cut each time. The third +time he took the whip out of her hand and broke it into a thousand +bits. And then he got out. + +CHRISTINE. So that's the way it happened! You don't say! + +JEAN. Yes, that's how that thing happened. Well, Christine, what +have you got that's tasty? + +CHRISTINE. [Serves from the pan and puts the plate before Jean] Oh, +just some kidney which I cut out of the veal roast. + +JEAN. [Smelling the food] Fine! That's my great _delice_. [Feeling +the plate] But you might have warmed the plate. + +CHRISTINE. Well, if you ain't harder to please than the count +himself! [Pulls his hair playfully.] + +JEAN. [Irritated] Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am. + +CHRISTINE. Well, well, it was nothing but a love pull, you know. + +[JEAN eats.] + +[CHRISTINE opens a bottle of beer.] + +JEAN. Beer-on Midsummer Eve? No, thank you! Then I have something +better myself. [Opens a table-drawer and takes out a bottle of +claret with yellow cap] Yellow seal, mind you! Give me a glass---and +you use those with stems when you drink it _pure_. + +CHRISTINE. [Returns to the stove and puts a small pan on the fire] +Heaven preserve her that gets you for a husband, Mr. Finicky! + +JEAN. Oh, rot! You'd be glad enough to get a smart fellow like me. +And I guess it hasn't hurt you that they call me your beau. +[Tasting the wine] Good! Pretty good! Just a tiny bit too cold. [He +warms the glass with his hand.] We got this at Dijon. It cost us +four francs per litre, not counting the bottle. And there was the +duty besides. What is it you're cooking--with that infernal smell? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, it's some deviltry the young lady is going to give +Diana. + +JEAN. You should choose your words with more care, Christine. But +why should you be cooking for a bitch on a holiday eve like this? +Is she sick? + +CHRISTINE. Ye-es, she is sick. She's been running around with the +gate-keeper's pug--and now's there's trouble--and the young lady +just won't hear of it. + +JEAN. The young lady is too stuck up in some ways and not proud +enough in others--just as was the countess while she lived. She was +most at home in the kitchen and among the cows, but she would never +drive with only one horse. She wore her cuffs till they were dirty, +but she had to have cuff buttons with a coronet on them. And +speaking of the young lady, she doesn't take proper care of herself +and her person. I might even say that she's lacking in refinement. +Just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she pulled the +gamekeeper away from Anna and asked him herself to come and dance +with her. We wouldn't act in that way. But that's just how it is: +when upper-class people want to demean themselves, then they grow--- +mean! But she's splendid! Magnificent! Oh, such shoulders! And--and +so on! + +CHRISTINE. Oh, well, don't brag too much! I've heard Clara talking, +who tends to her dressing. + +JEAN. Pooh, Clara! You're always jealous of each other. I, who have +been out riding with her--And then the way she dances! + +CHRISTINE. Say, Jean, won't you dance with me when I'm done? + +JEAN. Of course I will. + +CHRISTINE. Do you promise? + +JEAN. Promise? When I say so, I'll do it. Well, here's thanks for +the good food. It tasted fine! [Puts the cork back into the bottle.] + +JULIA. [Appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on the +outside] I'll be back in a minute. You go right on in the meantime. + +[JEAN slips the bottle into the table-drawer and rises +respectfully.] + +JULIA.[Enters and goes over to CHRISTINE by the wash-stand] Well, +is it done yet? + +[CHRISTINE signs to her that JEAN is present.] + +JEAN. [Gallantly] The ladies are having secrets, I believe. + +JULIA. [Strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] That's for +you, Mr. Pry! + +JEAN. Oh, what a delicious odor that violet has! + +JULIA. [With coquetry] Impudent! So you know something about +perfumes also? And know pretty well how to dance--Now don't peep! +Go away! + +JEAN. [With polite impudence] Is it some kind of witches' broth the +ladies are cooking on Midsummer Eve--something to tell fortunes by +and bring out the lucky star in which one's future love is seen? + +JULIA. [Sharply] If you can see that, you'll have good eyes, +indeed! [To CHRISTINE] Put it in a pint bottle and cork it well. +Come and dance a _schottische_ with me now, Jean. + +JEAN. [Hesitatingly] I don't want to be impolite, but I had +promised to dance with Christine this time--- + +JULIA. Well, she can get somebody else--can't you, Christine? Won't +you let me borrow Jean from you? + +CHRISTINE. That isn't for me to say. When Miss Julia is so +gracious, it isn't for him to say no. You just go along, and be +thankful for the honour, too! + +JEAN. Frankly speaking, but not wishing to offend in any way, I +cannot help wondering if it's wise for Miss Julia to dance twice in +succession with the same partner, especially as the people here are +not slow in throwing out hints-- + +JULIA. [Flaring up] What is that? What kind of hints? What do you +mean? + +JEAN. [Submissively] As you don't want to understand, I have to +speak more plainly. It don't look well to prefer one servant to all +the rest who are expecting to be honoured in the same unusual way-- + +JULIA. Prefer! What ideas! I'm surprised! I, the mistress of the +house, deign to honour this dance with my presence, and when it so +happens that I actually want to dance, I want to dance with one who +knows how to lead, so that I am not made ridiculous. + +JEAN. As you command, Miss Julia! I am at your service! + +JULIA. [Softened] Don't take it as a command. To-night we should +enjoy ourselves as a lot of happy people, and all rank should be +forgotten. Now give me your arm. Don't be afraid, Christine! I'll +return your beau to you! + +[JEAN offers his arm to MISS JULIA and leads her out.] + +*** + +PANTOMIME + +Must be acted as if the actress were really alone in the place. +When necessary she turns her back to the public. She should not +look in the direction of the spectators, and she should not hurry +as if fearful that they might become impatient. + +CHRISTINE is alone. A _schottische_ tune played on a violin is +heard faintly in the distance. + +While humming the tune, CHRISTINE clears o$ the table after JEAN, +washes the plate at the kitchen table, wipes it, and puts it away +in a cupboard. + +Then she takes of her apron, pulls out a small mirror from one of +the table-drawers and leans it against the flower jar on the table; +lights a tallow candle and heats a hairpin, which she uses to curl +her front hair. + +Then she goes to the door and stands there listening. Returns to +the table. Discovers the handkerchief which MISS JULIA has left +behind, picks it up, and smells it, spreads it out absent-mindedly +and begins to stretch it, smooth it, fold it up, and so forth. + +*** + +JEAN. [Enters alone] Crazy, that's what she is! The way she dances! +And the people stand behind the doors and grill at her. What do you +think of it, Christine? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, she has her time now, and then she is always a +little queer like that. But are you going to dance with me now? + +JEAN. You are not mad at me because I disappointed you? + +CHRISTINE. No!--Not for a little thing like that, you know! And +also, I know my place-- + +JEAN. [Putting his arm around her waist] You are a, sensible girl, +Christine, and I think you'll make a good wife-- + +JULIA. [Enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with forced +gayety] Yes, you are a fine partner--running away from your lady! + +JEAN. On the contrary, Miss Julia. I have, as you see, looked up +the one I deserted. + +JULIA. [Changing tone] Do you know, there is nobody that dances +like you!--But why do you wear your livery on an evening like this? +Take it off at once! + +JEAN. Then I must ask you to step outside for a moment, as my black +coat is hanging right here. [Points toward the right and goes in +that direction.] + +JULIA. Are you bashful on my account? Just to change a coat? Why +don't you go into your own room and come back again? Or, you can +stay right here, and I'll turn my back on you. + +JEAN. With your permission, Miss Julia. [Goes further over to the +right; one of his arms can be seen as he changes his coat.] + +JULIA [To CHRISTINE] Are you and Jean engaged, that he's so +familiar with you? + +CHRISTINE. Engaged? Well, in a way. We call it that. + +JULIA. Call it? + +CHRISTINE. Well, Miss Julia, you have had a fellow of your own, and-- + +JULIA. We were really engaged-- + +CHRISTINE. But it didn't come to anything just the same-- + +[JEAN enters, dressed in black frock coat and black derby.] + +JULIA. _Tres gentil, Monsieur Jean! Tres gentil!_ + +JEAN. _Vous voulez plaisanter, Madame!_ + +JULIA. _Et vous voulez parler francais!_ Where did you learn it? + +JEAN. In Switzerland, while I worked as _sommelier_ in one of the +big hotels at Lucerne. + +JULIA. But you look like a real gentleman in your frock coat! +Charming! [Sits down at the table.] + +JEAN. Oh, you flatter me. + +JULIA. [Offended] Flatter--you! + +JEAN. My natural modesty does not allow me to believe that you +could be paying genuine compliments to one like me, and so I dare +to assume that you are exaggerating, or, as we call it, flattering. + +JULIA. Where did you learn to use your words like that? You must +have been to the theatre a great deal? + +JEAN. That, too. I have been to a lot of places. + +JULIA. But you were born in this neighbourhood? + +JEAN. My father was a cotter on the county attorney's property +right by here, and I can recall seeing you as a child, although +you, of course, didn't notice me. + +JULIA. No, really! + +JEAN. Yes, and I remember one time in particular--but of that I +can't speak. + +JULIA. Oh, yes, do! Why--just for once. + +JEAN. No, really, I cannot do it now. Another time, perhaps. + +JULIA. Another time is no time. Is it as bad as that? + +JEAN. It isn't bad, but it comes a little hard. Look at that one! +[Points to CHRISTINE, who has fallen asleep on a chair by the stove.] + +JULIA. She'll make a pleasant wife. And perhaps she snores, too. + +JEAN. No, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep. + +JULIA. [Cynically] How do you know? + +JEAN. [Insolently] I have heard it. + +[Pause during which they study each other.] + +JULIA. Why don't you sit down? + +JEAN. It wouldn't be proper in your presence. + +JULIA. But if I order you to do it? + +JEAN. Then I obey. + +JULIA. Sit down, then!--But wait a moment! Can you give me +something to drink first? + +JEAN. I don't know what we have got in the icebox. I fear it is +nothing but beer. + +JULIA. And you call that nothing? My taste is so simple that I +prefer it to wine. + +JEAN. [Takes a bottle of beer from the icebox and opens it; gets a +glass and a plate from the cupboard, and serves the beer] Allow me! + +JULIA. Thank you. Don't you want some yourself? + +JEAN. I don't care very much for beer, but if it is a command, of +course-- + +JULIA. Command?--I should think a polite gentleman might keep his +lady company. + +JEAN. Yes, that's the way it should be. [Opens another bottle and +takes out a glass.] + +JULIA. Drink my health now! + +[JEAN hesitates.] + +JULIA. Are you bashful--a big, grown-up man? + +JEAN. [Kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] To the +health of my liege lady! + +JULIA. Bravo!--And now you must also kiss my shoe in order to get +it just right. + +[JEAN hesitates a moment; then he takes hold of her foot and +touches it lightly with his lips.] + +JULIA. Excellent! You should have been on the stage. + +JEAN. [Rising to his feet] This won't do any longer, Miss Julia. +Somebody might see us. + +JULIA. What would that matter? + +JEAN. Oh, it would set the people talking--that's all! And if you +only knew how their tongues were wagging up there a while ago--- + +JULIA. What did they have to say? Tell me--Sit down now! + +JEAN. [Sits down] I don't want to hurt you, but they were using +expressions--which cast reflections of a kind that--oh, you know it +yourself! You are not a child, and when a lady is seen alone with a +man, drinking--no matter if he's only a servant--and at night---then-- + +JULIA. Then what? And besides, we are not alone. Isn't Christine +with us? + +JEAN. Yes--asleep! + +JULIA. Then I'll wake her. [Rising] Christine, are you asleep? + +CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] Blub-blub-blub-blub! + +JULIA. Christine!--Did you ever see such a sleeper. + +CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] The count's boots are polished--put on +the coffee--yes, yes, yes--my-my--pooh! + +JULIA. [Pinches her nose] Can't you wake up? + +JEAN. [Sternly] You shouldn't bother those that sleep. + +JULIA. [Sharply] What's that? + +JEAN. One who has stood by the stove all day has a right to be +tired at night. And sleep should be respected. + +JULIA. [Changing tone] It is fine to think like that, and it does +you honour--I thank you for it. [Gives JEAN her hand] Come now and +pick some lilacs for me. + +[During the following scene CHRISTINE wakes up. She moves as if +still asleep and goes out to the right in order to go to bed.] + +JEAN. With you, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. With me! + +JEAN. But it won't do! Absolutely not! + +JULIA. I can't understand what you are thinking of. You couldn't +possibly imagine-- + +JEAN. No, not I, but the people. + +JULIA. What? That I am fond of the valet? + +JEAN. I am not at all conceited, but such things have happened--and +to the people nothing is sacred. + +JULIA. You are an aristocrat, I think. + +JEAN. Yes, I am. + +JULIA. And I am stepping down-- + +JEAN. Take my advice, Miss Julia, don't step down. Nobody will +believe you did it on purpose. The people will always say that you +fell down. + +JULIA. I think better of the people than you do. Come and see if I +am not right. Come along! [She ogles him.] + +JEAN. You're mighty queer, do you know! + +JULIA. Perhaps. But so are you. And for that matter, everything is +queer. Life, men, everything--just a mush that floats on top of the +water until it sinks, sinks down! I have a dream that comes back to +me ever so often. And just now I am reminded of it. I have climbed +to the top of a column and sit there without being able to tell how +to get down again. I get dizzy when I look down, and I must get +down, but I haven't the courage to jump off. I cannot hold on, and +I am longing to fall, and yet I don't fall. But there will be no +rest for me until I get down, no rest until I get down, down on the +ground. And if I did reach the ground, I should want to get still +further down, into the ground itself--Have you ever felt like that? + +JEAN. No, my dream is that I am lying under a tall tree in a dark +wood. I want to get up, up to the top, so that I can look out over +the smiling landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that I can +rob the nest in which lie the golden eggs. And I climb and climb, +but the trunk is so thick and smooth, and it is so far to the first +branch. But I know that if I could only reach that first branch, +then I should go right on to the top as on a ladder. I have not +reached it yet, but I am going to, if it only be in my dreams. + +JULIA. Here I am chattering to you about dreams! Come along! Only +into the park! [She offers her arm to him, and they go toward the +door.] + +JEAN. We must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night, Miss Julia--- +then our dreams will come true. + +[They turn around in the doorway, and JEAN puts one hand up to his +eyes.] + +JULIA. Let me see what you have got in your eye. + +JEAN. Oh, nothing--just some dirt--it will soon be gone. + +JULIA. It was my sleeve that rubbed against it. Sit down and let me +help you. [Takes him by the arm and makes him sit down; takes hold +of his head and bends it backwards; tries to get out the dirt with +a corner of her handkerchief] Sit still now, absolutely still! +[Slaps him on the hand] Well, can't you do as I say? I think you +are shaking---a big, strong fellow like you! [Feels his biceps] And +with such arms! + +JEAN. [Ominously] Miss Julia! + +JULIA. Yes, Monsieur Jean. + +JEAN. _Attention! Je ne suis qu'un homme._ + +JULIA. Can't you sit still!--There now! Now it's gone. Kiss my hand +now, and thank me. + +JEAN. [Rising] Miss Julia, listen to me. Christine has gone to bed +now--Won't you listen to me? + +JULIA. Kiss my hand first. + +JEAN. Listen to me! + +JULIA. Kiss my hand first! + +JEAN. All right, but blame nobody but yourself! + +JULIA. For what? + +JEAN. For what? Are you still a mere child at twenty-five? Don't +you know that it is dangerous to play with fire? + +JULIA. Not for me. I am insured. + +JEAN. [Boldly] No, you are not. And even if you were, there are +inflammable surroundings to be counted with. + +JULIA. That's you, I suppose? + +JEAN. Yes. Not because I am I, but because I am a young man-- + +JULIA. Of handsome appearance--what an incredible conceit! A Don +Juan, perhaps. Or a Joseph? On my soul, I think you are a Joseph! + +JEAN. Do you? + +JULIA. I fear it almost. + +[JEAN goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist in order +to kiss her.] + +JULIA. [Gives him a cuff on the ear] Shame! + +JEAN. Was that in play or in earnest? + +JULIA. In earnest. + +JEAN. Then you were in earnest a moment ago also. Your playing is +too serious, and that's the dangerous thing about it. Now I am +tired of playing, and I ask to be excused in order to resume my +work. The count wants his boots to be ready for him, and it is +after midnight already. + +JULIA. Put away the boots. + +JEAN. No, it's my work, which I am bound to do. But I have not +undertaken to be your playmate. It's something I can never become--- +I hold myself too good for it. + +JULIA. You're proud! + +JEAN. In some ways, and not in others. + +JULIA. Have you ever been in love? + +JEAN. We don't use that word. But I have been fond of a lot of +girls, and once I was taken sick because I couldn't have the one I +wanted: sick, you know, like those princes in the Arabian Nights +who cannot eat or drink for sheer love. + +JULIA. Who was it? + +[JEAN remains silent.] + +JULIA. Who was it? + +JEAN. You cannot make me tell you. + +JULIA. If I ask you as an equal, ask you as--a friend: who was it? + +JEAN. It was you. + +JULIA. [Sits down] How funny! + +JEAN. Yes, as you say--it was ludicrous. That was the story, you +see, which I didn't want to tell you a while ago. But now I am +going to tell it. Do you know how the world looks from below--no, +you don't. No more than do hawks and falcons, of whom we never see +the back because they are always floating about high up in the sky. +I lived in the cotter's hovel, together with seven other children, +and a pig--out there on the grey plain, where there isn't a single +tree. But from our windows I could see the wall around the count's +park, and apple-trees above it. That was the Garden of Eden, and +many fierce angels were guarding it with flaming swords. +Nevertheless I and some other boys found our way to the Tree of +Life--now you despise me? + +JULIA. Oh, stealing apples is something all boys do. + +JEAN. You may say so now, but you despise me nevertheless. However--- +once I got into the Garden of Eden with my mother to weed the onion +beds. Near by stood a Turkish pavillion, shaded by trees and +covered with honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for, but I +had never seen a more beautiful building. People went in and came +out again, and one day the door was left wide open. I stole up and +saw the walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and the +windows were hung with red, fringed curtains--now you know what I +mean. I--[breaks off a lilac sprig and holds it under MISS JULIA's +nose]--I had never been inside the manor, and I had never seen +anything but the church--and this was much finer. No matter where +my thoughts ran, they returned always--to that place. And gradually +a longing arose within me to taste the full pleasure of--_enfin_! I +sneaked in, looked and admired. Then I heard somebody coming. There +was only one way out for fine people, but for me there was another, +and I could do nothing else but choose it. + +[JULIA, who has taken the lilac sprig, lets it drop on the table.] + +JEAN. Then I started to run, plunged through a hedge of raspberry +bushes, chased right across a strawberry plantation, and came out +on the terrace where the roses grow. There I caught sight of a pink +dress and pair of white stockings--that was you! I crawled under a +pile of weeds--right into it, you know--into stinging thistles and +wet, ill-smelling dirt. And I saw you walking among the roses, and +I thought: if it be possible for a robber to get into heaven and +dwell with the angels, then it is strange that a cotter's child, +here on God's own earth, cannot get into the park and play with the +count's daughter. + +JULIA. [Sentimentally] Do you think all poor children have the same +thoughts as you had in this case? + +JEAN. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] If _all_ poor--- +yes---of course. Of course! + +JULIA. It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor. + +JEAN. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated +emphasis] Oh, Miss Julia! Oh!--A dog may lie on her ladyship's +sofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the young lady's hand, +but a servant--[changing his tone]--oh well, here and there you +meet one made of different stuff, and he makes a way for himself in +the world, but how often does it happen?--However, do you know what +I did? I jumped into the mill brook with my clothes on, and was +pulled out, and got a licking. But the next Sunday, when my father +and the rest of the people were going over to my grandmother's, I +fixed it so that I could stay at home. And then I washed myself +with soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and went to +church, where I could see you. I did see you, and went home +determined to die. But I wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, +without any pain. And then I recalled that it was dangerous to +sleep under an elder bush. We had a big one that was in full bloom. +I robbed it of all its flowers, and then I put them in the big box +where the oats were kept and lay down in them. Did you ever notice +the smoothness of oats? Soft to the touch as the skin of the human +body! However, I pulled down the lid and closed my eyes--fell +asleep and was waked up a very sick boy. But I didn't die, as you +can see. What I wanted--that's more than I can tell. Of course, +there was not the least hope of winning you---but you symbolised the +hopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which I was +born. + +JULIA. You narrate splendidly, do you know! Did you ever go to +school? + +JEAN. A little. But I have read a lot of novels and gone to the +theatre a good deal. And besides, I have listened to the talk of +better-class people, and from that I have learned most of all. + +JULIA. Do you stand around and listen to what we are saying? + +JEAN. Of course! And I have heard a lot, too, when I was on the box +of the carriage, or rowing the boat. Once I heard you, Miss Julia, +and one of your girl friends-- + +JULIA. Oh!--What was it you heard then? + +JEAN. Well, it wouldn't be easy to repeat. But I was rather +surprised, and I couldn't understand where you had learned all +those words. Perhaps, at bottom, there isn't quite so much +difference as they think between one kind of people and another. + +JULIA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! We don't live as you do +when we are engaged. + +JEAN. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain?--Well, Miss Julia, it +won't pay to make yourself out so very innocent to me--- + +JULIA. The man on whom I bestowed my love was a scoundrel. + +JEAN. That's what you always say--afterwards. + +JULIA. Always? + +JEAN. Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words used +several times before, on similar occasions. + +JULIA. What occasions? + +JEAN. Like the one of which we were speaking. The last time-- + +JULIA. [Rising] Stop! I don't want to hear any more! + +JEAN. Nor did _she_--curiously enough! Well, then I ask permission +to go to bed. + +JULIA. [Gently] Go to bed on Midsummer Eve? + +JEAN. Yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really no +attraction for me. + +JULIA. Get the key to the boat and take me out on the lake--I want +to watch the sunrise. + +JEAN. Would that be wise? + +JULIA. It sounds as if you were afraid of your reputation. + +JEAN. Why not? I don't care to be made ridiculous, and I don't care +to be discharged without a recommendation, for I am trying to get +on in the world. And then I feel myself under a certain obligation +to Christine. + +JULIA. So it's Christine now + +JEAN. Yes, but it's you also--Take my advice and go to bed! + +JULIA. Am I to obey you? + +JEAN. For once--and for your own sake! The night is far gone. +Sleepiness makes us drunk, and the head grows hot. Go to bed! And +besides--if I am not mistaken---I can hear the crowd coming this way +to look for me. And if we are found together here, you are lost! + +CHORUS. [Is heard approaching]: + Through the fields come two ladies a-walking, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + And one has her shoes full of water, + Treederee-derallah-lah. + + They're talking of hundreds of dollars, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + But have not between them a dollar + Treederee-derallah-lah. + + This wreath I give you gladly, + Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. + But love another madly, + Treederee-derallah-lah. + +JULIA. I know the people, and I love them, just as they love me. +Let them come, and you'll see. + +JEAN. No, Miss Julia, they don't love you. They take your food and +spit at your back. Believe me. Listen to me--can't you hear what +they are singing?--No, don't pay any attention to it! + +JULIA. [Listening] What is it they are singing? + +JEAN. Oh, something scurrilous. About you and me. + +JULIA. How infamous! They ought to be ashamed! And the treachery of +it! + +JEAN. The mob is always cowardly. And in such a fight as this there +is nothing to do but to run away. + +JULIA. Run away? Where to? We cannot get out. And we cannot go into +Christine's room. + +JEAN. Oh, we cannot? Well, into my room, then! Necessity knows no +law. And you can trust me, for I am your true and frank and +respectful friend. + +JULIA. But think only-think if they should look for you in there! + +JEAN. I shall bolt the door. And if they try to break it I open, +I'll shoot!--Come! [Kneeling before her] Come! + +JULIA. [Meaningly] And you promise me--? + +JEAN. I swear! + +[MISS JULIA goes quickly out to the right. JEAN follows her +eagerly.] + +*** + +BALLET + +The peasants enter. They are decked out in their best and carry +flowers in their hats. A fiddler leads them. On the table they +place a barrel of small-beer and a keg of "braennvin," or white +Swedish whiskey, both of them decorated with wreathes woven out of +leaves. First they drink. Then they form in ring and sing and dance +to the melody heard before: + + "Through the fields come two ladies a-walking." + +The dance finished, they leave singing. + +*** + +JULIA. [Enters alone. On seeing the disorder in the kitchen, she +claps her hands together. Then she takes out a powder-puff and +begins to powder her face.] + +JEAN. [Enters in a state of exaltation] There you see! And you +heard, didn't you? Do you think it possible to stay here? + +JULIA. No, I don't think so. But what are we to do? + +JEAN. Run away, travel, far away from here. + +JULIA. Travel? Yes-but where? + +JEAN. To Switzerland, the Italian lakes--you have never been there? + +JULIA. No. Is the country beautiful? + +JEAN. Oh! Eternal summer! Orange trees! Laurels! Oh! + +JULIA. But then-what are we to do down there? + +JEAN. I'll start a hotel, everything first class, including the +customers? + +JULIA. Hotel? + +JEAN. That's the life, I tell you! Constantly new faces and new +languages. Never a minute free for nerves or brooding. No trouble +about what to do--for the work is calling to be done: night and +day, bells that ring, trains that whistle, 'busses that come and +go; and gold pieces raining on the counter all the time. That's the +life for you! + +JULIA. Yes, that is life. And I? + +JEAN. The mistress of everything, the chief ornament of the house. +With your looks--and your manners--oh, success will be assured! +Enormous! You'll sit like a queen in the office and keep the slaves +going by the touch of an electric button. The guests will pass in +review before your throne and timidly deposit their treasures on +your table. You cannot imagine how people tremble when a bill is +presented to them--I'll salt the items, and you'll sugar them with +your sweetest smiles. Oh, let us get away from here--[pulling a +time-table from his pocket]--at once, with the next train! We'll be +in Malmoe at 6.30; in Hamburg at 8.40 to-morrow morning; in Frankfort +and Basel a day later. And to reach Como by way of the St. Gotthard +it will take us--let me see--three days. Three days! + +JULIA. All that is all right. But you must give me some courage-- +Jean. Tell me that you love me. Come and take me in your arms. + +JEAN. [Reluctantly] I should like to--but I don't dare. Not in this +house again. I love you--beyond doubt--or, can you doubt it, Miss +Julia? + +JULIA. [With modesty and true womanly feeling] Miss? Call me Julia. +Between us there can be no barriers here after. Call me Julia! + +JEAN. [Disturbed] I cannot! There will be barriers between us as +long as we stay in this house--there is the past, and there is the +count---and I have never met another person for whom I felt such +respect. If I only catch sight of his gloves on a chair I feel +small. If I only hear that bell up there, I jump like a shy horse. +And even now, when I see his boots standing there so stiff and +perky, it is as if something made my back bend. [Kicking at the +boots] It's nothing but superstition and tradition hammered into us +from childhood--but it can be as easily forgotten again. Let us +only get to another country, where they have a republic, and you'll +see them bend their backs double before my liveried porter. You +see, backs have to be bent, but not mine. I wasn't born to that +kind of thing. There's better stuff in me--character--and if I only +get hold of the first branch, you'll see me do some climbing. +To-day I am a valet, but next year I'll be a hotel owner. In ten +years I can live on the money I have made, and then I'll go to +Roumania and get myself an order. And I may--note well that I say +_may_--end my days as a count. + +JULIA. Splendid, splendid! + +JEAN. Yes, in Roumania the title of count can be had for cash, and +so you'll be a countess after all. My countess! + +JULIA. What do I care about all I now cast behind me! Tell me that +you love me: otherwise--yes, what am I otherwise? + +JEAN. I will tell you so a thousand times--later. But not here. And +above all, no sentimentality, or everything will be lost. We must +look at the matter in cold blood, like sensible people. [Takes out +a cigar, cuts of the point, and lights it] Sit down there now, and +I'll sit here, and then we'll talk as if nothing had happened. + +JULIA. [In despair] Good Lord! Have you then no feelings at all? + +JEAN. I? No one is more full of feeling than I am. But I know how +to control myself. + +JULIA. A while ago you kissed my shoe--and now! + +JEAN. [Severely] Yes, that was then. Now we have other things to +think of. + +JULIA. Don't speak harshly to me! + +JEAN. No, but sensibly. One folly has been committed--don't let us +commit any more! The count may be here at any moment, and before he +comes our fate must be settled. What do you think of my plans for +the future? Do you approve of them? + +JULIA. They seem acceptable, on the whole. But there is one +question: a big undertaking of that kind will require a big capital +have you got it? + +JEAN. [Chewing his cigar] I? Of course! I have my expert knowledge, +my vast experience, my familiarity with several languages. That's +the very best kind of capital, I should say. + +JULIA. But it won't buy you a railroad ticket even. + +JEAN. That's true enough. And that is just why I am looking for a +backer to advance the needful cash. + +JULIA. Where could you get one all of a sudden? + +JEAN. It's for you to find him if you want to become my partner. + +JULIA. I cannot do it, and I have nothing myself. [Pause.] + +JEAN. Well, then that's off-- + +JULIA. And--- + +JEAN. Everything remains as before. + +JULIA. Do you think I am going to stay under this roof as your +concubine? Do you think I'll let the people point their fingers at +me? Do you think I can look my father in the face after this? No, +take me away from here, from all this humiliation and disgrace!-- +Oh, what have I done? My God, my God! [Breaks into tears.] + +JEAN. So we have got around to that tune now!--What you have done? +Nothing but what many others have done before you. + +JULIA. [Crying hysterically] And now you're despising me!--I'm +falling, I'm falling! + +JEAN. Fall down to me, and I'll lift you up again afterwards. + +JULIA. What horrible power drew me to you? Was it the attraction +which the strong exercises on the weak--the one who is rising on +one who is falling? Or was it love? This love! Do you know what +love is? + +JEAN. I? Well, I should say so! Don't you think I have been there +before? + +JULIA. Oh, the language you use, and the thoughts you think! + +JEAN. Well, that's the way I was brought up, and that's the way I +am. Don't get nerves now and play the exquisite, for now one of us +is just as good as the other. Look here, my girl, let me treat you +to a glass of something superfine. [He opens the table-drawer, +takes out the wine bottle and fills up two glasses that have +already been used.] + +JULIA. Where did you get that wine? + +JEAN. In the cellar. + +JULIA. My father's Burgundy! + +JEAN. Well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law? + +JULIA. And I am drinking beer--I! + +JEAN. It shows merely that I have better taste than you. + +JULIA. Thief! + +JEAN. Do you mean to tell on me? + +JULIA. Oh, oh! The accomplice of a house thief! Have I been drunk, +or have I been dreaming all this night? Midsummer Eve! The feast of +innocent games--- + +JEAN. Innocent--hm! + +JULIA. [Walking back and forth] Can there be another human being on +earth so unhappy as I am at this moment' + +JEAN. But why should you be? After such a conquest? Think of +Christine in there. Don't you think she has feelings also? + +JULIA. I thought so a while ago, but I don't think so any longer. +No, a menial is a menial-- + +JEAN. And a whore a whore! + +JULIA. [On her knees, with folded hands] O God in heaven, make an +end of this wretched life! Take me out of the filth into which I am +sinking! Save me! Save me! + +JEAN. I cannot deny that I feel sorry for you. When I was lying +among the onions and saw you up there among the roses--I'll tell +you now--I had the same nasty thoughts that all boys have. + +JULIA. And you who wanted to die for my sake! + +JEAN. Among the oats. That was nothing but talk. + +JULIA. Lies in other words! + +JEAN. [Beginning to feel sleepy] Just about. I think I read the +story in a paper, and it was about a chimney-sweep who crawled into +a wood-box full of lilacs because a girl had brought suit against +him for not supporting her kid--- + +JULIA. So that's the sort you are-- + +JEAN. Well, I had to think of something--for it's the high-faluting +stuff that the women bite on. + +JULIA. Scoundrel! + +JEAN. Rot! + +JULIA. And now you have seen the back of the hawk-- + +JEAN. Well, I don't know-- + +JULIA. And I was to be the first branch-- + +JEAN. But the branch was rotten-- + +JULIA. I was to be the sign in front of the hotel-- + +JEAN. And I the hotel-- + +JULIA. Sit at your counter, and lure your customers, and doctor +your bills-- + +JEAN. No, that I should have done myself-- + +JULIA. That a human soul can be so steeped in dirt! + +JEAN. Well, wash it off! + +JULIA. You lackey, you menial, stand up when I talk to you! + +JEAN. You lackey-love, you mistress of a menial--shut up and get +out of here! You're the right one to come and tell me that I am +vulgar. People of my kind would never in their lives act as +vulgarly as you have acted to-night. Do you think any servant girl +would go for a man as you did? Did you ever see a girl of my class +throw herself at anybody in that way? I have never seen the like of +it except among beasts and prostitutes. + +JULIA. [Crushed] That's right: strike me, step on me--I haven't +deserved any better! I am a wretched creature. But help me! Help +me out of this, if there be any way to do so! + +JEAN. [In a milder tone] I don't want to lower myself by a denial +of my share in the honour of seducing. But do you think a person in +my place would have dared to raise his eyes to you, if the +invitation to do so had not come from yourself? I am still sitting +here in a state of utter surprise-- + +JULIA. And pride-- + +JEAN. Yes, why not? Although I must confess that the victory was +too easy to bring with it any real intoxication. + +JULIA. Strike me some more! + +JEAN. [Rising] No! Forgive me instead what I have been saying. I +don't want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. +On one hand I cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover +that what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the +hawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on the +tender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polished +nails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smells +of perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to have discovered +that what I was striving to reach is neither better nor more +genuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far +beneath your own cook--it hurts me as it hurts to see the Fall +flowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud. + +JULIA. You speak as if you were already above me? + +JEAN. Well, so I am. Don't you see: I could have made a countess of +you, but you could never make me a count. + +JULIA. But I am born of a count, and that's more than you can ever +achieve. + +JEAN. That's true. But I might be the father of counts--if-- + +JULIA. But you are a thief--and I am not. + +JEAN. Thief is not the worst. There are other kinds still farther +down. And then, when I serve in a house, I regard myself in a sense +as a member of the family, as a child of the house, and you don't +call it theft when children pick a few of the berries that load +down the vines. [His passion is aroused once more] Miss Julia, you +are a magnificent woman, and far too good for one like me. You were +swept along by a spell of intoxication, and now you want to cover +up your mistake by making yourself believe that you are in love +with me. Well, you are not, unless possibly my looks might tempt +you---in which case your love is no better than mine. I could never +rest satisfied with having you care for nothing in me but the mere +animal, and your love I can never win. + +JULIA. Are you so sure of that? + +JEAN. You mean to say that it might be possible? That I might love +you: yes, without doubt--for you are beautiful, refined, [goes up +to her and takes hold of her hand] educated, charming when you want +to be so, and it is not likely that the flame will ever burn out in +a man who has once been set of fire by you. [Puts his arm around +her waist] You are like burnt wine with strong spices in it, and +one of your kisses-- + +[He tries to lead her away, but she frees herself gently from his +hold.] + +JULIA. Leave me alone! In that way you cannot win me. + +JEAN. How then?--Not in that way! Not by caresses and sweet words! +Not by thought for the future, by escape from disgrace! How then? + +JULIA. How? How? I don't know--Not at all! I hate you as I hate +rats, but I cannot escape from you! + +JEAN. Escape with me! + +JULIA. [Straightening up] Escape? Yes, we must escape!--But I am so +tired. Give me a glass of wine. + +[JEAN pours out wine.] + +JULIA. [Looks at her watch] But we must have a talk first. We have +still some time left. [Empties her glass and holds it out for more.] + +JEAN. Don't drink so much. It will go to your head. + +JULIA. What difference would that make? + +JEAN. What difference would it make? It's vulgar to get drunk--What +was it you wanted to tell me? + +JULIA. We must get away. But first we must have a talk--that is, I +must talk, for so far you have done all the talking. You have told +me about your life. Now I must tell you about mine, so that we know +each other right to the bottom before we begin the journey together. + +JEAN. One moment, pardon me! Think first, so that you don't regret +it afterwards, when you have already given up the secrets of your +life. + +JULIA. Are you not my friend? + +JEAN. Yes, at times--but don't rely on me. + +JULIA. You only talk like that--and besides, my secrets are known +to everybody. You see, my mother was not of noble birth, but came +of quite plain people. She was brought up in the ideas of her time +about equality, and woman's independence, and that kind of thing. +And she had a decided aversion to marriage. Therefore, when my +father proposed to her, she said she wouldn't marry him--and then +she did it just the same. I came into the world--against my +mother's wish, I have come to think. Then my mother wanted to bring +me up in a perfectly natural state, and at the same time I was to +learn everything that a boy is taught, so that I might prove that a +woman is just as good as a man. I was dressed as a boy, and was +taught how to handle a horse, but could have nothing to do with the +cows. I had to groom and harness and go hunting on horseback. I was +even forced to learn something about agriculture. And all over the +estate men were set to do women's work, and women to do men's--with +the result that everything went to pieces and we became the +laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. At last my father must +have recovered from the spell cast over him, for he rebelled, and +everything was changed to suit his own ideas. My mother was taken +sick--what kind of sickness it was I don't know, but she fell often +into convulsions, and she used to hide herself in the garret or in +the garden, and sometimes she stayed out all night. Then came the +big fire, of which you have heard. The house, the stable, and the +barn were burned down, and this under circumstances which made it +look as if the fire had been set on purpose. For the disaster +occurred the day after our insurance expired, and the money sent +for renewal of the policy had been delayed by the messenger's +carelessness, so that it came too late. [She fills her glass again +and drinks.] + +JEAN. Don't drink any more. + +JULIA. Oh, what does it matter!--We were without a roof over our +heads and had to sleep in the carriages. My father didn't know +where to get money for the rebuilding of the house. Then my mother +suggested that he try to borrow from a childhood friend of hers, a +brick manufacturer living not far from here. My father got the +loan, but was not permitted to pay any interest, which astonished +him. And so the house was built up again. [Drinks again] Do you +know who set fire to the house? + +JEAN. Her ladyship, your mother! + +JULIA. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was? + +JEAN. Your mother's lover? + +JULIA. Do you know to whom the money belonged? + +JEAN. Wait a minute--no, that I don't know. + +JULIA. To my mother. + +JEAN. In other words, to the count, if there was no settlement. + +JULIA. There was no settlement. My mother possessed a small fortune +of her own which she did not want to leave in my father's control, +so she invested it with--her friend. + +JEAN. Who copped it. + +JULIA. Exactly! He kept it. All this came to my father's knowledge. +He couldn't bring suit; he couldn't pay his wife's lover; he +couldn't prove that it was his wife's money. That was my mother's +revenge because he had made himself master in his own house. At +that time he came near shooting himself--it was even rumoured that +he had tried and failed. But he took a new lease of life, and my +mother had to pay for what she had done. I can tell you that those +were five years I'll never forget! My sympathies were with my +father, but I took my mother's side because I was not aware of the +true circumstances. From her I learned to suspect and hate men--for +she hated the whole sex, as you have probably heard--and I promised +her on my oath that I would never become a man's slave. + +JEAN. And so you became engaged to the County Attorney. + +JULIA. Yes, in order that he should be my slave. + +JEAN. And he didn't want to? + +JULIA. Oh, he wanted, but I wouldn't let him. I got tired of him. + +JEAN. Yes, I saw it--in the stable-yard. + +JULIA. What did you see? + +JEAN. Just that--how he broke the engagement. + +JULIA. That's a lie! It was I who broke it. Did he say he did it, +the scoundrel? + +JEAN. Oh, he was no scoundrel, I guess. So you hate men, Miss +Julia? + +JULIA. Yes! Most of the time. But now and then--when the weakness +comes over me--oh, what shame! + +JEAN. And you hate me too? + +JULIA. Beyond measure! I should like to kill you like a wild beast-- + +JEAN. As you make haste to shoot a mad dog. Is that right? + +JULIA. That's right! + +JEAN. But now there is nothing to shoot with--and there is no dog. +What are we to do then? + +JULIA. Go abroad. + +JEAN. In order to plague each other to death? + +JULIA. No-in order to enjoy ourselves: a couple of days, a week, as +long as enjoyment is possible. And then--die! + +JEAN. Die? How silly! Then I think it's much better to start a +hotel. + +JULIA. [Without listening to JEAN]--At Lake Como, where the sun is +always shining, and the laurels stand green at Christmas, and the +oranges are glowing. + +JEAN. Lake Como is a rainy hole, and I could see no oranges except +in the groceries. But it is a good place for tourists, as it has a +lot of villas that can be rented to loving couples, and that's a +profitable business--do you know why? Because they take a lease for +six months--and then they leave after three weeks. + +JULIA. [Naively] Why after three weeks? + +JEAN. Because they quarrel, of course. But the rent has to be paid +just the same. And then you can rent the house again. And that way +it goes on all the time, for there is plenty of love--even if it +doesn't last long. + +JULIA. You don't want to die with me? + +JEAN. I don't want to die at all. Both because I am fond of living, +and because I regard suicide as a crime against the Providence +which has bestowed life on us. + +JULIA. Do you mean to say that you believe in God? + +JEAN. Of course, I do. And I go to church every other Sunday. +Frankly speaking, now I am tired of all this, and now I am going to +bed. + +JULIA. So! And you think that will be enough for me? Do you know +what you owe a woman that you have spoiled? + +JEAN. [Takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table] +You're welcome! I don't want to be in anybody's debt. + +JULIA. [Pretending not to notice the insult] Do you know what the +law provides-- + +JEAN. Unfortunately the law provides no punishment for a woman +who seduces a man. + +JULIA. [As before] Can you think of any escape except by our +going abroad and getting married, and then getting a divorce? + +JEAN. Suppose I refuse to enter into this _mesaillance_? + +JULIA. _Mesaillance_-- + +JEAN. Yes, for me. You see, I have better ancestry than you, for +nobody in my family was ever guilty of arson. + +JULIA. How do you know? + +JEAN. Well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep no +Pedigrees--except in the police bureau. But I have read about your +pedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. Do you +know who was your first ancestor? A miller who let his wife sleep +with the king one night during the war with Denmark. I have no such +ancestry. I have none at all, but I can become an ancestor myself. + +JULIA. That's what I get for unburdening my heart to one not worthy +of it; for sacrificing my family's honour-- + +JEAN. Dishonour! Well, what was it I told you? You shouldn't drink, +for then you talk. And you must not talk! + +JULIA. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret it! If at +least you loved me! + +JEAN. For the last time: what do you mean? Am I to weep? Am I to +jump over your whip? Am I to kiss you, and lure you down to Lake +Como for three weeks, and so on? What am I to do? What do you +expect? This is getting to be rather painful! But that's what comes +from getting mixed up with women. Miss Julia! I see that you are +unhappy; I know that you are suffering; but I cannot understand +you. We never carry on like that. There is never any hatred between +us. Love is to us a play, and we play at it when our work leaves us +time to do so. But we have not the time to do so all day and all +night, as you have. I believe you are sick--I am sure you are sick. + +JULIA. You should be good to me--and now you speak like a human +being. + +JEAN. All right, but be human yourself. You spit on me, and then +you won't let me wipe myself--on you! + +JULIA. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do--where I am +to turn? + +JEAN. O Lord, if I only knew that myself! + +JULIA. I have been exasperated, I have been mad, but there ought to +be some way of saving myself. + +JEAN. Stay right here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything. + +JULIA. Impossible! The people know, and Christine knows. + +JEAN. They don't know, and they would never believe it possible. + +JULIA. [Hesitating] But-it might happen again. + +JEAN. That's true. + +JULIA. And the results? + +JEAN. [Frightened] The results! Where was my head when I didn't +think of that! Well, then there is only one thing to do--you must +leave. At once! I can't go with you, for then everything would be +lost, so you must go alone--abroad--anywhere! + +JULIA. Alone? Where?--I can't do it. + +JEAN. You must! And before the count gets back. If you stay, then +you know what will happen. Once on the wrong path, one wants to +keep on, as the harm is done anyhow. Then one grows more and more +reckless--and at last it all comes out. So you must get away! Then +you can write to the count and tell him everything, except that it +was me. And he would never guess it. Nor do I think he would be +very anxious to find out. + +JULIA. I'll go if you come with me. + +JEAN. Are you stark mad, woman? Miss Julia to run away with her +valet! It would be in the papers in another day, and the count +could never survive it. + +JULIA. I can't leave! I can't stay! Help me! I am so tired, so +fearfully tired. Give me orders! Set me going, for I can no longer +think, no longer act--- + +JEAN. Do you see now what good-for-nothings you are! Why do you +strut and turn up your noses as if you were the lords of creation? +Well, I am going to give you orders. Go up and dress. Get some +travelling money, and then come back again. + +JULIA: [In an undertone] Come up with me! + +JEAN. To your room? Now you're crazy again! [Hesitates a moment] +No, you must go at once! [Takes her by the hand and leads her out.] + +JULIA. [On her way out] Can't you speak kindly to me, Jean? + +JEAN. An order must always sound unkind. Now you can find out how +it feels! + +[JULIA goes out.] + +[JEAN, alone, draws a sigh of relief; sits down at the table; takes +out a note-book and a pencil; figures aloud from time to time; dumb +play until CHRISTINE enters dressed for church; she has a false +shirt front and a white tie in one of her hands.] + +CHRISTINE. Goodness gracious, how the place looks! What have you +been up to anyhow? + +JEAN. Oh, it was Miss Julia who dragged in the people. Have you +been sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything at all? + +CHRISTINE. I have been sleeping like a log. + +JEAN. And dressed for church already? + +CHRISTINE. Yes, didn't you promise to come with me to communion +to-day? + +JEAN. Oh, yes, I remember now. And there you've got the finery. +Well, come on with it. [Sits down; CHRISTINE helps him to put on +the shirt front and the white tie.] + +[Pause.] + +JEAN. [Sleepily] What's the text to-day? + +CHRISTINE. Oh, about John the Baptist beheaded, I guess. + +JEAN. That's going to be a long story, I'm sure. My, but you choke +me! Oh, I'm so sleepy, so sleepy! + +CHRISTINE. Well, what has been keeping you up all night? Why, man, +you're just green in the face! + +JEAN. I have been sitting here talking with Miss Julia. + +CHRISTINE. She hasn't an idea of what's proper, that creature! + +[Pause.] + +JEAN. Say, Christine. + +CHRISTINE. Well? + +JEAN. Isn't it funny anyhow, when you come to think of it? Her! + +CHRISTINE. What is it that's funny? + +JEAN. Everything! + +[Pause.] + +CHRISTINE. [Seeing the glasses on the table that are only +half-emptied] So you've been drinking together also? + +JEAN. Yes. + +CHRISTINE. Shame on you! Look me in the eye! + +JEAN. Yes. + +CHRISTINE. Is it possible? Is it possible? + +JEAN. [After a moment's thought] Yes, it is! + +CHRISTINE. Ugh! That's worse than I could ever have believed. It's +awful! + +JEAN. You are not jealous of her, are you? + +CHRISTINE. No, not of her. Had it been Clara or Sophie, then I'd +have scratched your eyes out. Yes, that's the way I feel about it, +and I can't tell why. Oh my, but that was nasty! + +JEAN. Are you mad at her then? + +CHRISTINE. No, but at you! It was wrong of you, very wrong! Poor +girl! No, I tell you, I don't want to stay in this house any +longer, with people for whom it is impossible to have any respect. + +JEAN. Why should you have any respect for them? + +CHRISTINE. And you who are such a smarty can't tell that! You +wouldn't serve people who don't act decently, would you? It's to +lower oneself, I think. + +JEAN. Yes, but it ought to be a consolation to us that they are not +a bit better than we. + +CHRISTINE. No, I don't think so. For if they're no better, then +it's no use trying to get up to them. And just think of the count! +Think of him who has had so much sorrow in his day! No, I don't +want to stay any longer in this house--And with a fellow like you, +too. If it had been the county attorney--if it had only been some +one of her own sort-- + +JEAN. Now look here! + +CHRISTINE. Yes, yes! You're all right in your way, but there's +after all some difference between one kind of people and another--- +No, but this is something I'll never get over!--And the young lady +who was so proud, and so tart to the men, that you couldn't believe +she would ever let one come near her--and such a one at that! And +she who wanted to have poor Diana shot because she had been running +around with the gate-keeper's pug!--Well, I declare!--But I won't +stay here any longer, and next October I get out of here. + +JEAN. And then? + +CHRISTINE. Well, as we've come to talk of that now, perhaps it +would be just as well if you looked for something, seeing that +we're going to get married after all. + +JEAN. Well, what could I look for? As a married man I couldn't get +a place like this. + +CHRISTINE. No, I understand that. But you could get a job as a +janitor, or maybe as a messenger in some government bureau. Of +course, the public loaf is always short in weight, but it comes +steady, and then there is a pension for the widow and the children-- + +JEAN. [Making a face] That's good and well, but it isn't my style +to think of dying all at once for the sake of wife and children. I +must say that my plans have been looking toward something better +than that kind of thing. + +CHRISTINE. Your plans, yes--but you've got obligations also, and +those you had better keep in mind! + +JEAN. Now don't you get my dander up by talking of obligations! I +know what I've got to do anyhow. [Listening for some sound on the +outside] However, we've plenty of time to think of all this. Go in +now and get ready, and then we'll go to church. + +CHRISTINE. Who is walking around up there? + +JEAN. I don't know, unless it be Clara. + +CHRISTINE. [Going out] It can't be the count, do you think, who's +come home without anybody hearing him? + +JEAN. [Scared] The count? No, that isn't possible, for then he +would have rung for me. + +CHRISTINE. [As she goes out] Well, God help us all! Never have I +seen the like of it! + +[The sun has risen and is shining on the tree tops in the park. The +light changes gradually until it comes slantingly in through the +windows. JEAN goes to the door and gives a signal.] + +JULIA. [Enters in travelling dress and carrying a small birdcage +covered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] Now I am +ready. + +JEAN. Hush! Christine is awake. + +JULIA. [Showing extreme nervousness during the following scene] Did +she suspect anything? + +JEAN. She knows nothing at all. But, my heavens, how you look! + +JULIA. How do I look? + +JEAN. You're as pale as a corpse, and--pardon me, but your face is +dirty. + +JULIA. Let me wash it then--Now! [She goes over to the washstand +and washes her face and hands] Give me a towel--Oh!--That's the sun +rising! + +JEAN. And then the ogre bursts. + +JULIA. Yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night!--But listen, +Jean. Come with me, for now I have the money. + +JEAN. [Doubtfully] Enough? + +JULIA. Enough to start with. Come with me, for I cannot travel +alone to-day. Think of it--Midsummer Day, on a stuffy train, jammed +with people who stare at you--and standing still at stations when +you want to fly. No, I cannot! I cannot! And then the memories will +come: childhood memories of Midsummer Days, when the inside of the +church was turned into a green forest--birches and lilacs; the +dinner at the festive table with relatives and friends; the +afternoon in the park, with dancing and music, flowers and games! +Oh, you may run and run, but your memories are in the baggage-car, +and with them remorse and repentance! + +JEAN. I'll go with you-but at once, before it's too late. This very +moment! + +JULIA. Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage.] + +JEAN. But no baggage! That would only give us away. + +JULIA. No, nothing at all! Only what we can take with us in the +car. + +JEAN. [Has taken down his hat] What have you got there? What is it? + +JULIA. It's only my finch. I can't leave it behind. + +JEAN. Did you ever! Dragging a bird-cage along with us! You must be +raving mad! Drop the cage! + +JULIA. The only thing I take with me from my home! The only living +creature that loves me since Diana deserted me! Don't be cruel! Let +me take it along! + +JEAN. Drop the cage, I tell you! And don't talk so loud--Christine +can hear us. + +JULIA. No, I won't let it fall into strange hands. I'd rather have +you kill it! + +JEAN. Well, give it to me, and I'll wring its neck. + +JULIA. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't--no, I cannot! + +JEAN. Let me--I can! + +JULIA. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] Oh, my little +birdie, must it die and go away from its mistress! + +JEAN. Don't make a scene, please. Don't you know it's a question of +your life, of your future? Come, quick! [Snatches the bird away +from her, carries it to the chopping block and picks up an axe. +MISS JULIA turns away.] + +JEAN. You should have learned how to kill chickens instead of +shooting with a revolver--[brings down the axe]--then you wouldn't +have fainted for a drop of blood. + +JULIA. [Screaming] Kill me too! Kill me! You who can take the life +of an innocent creature without turning a hair! Oh, I hate and +despise you! There is blood between us! Cursed be the hour when I +first met you! Cursed be the hour when I came to life in my +mother's womb! + +JEAN. Well, what's the use of all that cursing? Come on! + +JULIA. [Approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it against +her will] No, I don't want to go yet. I cannot---I must see--Hush! +There's a carriage coming up the road. [Listening without taking +her eyes of the block and the axe] You think I cannot stand the +sight of blood. You think I am as weak as that--oh, I should like +to see your blood, your brains, on that block there. I should like +to see your whole sex swimming in blood like that thing there. I +think I could drink out of your skull, and bathe my feet in your +open breast, and eat your heart from the spit!--You think I am +weak; you think I love you because the fruit of my womb was +yearning for your seed; you think I want to carry your offspring +under my heart and nourish it with my blood--bear your children and +take your name! Tell me, you, what are you called anyhow? I have +never heard your family name---and maybe you haven't any. I should +become Mrs. "Hovel," or Mrs. "Backyard"--you dog there, that's +wearing my collar; you lackey with my coat of arms on your buttons-- +and I should share with my cook, and be the rival of my own +servant. Oh! Oh! Oh!--You think I am a coward and want to run away! +No, now I'll stay--and let the lightning strike! My father will +come home--will find his chiffonier opened--the money gone! Then +he'll ring--twice for the valet--and then he'll send for the +sheriff--and then I shall tell everything! Everything! Oh, but it +will be good to get an end to it--if it only be the end! And then +his heart will break, and he dies!--So there will be an end to all +of us--and all will be quiet--peace--eternal rest!--And then the +coat of arms will be shattered on the coffin--and the count's line +will be wiped out--but the lackey's line goes on in the orphan +asylum--wins laurels in the gutter, and ends in jail. + +JEAN. There spoke the royal blood! Bravo, Miss Julia! Now you put +the miller back in his sack! + +[CHRISTINE enters dressed for church and carrying n hymn-book in +her hand.] + +JULIA. [Hurries up to her and throws herself into her arms ax if +seeking protection] Help me, Christine! Help me against this man! + +CHRISTINE. [Unmoved and cold] What kind of performance is this on +the Sabbath morning? [Catches sight of the chopping-block] My, what +a mess you have made!--What's the meaning of all this? And the way +you shout and carry on! + +JULIA. You are a woman, Christine, and you are my friend. Beware of +that scoundrel! + +JEAN. [A little shy and embarrassed] While the ladies are +discussing I'll get myself a shave. [Slinks out to the right.] + +JULIA. You must understand me, and you must listen to me. + +CHRISTINE. No, really, I don't understand this kind of trolloping. +Where are you going in your travelling-dress--and he with his hat +on--what?--What? + +JULIA. Listen, Christine, listen, and I'll tell you everything-- + +CHRISTINE. I don't want to know anything-- + +JULIA. You must listen to me-- + +CHRISTINE. What is it about? Is it about this nonsense with Jean? +Well, I don't care about it at all, for it's none of my business. +But if you're planning to get him away with you, we'll put a stop +to that! + +JULIA. [Extremely nervous] Please try to be quiet, Christine, and +listen to me. I cannot stay here, and Jean cannot stay here--and so +we must leave--- + +CHRISTINE. Hm, hm! + +JULIA. [Brightening. up] But now I have got an idea, you know. +Suppose all three of us should leave--go abroad--go to Switzerland +and start a hotel together--I have money, you know--and Jean and I +could run the whole thing--and you, I thought, could take charge of +the kitchen--Wouldn't that be fine!--Say yes, now! And come along +with us! Then everything is fixed!--Oh, say yes! + +[She puts her arms around CHRISTINE and pats her.] + +CHRISTINE. [Coldly and thoughtfully] Hm, hm! + +JULIA. [Presto tempo] You have never travelled, Christine--you must +get out and have a look at the world. You cannot imagine what fun +it is to travel on a train--constantly new people--new countries--- +and then we get to Hamburg and take in the Zoological Gardens in +passing--that's what you like--and then we go to the theatres and +to the opera--and when we get to Munich, there, you know, we have a +lot of museums, where they keep Rubens and Raphael and all those +big painters, you know--Haven't you heard of Munich, where King +Louis used to live--the king, you know, that went mad--And then +we'll have a look at his castle--he has still some castles that are +furnished just as in a fairy tale--and from there it isn't very far +to Switzerland--and the Alps, you know--just think of the Alps, +with snow on top of them in the middle of the summer--and there you +have orange trees and laurels that are green all the year around-- + +[JEAN is seen in the right wing, sharpening his razor on a strop +which he holds between his teeth and his left hand; he listens to +the talk with a pleased mien and nods approval now and then.] + +JULIA. [Tempo prestissimo] And then we get a hotel--and I sit in +the office, while Jean is outside receiving tourists--and goes out +marketing--and writes letters--That's a life for you--Then the +train whistles, and the 'bus drives up, and it rings upstairs, and +it rings in the restaurant--and then I make out the bills--and I am +going to salt them, too--You can never imagine how timid tourists +are when they come to pay their bills! And you--you will sit like a +queen in the kitchen. Of course, you are not going to stand at the +stove yourself. And you'll have to dress neatly and nicely in order +to show yourself to people--and with your looks--yes, I am not +flattering you--you'll catch a husband some fine day--some rich +Englishman, you know---for those fellows are so easy [slowing down] +to catch--and then we grow rich--and we build us a villa at Lake +Como--of course, it is raining a little in that place now and then--- +but [limply] the sun must be shining sometimes--although it looks +dark--and--then--or else we can go home again--and come back--here--- +or some other place-- + +CHRISTINE. Tell me, Miss Julia, do you believe in all that +yourself? + +JULIA. [Crushed] Do I believe in it myself? + +CHRISTINE. Yes. + +JULIA. [Exhausted] I don't know: I believe no longer in anything. +[She sinks down on the bench and drops her head between her arms on +the table] Nothing! Nothing at all! + +CHRISTINE. [Turns to the right, where JEAN is standing] So you were +going to run away! + +JEAN. [Abashed, puts the razor on the table] Run away? Well, that's +putting it rather strong. You have heard what the young lady +proposes, and though she is tired out now by being up all night, +it's a proposition that can be put through all right. + +CHRISTINE. Now you tell me: did you mean me to act as cook for that +one there--? + +JEAN. [Sharply] Will you please use decent language in speaking to +your mistress! Do you understand? + +CHRISTINE. Mistress! + +JEAN. Yes! + +CHRISTINE. Well, well! Listen to him! + +JEAN. Yes, it would be better for you to listen a little more and +talk a little less. Miss Julia is your mistress, and what makes you +disrespectful to her now should snake you feel the same way about +yourself. + +CHRISTINE. Oh, I have always had enough respect for myself-- + +JEAN. To have none for others! + +CHRISTINE. --not to go below my own station. You can't say that the +count's cook has had anything to do with the groom or the +swineherd. You can't say anything of the kind! + +JEAN. Yes, it's your luck that you have had to do with a gentleman. + +CHRISTINE. Yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the count's +stable! + +JEAN. What's that to you who get a commission on the groceries and +bribes from the butcher? + +CHRISTINE. What's that? + +JEAN. And so you can't respect your master and mistress any longer! +You--you! + +CHRISTINE. Are you coming with me to church? I think you need a +good sermon on top of such a deed. + +JEAN. No, I am not going to church to-day. You can go by yourself +and confess your own deeds. + +CHRISTINE. Yes, I'll do that, and I'll bring back enough +forgiveness to cover you also. The Saviour suffered and died on the +cross for all our sins, and if we go to him with a believing heart +and a repentant mind, he'll take all our guilt on himself. + +JULIA. Do you believe that, Christine? + +CHRISTINE. It is my living belief, as sure as I stand here, and the +faith of my childhood which I have kept since I was young, Miss +Julia. And where sin abounds, grace abounds too. + +JULIA. Oh, if I had your faith! Oh, if--- + +CHRISTINE. Yes, but you don't get it without the special grace of +God, and that is not bestowed on everybody-- + +JULIA. On whom is it bestowed then? + +CHRISTINE. That's just the great secret of the work of grace, Miss +Julia, and the Lord has no regard for persons, but there those that +are last shall be the foremost-- + +JULIA. Yes, but that means he has regard for those that are last. + +CHRISTINE. [Going right on] --and it is easier for a camel to go +through a needle's eye than for a rich man to get into heaven. +That's the way it is, Miss Julia. Now I am going, however---alone--- +and as I pass by, I'll tell the stableman not to let out the horses +if anybody should like to get away before the count comes home. +Good-bye! [Goes out.] + +JEAN. Well, ain't she a devil!--And all this for the sake of a +finch! + +JULIA. [Apathetically] Never mind the finch!--Can you see any way +out of this, any way to end it? + +JEAN. [Ponders] No! + +JULIA. What would you do in my place? + +JEAN. In your place? Let me see. As one of gentle birth, as a +woman, as one who has--fallen. I don't know--yes, I do know! + +JULIA. [Picking up the razor with a significant gesture] Like this? + +JEAN. Yes!--But please observe that I myself wouldn't do it, for +there is a difference between us. + +JULIA. Because you are a man and I a woman? What is the difference? + +JEAN. It is the same--as--that between man and woman. + +JULIA. [With the razor in her hand] I want to, but I cannot!--My +father couldn't either, that time he should have done it. + +JEAN. No, he should not have done it, for he had to get his revenge +first. + +JULIA. And now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself again, +through me. + +JEAN. Have you not loved your father, Miss Julia? + +JULIA. Yes, immensely, but I must have hated him, too. I think I +must have been doing so without being aware of it. But he was the +one who reared me in contempt for my own sex--half woman and half +man! Whose fault is it, this that has happened? My father's--my +mother's--my own? My own? Why, I have nothing that is my own. I +haven't a thought that didn't come from my father; not a passion +that didn't come from my mother; and now this last--this about all +human creatures being equal--I got that from him, my fiance--whom I +call a scoundrel for that reason! How can it be my own fault? To +put the blame on Jesus, as Christine does--no, I am too proud for +that, and know too much--thanks to my father's teachings--And that +about a rich person not getting into heaven, it's just a lie, and +Christine, who has money in the savings-bank, wouldn't get in +anyhow. Whose is the fault?--What does it matter whose it is? For +just the same I am the one who must bear the guilt and the results-- + +JEAN. Yes, but-- + +[Two sharp strokes are rung on the bell. MISS JULIA leaps to her +feet. JEAN changes his coat.] + +JEAN. The count is back. Think if Christine-- [Goes to the +speaking-tube, knocks on it, and listens.] + +JULIA. Now he has been to the chiffonier! + +JEAN. It is Jean, your lordship! [Listening again, the spectators +being unable to hear what the count says] Yes, your lordship! +[Listening] Yes, your lordship! At once! [Listening] In a minute, +your lordship! [Listening] Yes, yes! In half an hour! + +JULIA. [With intense concern] What did he say? Lord Jesus, what did +he say? + +JEAN. He called for his boots and wanted his coffee in half an +hour. + +JULIA. In half an hour then! Oh, I am so tired. I can't do +anything; can't repent, can't run away, can't stay, can't live--- +can't die! Help me now! Command me, and I'll obey you like a dog! +Do me this last favour--save my honour, and save his name! You know +what my will ought to do, and what it cannot do--now give me your +will, and make me do it! + +JEAN. I don't know why--but now I can't either--I don't understand--- +It is just as if this coat here made a--I cannot command you--and +now, since I've heard the count's voice--now--I can't quite explain +it---but--Oh, that damned menial is back in my spine again. I +believe if the count should come down here, and if he should tell +me to cut my own throat--I'd do it on the spot! + +JULIA. Make believe that you are he, and that I am you! You did +some fine acting when you were on your knees before me--then you +were the nobleman--or--have you ever been to a show and seen one +who could hypnotize people? + +[JEAN makes a sign of assent.] + +JULIA. He says to his subject: get the broom. And the man gets it. +He says: sweep. And the man sweeps. + +JEAN. But then the other person must be asleep. + +JULIA. [Ecstatically] I am asleep already--there is nothing in the +whole room but a lot of smoke--and you look like a stove--that +looks like a man in black clothes and a high hat--and your eyes +glow like coals when the fire is going out--and your face is a lump +of white ashes. [The sunlight has reached the floor and is now +falling on JEAN] How warm and nice it is! [She rubs her hands as if +warming them before a fire.] And so light--and so peaceful! + +JEAN. [Takes the razor and puts it in her hand] There's the broom! +Go now, while it is light--to the barn--and-- [Whispers something +in her ear.] + +JULIA. [Awake] Thank you! Now I shall have rest! But tell me first--- +that the foremost also receive the gift of grace. Say it, even if +you don't believe it. + +JEAN. The foremost? No, I can't do that!--But wait--Miss Julia--I +know! You are no longer among the foremost--now when you are among +the--last! + +JULIA. That's right. I am among the last of all: I am the very +last. Oh!--But now I cannot go--Tell me once more that I must go! + +JEAN. No, now I can't do it either. I cannot! + +JULIA. And those that are foremost shall be the last. + +JEAN. Don't think, don't think! Why, you are taking away my +strength, too, so that I become a coward--What? I thought I saw the +bell moving!--To be that scared of a bell! Yes, but it isn't only +the bell--there is somebody behind it--a hand that makes it move--- +and something else that makes the hand move-but if you cover up +your ears--just cover up your ears! Then it rings worse than ever! +Rings and rings, until you answer it--and then it's too late--then +comes the sheriff--and then-- + +[Two quick rings from the bell.] + +JEAN. [Shrinks together; then he straightens himself up] It's +horrid! But there's no other end to it!--Go! + +[JULIA goes firmly out through the door.] + +(Curtain.) + + + + +THE STRONGER + +INTRODUCTION + +Of Strindberg's dramatic works the briefest is "The Stronger." He +called it a "scene." It is a mere incident--what is called a +"sketch" on our vaudeville stage, and what the French so aptly have +named a "quart d'heure." And one of the two figures in the cast +remains silent throughout the action, thus turning the little play +practically into a monologue. Yet it has all the dramatic intensity +which we have come to look upon as one of the main characteristics +of Strindberg's work for the stage. It is quivering with mental +conflict, and because of this conflict human destinies may be seen +to change while we are watching. Three life stories are laid bare +during the few minutes we are listening to the seemingly aimless, +yet so ominous, chatter of _Mrs. X._--and when she sallies forth at +last, triumphant in her sense of possession, we know as much about +her, her husband, and her rival, as if we had been reading a +three-volume novel about them. + +Small as it is, the part of _Mrs. X._ would befit a "star," but an +actress of genius and discernment might prefer the dumb part of +_Miss Y_. One thing is certain: that the latter character has few +equals in its demand on the performer's tact and skill and +imagination. This wordless opponent of _Mrs. X._ is another of +those vampire characters which Strindberg was so fond of drawing, +and it is on her the limelight is directed with merciless +persistency. + +"The Stronger" was first published in 1890, as part of the +collection of miscellaneous writings which their author named +"Things Printed and Unprinted." The present English version was +made by me some years ago--in the summer of 1906--when I first +began to plan a Strindberg edition for this country. At that time +it appeared in the literary supplement of the _New York Evening +Post_. + + + +THE STRONGER +A SCENE +1890 + +PERSONS + +MRS. X., an actress, married. +MISS Y., an actress, unmarried. + + +THE STRONGER + +SCENE + +[A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron, +a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs.] + +[MRS. X. enters dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a +pretty Japanese basket on her arm.] + +[MISS Y. has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she is +reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then she exchanges +it for a new one.] + +MRS. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on Christmas Eve +as lonely as a poor bachelor. + +[MISS Y. looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumes +her reading.] + +MRS. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this--alone--alone in +a restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It makes me as sad +as when I saw a wedding party at Paris once in a restaurant--the +bride was reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiards +with the witnesses. Ugh, when it begins that way, I thought, how +will it end? Think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day! +Yes, and you're going to say that she was reading a comic paper-- +that's a different case, my dear. + +[A WAITRESS brings a cup of chocolate, places it before MRS. X., +and disappears again.] + +MRS. X. [Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays a +number of Christmas presents] See what I've bought for my tots. +[Picks up a doll] What do you think of this? Lisa is to have it. +She can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you see? Fine, is it +not? And here's a cork pistol for Carl. [Loads the pistol and pops +it at Miss Y.] + +[MISS Y. starts as if frightened.] + +MRS. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was going to shoot +you, did you? Really, I didn't think you could believe that of me. +If you were to shoot _me_--well, that wouldn't surprise me the +least. I've got in your way once, and I know you'll never forget +it--but I couldn't help it. You still think I intrigued you away +from the Royal Theatre, and I didn't do anything of the kind-- +although you think so. But it doesn't matter what I say, of course-- +you believe it was I just the same. [Pulls out a pair of embroidered +slippers] Well, these are for my hubby---tulips--I've embroidered +them myself. Hm, I hate tulips--and he must have them on everything. + +[MISS Y. looks up from the paper with an expression of mingled +sarcasm and curiosity.] + +MRS. X. [Puts a hand in each slipper] Just see what small feet Bob +has. See? And you should see him walk--elegant! Of course, you've +never seen him in slippers. + +[MISS Y. laughs aloud.] + +MRS. X. Look here--here he comes. [Makes the slippers walk across +the table.] + +[MISS Y. laughs again.] + +MRS. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this: +"Blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee." Or: "The +idiot--now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again." +Then there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold: +"Gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even know +enough to keep the house warm." [She rubs the sole of one slipper +against the instep of the other.] + +[MISS Y. breaks into prolonged laughter.] + +MRS. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers-- +Mary has pushed them under the bureau. Well, perhaps it is not +right to be making fun of one's own husband. He's pretty good for +all that--a real dear little hubby, that's what he is. You should +have such a husband--what are you laughing at? Can't you tell? +Then, you see, I know he is faithful. Yes, I know, for he has told +me himself--what in the world makes you giggle like that? That +nasty Betty tried to get him away from me while I was on the road--- +can you think of anything more infamous? [Pause] But I'd have +scratched the eyes out of her face, that's what I'd have done if I +had been at home when she tried it. [Pause] I'm glad Bob told me +all about it, so I didn't have to hear it first from somebody else. +[Pause] And just think of it, Betty was not the only one! I don't +know why it is, but all women seem to be crazy after my husband. It +must be because they imagine his government position gives him +something to say about the engagements. Perhaps you've tried it +yourself--you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, I don't +trust you very far--but I know he never cared for you--and then I +have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him. + +[Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed manner.] + +MRS. X. Amelia, spend the evening with us, won't you? Just to show +that you are not angry--not with me, at least. I cannot tell +exactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you--you +for an enemy. Perhaps because I got in your way that time +[rallentando] or--I don't know--really, I don't know at all-- + +[Pause. MISS Y. gazes searchingly at MRS. X.] + +MRS. X. [Thoughtfully] It was so peculiar, the way our acquaintance-- +why, I was afraid of you when I first met you; so afraid that I did +not dare to let you out of sight. It didn't matter where I tried to +go--I always found myself near you. I didn't have the courage to be +your enemy--and so I became your friend. But there was always +something discordant in the air when you called at our home, for I +saw that my husband didn't like you--and it annoyed me just as it +does when a dress won't fit. I tried my very best to make him +appear friendly to you at least, but I couldn't move him--not until +you were engaged. Then you two became such fast friends that it +almost looked as if you had not dared to show your real feelings +before, when it was not safe--and later--let me see, now! I didn't +get jealous--strange, was it not? And I remember the baptism--you +were acting as godmother, and I made him kiss you--and he did, but +both of you looked terribly embarrassed--that is, I didn't think of +it then--or afterwards, even--I never thought of it---till--_now_! +[Rises impulsively] Why don't you say something? You have not +uttered a single word all this time. You've just let me go on +talking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, and your +eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying in me +like silk in a cocoon--thoughts--bad thoughts maybe--let me think. +Why did you break your engagement? Why have you never called on us +afterward? Why don't you want to be with us to-night? + +[MISS Y. makes a motion as if intending to speak.] + +MRS. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All is clear to +me now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes! Everything fits +together now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same table +with you. [Moves her things to another table] That's why I must put +those hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them. +[Throws the slippers on the floor] That's why we have to spend the +summer in the mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell of +the ocean; that's why my boy had to be called Eskil--because that +was your father's name; that's why I had to wear your colour, and +read your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink your +drinks--this chocolate, for instance; that's why--great heavens!-- +it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! Everything was forced +on me by you---even your passions. Your soul bored itself into mine +as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate, and burrowed and +burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a little +black dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You were +always on hand like a snake with your black eyes to charm me--I +felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--I was in the +water, with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my +arms, the further down I went--down, down, till I sank to the +bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with +your claws--and now I'm there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hate +you, hate you! But you, you just sit there, silent and calm and +indifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it's +Christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy. +You are incapable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. As a +cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there!--you can't +drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait +it. Here you sit in this corner--do you know they've nicknamed it +"the mouse-trap" on your account? Here you read the papers to see +if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged +from the theatre. Here you watch your victims and calculate your +chances and take your tributes. Poor Amelia! Do you know, I pity +you all the same, for I know you are unhappy--unhappy as one who +has been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought to +be angry with you, but really I can't--you are so small after all-- +and as to Bob, why that does not bother me in the least. What does +it matter to me anyhow? If you or somebody else taught me to drink +chocolate--what of that? [Takes a spoonful of chocolate; then +sententiously] They say chocolate is very wholesome. And if I have +learned from you how to dress--_tant mieux_!--it has only given me +a stronger hold on my husband--and you have lost where I have +gained. Yes, judging by several signs, I think you have lost him +already. Of course, you meant me to break with him--as you did, and +as you are now regretting--but, you see, _I_ never would do that. +It won't do to be narrow-minded, you know. And why should I take +only what nobody else wants? Perhaps, after all, I am the stronger +now. You never got anything from me; you merely gave--and thus +happened to me what happened to the thief--I had what you missed +when you woke up. How explain in any other way that, in your hand, +everything proved worthless and useless? You were never able to +keep a man's love, in spite of your tulips and your passions--and I +could; you could never learn the art of living from the books--as I +learned it; you bore no little Eskil, although that was your +father's name. And why do you keep silent always and everywhere-- +silent, ever silent? I used to think it was because you were so +strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had anything to +say--because you were unable to-think! [Rises and picks up the +slippers] I'm going home now--I'll take the tulips with me---your +tulips. You couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't bend +and so you broke like a dry stem--and I didn't. Thank you, Amelia, +for all your instructions. I thank you that you have taught me how +to love my husband. Now I'm going home--to him! [Exit.] + +(Curtain.) + + + + +CREDITORS + +INTRODUCTION + +This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at the head +of his dramatic production during the middle ultra-naturalistic +period, the other two being "The Father" and "Miss Julia." It is, +in many ways, one of the strongest he ever produced. Its rarely +excelled unity of construction, its tremendous dramatic tension, +and its wonderful psychological analysis combine to make it a +masterpiece. + +In Swedish its name is "Fordringsaegare." This indefinite form may +be either singular or plural, but it is rarely used except as a +plural. And the play itself makes it perfectly clear that the +proper translation of its title is "Creditors," for under this +aspect appear both the former and the present husband of _Tekla_. +One of the main objects of the play is to reveal her indebtedness +first to one and then to the other of these men, while all the +time she is posing as a person of original gifts. + +I have little doubt that Strindberg, at the time he wrote this +play--and bear in mind that this happened only a year before he +finally decided to free himself from an impossible marriage by an +appeal to the law--believed _Tekla_ to be fairly representative of +womanhood in general. The utter unreasonableness of such a view +need hardly be pointed out, and I shall waste no time on it. A +question more worthy of discussion is whether the figure of _Tekla_ +be true to life merely as the picture of a personality--as one out +of numerous imaginable variations on a type decided not by sex but +by faculties and qualities. And the same question may well be +raised in regard to the two men, both of whom are evidently +intended to win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate stronger +than himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse and +humiliating circumstances. + +Personally, I am inclined to doubt whether a _Tekla_ can be found +in the flesh--and even if found, she might seem too exceptional to +gain acceptance as a real individuality. It must be remembered, +however, that, in spite of his avowed realism, Strindberg did not +draw his men and women in the spirit generally designated as +impressionistic; that is, with the idea that they might step +straight from his pages into life and there win recognition as +human beings of familiar aspect. His realism is always mixed with +idealism; his figures are always "doctored," so to speak. And they +have been thus treated in order to enable their creator to drive +home the particular truth he is just then concerned with. + +Consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what may be +designated as "pure cultures" of certain human qualities. But +these he took great pains to arrange in their proper psychological +settings, for mental and moral qualities, like everything else, +run in groups that are more or less harmonious, if not exactly +homogeneous. The man with a single quality, like Moliere's +_Harpagon_, was much too primitive and crude for Strindberg's art, +as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "Miss Julia." +When he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did it +by setting it in the midst of related qualities of a kind most +likely to be attracted by it. + +_Tekla_ is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally correlated +mental and moral qualities and functions and tendencies--of a +personality built up logically around a dominant central note. +There are within all of us many personalities, some of which +remain for ever potentialities. But it is conceivable that any one +of them, under circumstances different from those in which we have +been living, might have developed into its severely logical +consequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would be +held abnormal if actually encountered. + +This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time and again, +both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as in +his plays. In all of us a _Tekla_, an _Adolph_, a _Gustav_--or a +_Jean_ and a _Miss Julia_--lie more or less dormant. And if we search +our souls unsparingly, I fear the result can only be an admission +that--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we might +have come unpleasantly close to one of those Strindbergian +creatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman. + +Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great Swedish +dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How could it otherwise +happen that so many critics, of such widely differing temperaments, +have recorded identical feelings as springing from a study of his +work: on one side an active resentment, a keen unwillingness to +be interested; on the other, an attraction that would not be denied +in spite of resolute resistance to it! For Strindberg _does_ hold +us, even when we regret his power of doing so. And no one familiar +with the conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such a +paradox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelings +provide us with something that our minds instinctively recognise as +true to life in some way, and for that reason valuable to the art of +living. + +There are so many ways of presenting truth. Strindberg's is only +one of them--and not the one commonly employed nowadays. Its main +fault lies perhaps in being too intellectual, too abstract. For +while Strindberg was intensely emotional, and while this fact +colours all his writings, he could only express himself through +his reason. An emotion that would move another man to murder would +precipitate Strindberg into merciless analysis of his own or +somebody else's mental and moral make-up. At any rate, I do not +proclaim his way of presenting truth as the best one of all +available. But I suspect that this decidedly strange way of +Strindberg's--resulting in such repulsively superior beings as +_Gustav_, or in such grievously inferior ones as _Adolph_--may come +nearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways of much +more plausible writers. This does not need to imply that the +future will imitate Strindberg. But it may ascertain what he aimed +at doing, and then do it with a degree of perfection which he, the +pioneer, could never hope to attain. + + + + +CREDITORS +A TRAGICOMEDY +1889 + + +PERSONS + +TEKLA +ADOLPH, her husband, a painter +GUSTAV, her divorced husband, a high-school teacher (who is +travelling under an assumed name) + + +SCENE + +(A parlor in a summer hotel on the sea-shore. The rear wall has a +door opening on a veranda, beyond which is seen a landscape. To +the right of the door stands a table with newspapers on it. There +is a chair on the left side of the stage. To the right of the +table stands a sofa. A door on the right leads to an adjoining +room.) + + +(ADOLPH and GUSTAV, the latter seated on the sofa by the table to +the right.) + +ADOLPH. [At work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling stand; +his crutches are placed beside him]--and for all this I have to +thank you! + +GUSTAV. [Smoking a cigar] Oh, nonsense! + +ADOLPH. Why, certainly! During the first days after my wife had +gone, I lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but long for her. +It was as if she had taken away my crutches with her, so that I +couldn't move from the spot. When I had slept a couple of days, I +seemed to come to, and began to pull myself together. My head +calmed down after having been working feverishly. Old thoughts +from days gone by bobbed up again. The desire to work and the +instinct for creation came back. My eyes recovered their faculty +of quick and straight vision--and then you showed up. + +GUSTAV. I admit you were in a miserable condition when I first met +you, and you had to use your crutches when you walked, but this is +not to say that my presence has been the cause of your recovery. +You needed a rest, and you had a craving for masculine company. + +ADOLPH. Oh, that's true enough, like everything you say. Once I +used to have men for friends, but I thought them superfluous after +I married, and I felt quite satisfied with the one I had chosen. +Later I was drawn into new circles and made a lot of acquaintances, +but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keep me to herself: +worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends to herself. And so +I was left alone with my own jealousy. + +GUSTAV. Yes, you have a strong tendency toward that kind of +disease. + +ADOLPH. I was afraid of losing her--and I tried to prevent it. +There is nothing strange in that. But I was never afraid that she +might be deceiving me-- + +GUSTAV. No, that's what married men are never afraid of. + +ADOLPH. Yes, isn't it queer? What I really feared was that her +friends would get such an influence over her that they would begin +to exercise some kind of indirect power over me--and _that_ is +something I couldn't bear. + +GUSTAV. So your ideas don't agree--yours and your wife's? + +ADOLPH. Seeing that you have heard so much already, I may as well +tell you everything. My wife has an independent nature--what are +you smiling at? + +GUSTAV. Go on! She has an independent nature-- + +ADOLPH. Which cannot accept anything from me-- + +GUSTAV. But from everybody else. + +ADOLPH. [After a pause] Yes.--And it looked as if she especially +hated my ideas because they were mine, and not because there was +anything wrong about them. For it used to happen quite often that +she advanced ideas that had once been mine, and that she stood up +for them as her own. Yes, it even happened that friends of mine +gave her ideas which they had taken directly from me, and then +they seemed all right. Everything was all right except what came +from me. + +GUSTAV. Which means that you are not entirely happy? + +ADOLPH. Oh yes, I am happy. I have the one I wanted, and I have +never wanted anybody else. + +GUSTAV. And you have never wanted to be free? + +ADOLPH. No, I can't say that I have. Oh, well, sometimes I have +imagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. But the moment +she leaves me, I begin to long for her--long for her as for my own +arms and legs. It is queer that sometimes I have a feeling that +she is nothing in herself, but only a part of myself--an organ +that can take away with it my will, my very desire to live. It +seems almost as if I had deposited with her that centre of +vitality of which the anatomical books tell us. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is just +what has happened. + +ADOLPH. How could it be so? Is she not an independent being, with +thoughts of her own? And when I met her I was nothing--a child of +an artist whom she undertook to educate. + +GUSTAV. But later you developed her thoughts and educated her, +didn't you? + +ADOLPH. No, she stopped growing and I pushed on. + +GUSTAV. Yes, isn't it strange that her "authoring" seemed to fall +off after her first book--or that it failed to improve, at least? +But that first time she had a subject which wrote itself--for I +understand she used her former husband for a model. You never knew +him, did you? They say he was an idiot. + +ADOLPH. I never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time. +But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture of +him. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the picture was correct. + +GUSTAV. I do!--But why did she ever take him? + +ADOLPH. Because she didn't know him well enough. Of course, you +never _do_ get acquainted until afterward! + +GUSTAV. And for that reason one ought not to marry until-- +afterward.--And he was a tyrant, of course? + +ADOLPH. Of course? + +GUSTAV. Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way] And you not +the least. + +ADOLPH. I? Who let my wife come and go as she pleases-- + +GUSTAV. Well, that's nothing. You couldn't lock her up, could you? +But do you like her to stay away whole nights? + +ADOLPH. No, really, I don't. + +GUSTAV. There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to tell the +truth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it. + +ADOLPH. Ridiculous? Can a man be ridiculous because he trusts his +wife? + +GUSTAV. Of course he can. And it's just what you are already--and +thoroughly at that! + +ADOLPH. [Convulsively] I! It's what I dread most of all--and +there's going to be a change. + +GUSTAV. Don't get excited now--or you'll have another attack. + +ADOLPH. But why isn't she ridiculous when I stay out all night? + +GUSTAV. Yes, why? Well, it's nothing that concerns you, but that's +the way it is. And while you are trying to figure out why, the +mishap has already occurred. + +ADOLPH. What mishap? + +GUSTAV. However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took him +only to get her freedom. You see, a girl cannot have freedom +except by providing herself with a chaperon--or what we call a +husband. + +ADOLPH. Of course not. + +GUSTAV. And now you are the chaperon. + +ADOLPH. I? + +GUSTAV. Since you are her husband. + +(ADOLPH keeps a preoccupied silence.) + +GUSTAV. Am I not right? + +ADOLPH. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman for years, +and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, +and then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--Gustav, you +are my friend. The only male friend I have. During this last week +you have given me courage to live again. It is as if your own +magnetism had been poured into me. Like a watchmaker, you have +fixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again. Can't +you hear, yourself, how I think more clearly and speak more to the +point? And to myself at least it seems as if my voice had +recovered its ring. + +GUSTAV. So it seems to me also. And why is that? + +ADOLPH. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower your +voice in talking to women. I know at least that Tekla always used +to accuse me of shouting. + +GUSTAV. And so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule of +the slipper? + +ADOLPH. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After some +reflection] I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk of +something else!--What was I saying?--Yes, you came here, and you +enabled me to see my art in its true light. Of course, for some +time I had noticed my growing lack of interest in painting, as it +didn't seem to offer me the proper medium for the expression of +what I wanted to bring out. But when you explained all this to me, +and made it clear why painting must fail as a timely outlet for +the creative instinct, then I saw the light at last--and I +realised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to express +myself by means of colour only. + +GUSTAV. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting-- +that you may not have a relapse? + +ADOLPH. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself. When I went to +bed that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argument point by +point, and I knew you had it right. But when I woke up from a good +night's sleep and my head was clear again, then it came over me in +a flash that you might be mistaken after all. And I jumped out of +bed and got hold of my brushes and paints--but it was no use! +Every trace of illusion was gone--it was nothing but smears of +paint, and I quaked at the thought of having believed, and having +made others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but a +painted canvas. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and it was just +as impossible for me to paint any more as it was to become a child +again. + +GUSTAV. And then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, +its craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find its +proper form in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in all +three dimensions-- + +ADOLPH. [Vaguely] The three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word! + +GUSTAV. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or rather, you +have been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothing +was needed but a guide to put you on the right road--Tell me, do +you experience supreme joy now when you are at work? + +ADOLPH. Now I am living! + +GUSTAV. May I see what you are doing? + +ADOLPH. A female figure. + +GUSTAV. Without a model? And so lifelike at that! + +ADOLPH. [Apathetically] Yes, but it resembles somebody. It is +remarkable that this woman seems to have become a part of my body +as I of hers. + +GUSTAV. Well, that's not so very remarkable. Do you know what +transfusion is? + +ADOLPH. Of blood? Yes. + +GUSTAV. And you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. When +I look at the figure here I comprehend several things which I +merely guessed before. You have loved her tremendously! + +ADOLPH. Yes, to such an extent that I couldn't tell whether she +was I or I she. When she is smiling, I smile also. When she is +weeping, I weep. And when she--can you imagine anything like it?-- +when she was giving life to our child--I felt the birth pangs +within myself. + +GUSTAV. Do you know, my dear friend--I hate to speak of it, but +you are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy. + +ADOLPH. [Agitated] I! How can you tell? + +GUSTAV. Because I have watched the symptoms in a younger brother +of mine who had been worshipping Venus a little too excessively. + +ADOLPH. How--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of? + +[During the following passage GUSTAV speaks with great animation, +and ADOLPH listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitates +many of GUSTAV'S gestures.] + +GUSTAV. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strong +enough I won't inflict a description of it on you. + +ADOLPH. [Nervously] Yes, go right on--just go on! + +GUSTAV. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent little +creature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face of +a child and the pure soul of an angel. But nevertheless she +managed to usurp the male prerogative-- + +ADOLPH. What is that? + +GUSTAV. Initiative, of course. And with the result that the angel +nearly carried him off to heaven. But first he had to be put on +the cross and made to feel the nails in his flesh. It was +horrible! + +ADOLPH. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened? + +GUSTAV. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting together +talking, he and I--and when I had been speaking for a while his +face would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs would grow +stiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the palms of his +hands--like this. [He illustrates the movement and it is imitated +by ADOLPH] Then his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to chew-- +like this. [He chews, and again ADOLPH imitates him] The saliva +was rattling in his throat. His chest was squeezed together as if +it had been closed in a vice. The pupils of his eyes flickered +like gas-jets. His tongue beat the saliva into a lather, and he +sank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he were +drowning. And then-- + +ADOLPH. [In a whisper] Stop now! + +GUSTAV. And then--Are you not feeling well? + +ADOLPH. No. + +GUSTAV. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now. And +we'll talk of something else. + +ADOLPH. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on! + +GUSTAV. Well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything at +all. He had simply lost consciousness. Has that ever happened to +you? + +ADOLPH. Yes, I have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but my +physician says it's only anaemia. + +GUSTAV. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But, believe +me, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself. + +ADOLPH. What can I do? + +GUSTAV. To begin with, you will have to observe complete +abstinence. + +ADOLPH. For how long? + +GUSTAV. For half a year at least. + +ADOLPH. I cannot do it. That would upset our married life. + +GUSTAV. Good-bye to you then! + +ADOLPH. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it! + +GUSTAV. Can you not save your own life?--But tell me, as you have +already given me so much of your confidence--is there no other +canker, no secret wound, that troubles you? For it is very rare to +find only one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety and +so fruitful in chances for false relationships. Is there not a +corpse in your cargo that you are trying to hide from yourself?-- +For instance, you said a minute ago that you have a child which +has been left in other people's care. Why don't you keep it with +you? + +ADOLPH. My wife doesn't want us to do so. + +GUSTAV. And her reason? Speak up now! + +ADOLPH. Because, when it was about three years old, it began to +look like him, her former husband. + +GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband? + +ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poor +portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightest +resemblance. + +GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, +he might have changed considerably since it was made. However, I +hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you? + +ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage, +and the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happened +right here, in this very house even, and that's why we come here +every summer. + +GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And you +wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the +children of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to her +dead husband. It is annoying, of course, and that's why they used +to burn all widows in India, as you know.--But tell me: have you +ever felt jealous of him--of his memory? Would it not sicken you +to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your Tekla, +use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We! + +ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that very +thought. + +GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There are +discords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. For +this reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. If +you work, and grow old, and pile masses of new impressions on the +hatches, then the corpse will stay quiet in the hold. + +ADOLPH. Pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful how +you resemble Tekla now and then while you are talking. You have a +way of blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, and +your eyes have the same influence on me as hers have at times. + +GUSTAV. No, really? + +ADOLPH. And now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferent +way that she does. She also has the habit of saying "no, really" +quite often. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all human +beings are said to be of one family. At any rate, it will be +interesting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if what you +say is true. + +ADOLPH. And do you know, she never takes an expression from me. +She seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and I have never caught +her using any of my gestures. And yet people as a rule develop +what is called "marital resemblance." + +GUSTAV. And do you know why this has not happened in your case?-- +That woman has never loved you. + +ADOLPH. What do you mean? + +GUSTAV. I hope you will excuse what I am saying--but woman's love +consists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takes +nothing does not have her love. She has never loved you! + +ADOLPH. Don't you think her capable of loving more than once? + +GUSTAV. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once. Then our +eyes are opened once for all. You have never been deceived, and so +you had better beware of those that have. They are dangerous, I +tell you. + +ADOLPH. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I fool as if +something were being severed within me, but I cannot help it. And +this cutting brings a certain relief, too. For it means the +pricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen.--She has never +loved me!--Why, then, did she ever take me? + +GUSTAV. Tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it was +you who took her or she who took you? + +ADOLPH. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all!--How did it +happen? Well, it didn't come about in one day. + +GUSTAV. Would you like to have me tell you how it did happen? + +ADOLPH. That's more than you can do. + +GUSTAV. Oh, by using the information about yourself and your wife +that you have given me, I think I can reconstruct the whole event. +Listen now, and you'll hear. [In a dispassionate tone, almost +humorously] The husband had gone abroad to study, and she was +alone. At first her freedom seemed rather pleasant. Then came a +sense of vacancy, for I presume she was pretty empty when she had +lived by herself for a fortnight. Then _he_ appeared, and by and by +the vacancy was filled up. By comparison the absent one seemed to +fade out, and for the simple reason that he was at a distance--you +know the law about the square of the distance? But when they felt +their passions stirring, then came fear--of themselves, of their +consciences, of him. For protection they played brother and +sister. And the more their feelings smacked of the flesh, the more +they tried to make their relationship appear spiritual. + +ADOLPH. Brother and sister? How could you know that? + +GUSTAV. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing papa +and mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--in +order to hide what should be hidden!--And then they took the vow +of chastity--and then they played hide-and-seek--until they got +in a dark corner where they were sure of not being seen by +anybody. [With mock severity] But they felt that there was _one_ +whose eye reached them in the darkness--and they grew frightened-- +and their fright raised the spectre of the absent one--his figure +began to assume immense proportions--it became metamorphosed: +turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous slumbers; a +creditor who knocked at all doors. Then they saw his black hand +between their own as these sneaked toward each other across the +table; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness of +the night that should have been broken only by the beating of +their own pulses. He did not prevent them from possessing each +other but he spoiled their happiness. And when they became aware +of his invisible interference with their happiness; when they took +flight at last--a vain flight from the memories that pursued them, +from the liability they had left behind, from the public opinion +they could not face--and when they found themselves without the +strength needed to carry their own guilt, then they had to send +out into the fields for a scapegoat to be sacrificed. They were +free-thinkers, but they did not have the courage to step forward +and speak openly to him the words: "We love each other!" To sum it +up, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. Is +that right? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled +my head with new thoughts-- + +GUSTAV. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could she not +educate the other man also--into a free-thinker? + +ADOLPH. Oh, he was an idiot! + +GUSTAV. Oh, of course--he was an idiot! But that's rather an +ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems +mainly to have consisted in failure to understand her. Pardon me a +question: but is your wife so very profound after all? I have +discovered nothing profound in her writings. + +ADOLPH. Neither have I.--But then I have also to confess a certain +difficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs of our brain +wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went to +pieces in my head when I try to comprehend her. + +GUSTAV. Maybe you are an idiot, too? + +ADOLPH. I don't _think_ so! And it seems to me all the time as if +she were in the wrong--Would you care to read this letter, for +instance, which I got today? + +[Takes out a letter from his pocket-book.] + +GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwriting seems +strangely familiar. + +ADOLPH. Rather masculine, don't you think? + +GUSTAV. Well, I know at least _one_ man who writes that kind of +hand--She addresses you as "brother." Are you still playing +comedy to each other? And do you never permit yourselves any +greater familiarity in speaking to each other? + +ADOLPH. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that +way. + +GUSTAV. And is it to make you respect her that she calls herself +your sister? + +ADOLPH. I want to respect her more than myself. I want her to be +the better part of my own self. + +GUSTAV. Why don't you be that better part yourself? Would it be +less convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? Do +you want to place yourself beneath your wife? + +ADOLPH. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to +her. I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoy +hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. +To begin with, I merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order +to raise her courage. And so it ended with my actually being her +inferior, more of a coward than she. It almost seemed to me as if +she had actually taken my courage away from me. + +GUSTAV. Have you taught her anything else? + +ADOLPH. Yes--but it must stay between us--I have taught her how to +spell, which she didn't know before. But now, listen: when she +took charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of the +habit of writing. And think of it: as the years passed on, lack of +practice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar. But +do you think she recalls that I was the one who taught her at the +start? No--and so I am "the idiot," of course. + +GUSTAV. So you _are_ an idiot already? + +ADOLPH. Oh, it's just a joke, of course! + +GUSTAV. Of course! But this is clear cannibalism, I think. Do you +know what's behind that sort of practice? The savages eat their +enemies in order to acquire their useful qualities. And this woman +has been eating your soul, your courage, your knowledge-- + +ADOLPH. And my faith! It was I who urged her to write her first +book-- + +GUSTAV. [Making a face] Oh-h-h! + +ADOLPH. It was I who praised her, even when I found her stuff +rather poor. It was I who brought her into literary circles where +she could gather honey from our most ornamental literary flowers. +It was I who used my personal influence to keep the critics from +her throat. It was I who blew her faith in herself into flame; +blew on it until I lost my own breath. I gave, gave, gave--until I +had nothing left for myself. Do you know--I'll tell you everything +now--do you know I really believe--and the human soul is so +peculiarly constituted--I believe that when my artistic successes +seemed about to put her in the shadow--as well as her reputation-- +then I tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and by +making my own art seem inferior to hers. I talked so long about +the insignificant part played by painting on the whole--talked so +long about it, and invented so many reasons to prove what I said, +that one fine day I found myself convinced of its futility. So all +you had to do was to breathe on a house of cards. + +GUSTAV. Pardon me for recalling what you said at the beginning of +our talk--that she had never taken anything from you. + +ADOLPH. She doesn't nowadays. Because there is nothing more to +take. + +GUSTAV. The snake being full, it vomits now. + +ADOLPH. Perhaps she has been taking a good deal more from me than +I have been aware of? + +GUSTAV. You can be sure of that. She took when you were not +looking, and that is called theft. + +ADOLPH. Perhaps she never did educate me? + +GUSTAV. But you her? In all likelihood! But it was her trick to +make it appear the other way to you. May I ask how she set about +educating you? + +ADOLPH. Oh, first of all--hm! + +GUSTAV. Well? + +ADOLPH. Well, I-- + +GUSTAV. No, we were speaking of her. + +ADOLPH. Really, I cannot tell now. + +GUSTAV. Do you see! + +ADOLPH. However--she devoured my faith also, and so I sank further +and further down, until you came along and gave me a new faith. + +GUSTAV. [Smiling] In sculpture? + +ADOLPH. [Doubtfully] Yes. + +GUSTAV. And have you really faith in it? In this abstract, +antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of civilisation? +Do you believe that you can obtain your effect by pure form--by +the three dimensions--tell me? That you can reach the practical +mind of our own day, and convey an illusion to it, without the use +of colour--without colour, mind you--do you really believe that? + +ADOLPH. [Crushed] No! + +GUSTAV. Well, I don't either. + +ADOLPH. Why, then, did you say you did? + +GUSTAV. Because I pitied you. + +ADOLPH. Yes, I am to be pitied! For now I am bankrupt! Finished!-- +And worst of all: not even she is left to me! + +GUSTAV. Well, what could you do with her? + +ADOLPH. Oh, she would be to me what God was before I became an +atheist: an object that might help me to exercise my sense of +veneration. + +GUSTAV. Bury your sense of veneration and let something else grow +on top of it. A little wholesome scorn, for instance. + +ADOLPH. I cannot live without having something to respect-- + +GUSTAV. Slave! + +ADOLPH.--without a woman to respect and worship! + +GUSTAV. Oh, HELL! Then you had better take back your God--if you +needs must have something to kow-tow to! You're a fine atheist, +with all that superstition about woman still in you! You're a fine +free-thinker, who dare not think freely about the dear ladies! Do +you know what that incomprehensible, sphinx-like, profound +something in your wife really is? It is sheer stupidity!--Look +here: she cannot even distinguish between th and t. And that, you +know, means there is something wrong with the mechanism. When you +look at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the works +inside are those of an ordinary cheap watch.--Nothing but the +skirts-that's all! Put trousers on her, give her a pair of +moustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober look at +her, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find the +instrument has another sound to it. A phonograph, and nothing +else--giving yon back your own words, or those of other people-- +and always in diluted form. Have you ever looked at a naked woman-- +oh yes, yes, of course! A youth with over-developed breasts; an +under-developed man; a child that has shot up to full height and +then stopped growing in other respects; one who is chronically +anaemic: what can you expect of such a creature? + +ADOLPH. Supposing all that to be true--how can it be possible that +I still think her my equal? + +GUSTAV. Hallucination--the hypnotising power of skirts! Or--the +two of you may actually have become equals. The levelling process +has been finished. Her capillarity has brought the water in both +tubes to the same height.--Tell me [taking out his watch]: our +talk has now lasted six hours, and your wife ought soon to be +here. Don't you think we had better stop, so that you can get a +rest? + +ADOLPH. No, don't leave me! I don't dare to be alone! + +GUSTAV. Oh, for a little while only--and then the lady will come. + +ADOLPH. Yes, she is coming!--It's all so queer! I long for her, +but I am afraid of her. She pets me, she is tender to me, but +there is suffocation in her kisses--something that pulls and +numbs. And I feel like a circus child that is being pinched by the +clown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when it appears +before the public. + +GUSTAV. I feel very sorry for you, my friend. Without being a +physician, I can tell that you are a dying man. It is enough to +look at your latest pictures in order to see that. + +ADOLPH. You think so? How can you see it? + +GUSTAV. Your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that the +cadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. And it impresses +me as if your own hollow, putty-coloured checks were showing +beneath-- + +ADOLPH. Oh, stop, stop! + +GUSTAV. Well, this is not only my personal opinion. Have you read +to-day's paper? + +ADOLPH. [Shrinking] No! + +GUSTAV. It's on the table here. + +ADOLPH. [Reaching for the paper without daring to take hold of it] +Do they speak of it there? + +GUSTAV. Read it--or do you want me to read it to you? + +ADOLPH. No! + +GUSTAV. I'll leave you, if you want me to. + +ADOLPH. No, no, no!--I don't know--it seems as if I were beginning +to hate you, and yet I cannot let you go.--You drag me out of the +hole into which I have fallen, but no sooner do you get me on firm +ice, than you knock me on the head and shove me into the water +again. As long as my secrets were my own, I had still something +left within me, but now I am quite empty. There is a canvas by an +Italian master, showing a scene of torture--a saint whose +intestines are being torn out of him and rolled on the axle of a +windlass. The martyr is watching himself grow thinner and thinner, +while the roll on the axle grows thicker.--Now it seems to me as +if you had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when you +leave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing but +an empty shell behind. + +GUSTAV. How you do let your fancy run away with you!--And +besides, your wife is bringing back your heart. + +ADOLPH. No, not since you have burned her to ashes. Everything is +in ashes where you have passed along: my art, my love, my hope, my +faith! + +GUSTAV. All of it was pretty nearly finished before I came along. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but it might have been saved. Now it's too late-- +incendiary! + +GUSTAV. We have cleared some ground only. Now we'll sow in the +ashes. + +ADOLPH. I hate you! I curse you! + +GUSTAV. Good symptoms! There is still some strength left in you. +And now I'll pull you up on the ice again. Listen now! Do you want +to listen to me, and do you want to obey me? + +ADOLPH. Do with me what you will--I'll obey you! + +GUSTAV. [Rising] Look at me! + +ADOLPH. [Looking at GUSTAV] Now you are looking at me again with +that other pair of eyes which attracts me. + +GUSTAV. And listen to me! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't talk of me any longer: I +am like an open wound and cannot bear being touched. + +GUSTAV. No, there is nothing to say about me. I am a teacher of +dead languages, and a widower--that's all! Take my hand. + +ADOLPH. What terrible power there must be in you! It feels as if I +were touching an electrical generator. + +GUSTAV. And bear in mind that I have been as weak as you are now.-- +Stand up! + +ADOLPH. [Rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throwing +his arms around the neck of GUSTAV] I am like a boneless baby, and +my brain seems to lie bare. + +GUSTAV. Take a turn across the floor! + +ADOLPH. I cannot! + +GUSTAV. Do what I say, or I'll strike you! + +ADOLPH. [Straightening himself up] What are you saying? + +GUSTAV. I'll strike you, I said. + +ADOLPH. [Leaping backward in a rage] You! + +GUSTAV. That's it! Now you have got the blood into your head, and +your self-assurance is awake. And now I'll give you some +electriticy: where is your wife? + +ADOLPH. Where is she? + +GUSTAV. Yes. + +ADOLPH. She is--at--a meeting. + +GUSTAV. Sure? + +ADOLPH. Absolutely! + +GUSTAV. What kind of meeting? + +ADOLPH. Oh, something relating to an orphan asylum. + +GUSTAV. Did you part as friends? + +ADOLPH. [With some hesitation] Not as friends. + +GUSTAV. As enemies then!--What did you say that provoked her? + +ADOLPH. You are terrible. I am afraid of you. How could you know? + +GUSTAV. It's very simple: I possess three known factors, and with +their help I figure out the unknown one. What did you say to her? + +ADOLPH. I said--two words only, but they were dreadful, and I +regret them--regret them very much. + +GUSTAV. Don't do it! Tell me now? + +ADOLPH. I said: "Old flirt!" + +GUSTAV. What more did you say? + +ADOLPH. Nothing at all. + +GUSTAV. Yes, you did, but you have forgotten it--perhaps because +you don't dare remember it. You have put it away in a secret +drawer, but you have got to open it now! + +ADOLPH. I can't remember! + +GUSTAV. But I know. This is what you said: "You ought to be +ashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any more lovers!" + +ADOLPH. Did I say that? I must have said it!--But how can you know +that I did? + +GUSTAV. I heard her tell the story on board the boat as I came +here. + +ADOLPH. To whom? + +GUSTAV. To four young men who formed her company. She is already +developing a taste for chaste young men, just like-- + +ADOLPH. But there is nothing wrong in that? + +GUSTAV. No more than in playing brother and sister when you are +papa and mamma. + +ADOLPH. So you have seen her then? + +GUSTAV. Yes, I have. But you have never seen her when you didn't-- +I mean, when you were not present. And there's the reason, you +see, why a husband can never really know his wife. Have you a +portrait of her? + +(Adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. There is a look of +aroused curiosity on his face.) + +GUSTAV. You were not present when this was taken? + +ADOLPH. No. + +GUSTAV. Look at it. Does it bear much resemblance to the portrait +you painted of her? Hardly any! The features are the same, but the +expression is quite different. But you don't see this, because +your own picture of her creeps in between your eyes and this one. +Look at it now as a painter, without giving a thought to the +original. What does it represent? Nothing, so far as I can see, +but an affected coquette inviting somebody to come and play with +her. Do you notice this cynical line around the mouth which you +are never allowed to see? Can you see that her eyes are seeking +out some man who is not you? Do you observe that her dress is cut +low at the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, that +her sleeve has managed to slip back from her arm? Can you see? + +ADOLPH. Yes--now I see. + +GUSTAV. Look out, my boy! + +ADOLPH. For what? + +GUSTAV. For her revenge! Bear in mind that when you said she could +not attract a man, you struck at what to her is most sacred--the +one thing above all others. If you had told her that she wrote +nothing but nonsense, she would have laughed at your poor taste. +But as it is--believe me, it will not be her fault if her desire +for revenge has not already been satisfied. + +ADOLPH. I must know if it is so! + +GUSTAV. Find out! + +ADOLPH. Find out? + +GUSTAV. Watch--I'll assist you, if you want me to. + +ADOLPH. As I am to die anyhow--it may as well come first as last! +What am I to do? + +GUSTAV. First of all a piece of information: has your wife any +vulnerable point? + +ADOLPH. Hardly! I think she must have nine lives, like a cat. + +GUSTAV. There--that was the boat whistling at the landing--now +she'll soon be here. + +ADOLPH. Then I must go down and meet her. + +GUSTAV. No, you are to stay here. You have to be impolite. If +her conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your ears tingle. +If she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you. + +ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? + +GUSTAV. Not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn and run in +loops, but I'll follow. My room is nest to this. [He points to the +door on the right] There I shall take up my position and watch you +while you are playing the game in here. But when you are done, +we'll change parts: I'll enter the cage and do tricks with the +snake while you stick to the key-hole. Then we meet in the park to +compare notes. But keep your back stiff. And if you feel yourself +weakening, knock twice on the floor with a chair. + +ADOLPH. All right!--But don't go away. I must be sure that you are +in the next room. + +GUSTAV. You can be quite sure of that. But don't get scared +afterward, when you watch me dissecting a human soul and laying +out its various parts on the table. They say it is rather hard on +a beginner, but once you have seen it done, you never want to miss +it.--And be sure to remember one thing: not a word about having +met me, or having made any new acquaintance whatever while she was +away. Not one word! And I'll discover her weak point by myself. +Hush, she has arrived--she is in her room now. She's humming to +herself. That means she is in a rage!--Now, straight in the back, +please! And sit down on that chair over there, so that she has to +sit here--then I can watch both of you at the same time. + +ADOLPH. It's only fifteen minutes to dinner--and no new guests +have arrived--for I haven't heard the bell ring. That means we +shall be by ourselves--worse luck! + +GUSTAV. Are you weak? + +ADOLPH. I am nothing at all!--Yes, I am afraid of what is now +coming! But I cannot keep it from coming! The stone has been set +rolling--and it was not the first drop of water that started it-- +nor wad it the last one--but all of them together. + +GUSTAV. Let it roll then--for peace will come in no other way. +Good-bye for a while now! [Goes out] + +(ADOLPH nods back at him. Until then he has been standing with the +photograph in his hand. Now he tears it up and flings the pieces +under the table. Then he sits down on a chair, pulls nervously at +his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, crumples his coat +lapel, and so on.) + +TEKLA. [Enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss; her +manner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] Hello, little +brother! How is he getting on? + +ADOLPH. [Almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if in jest] +What mischief have you been up to now that makes you come and kiss +me? + +TEKLA. I'll tell you: I've spent an awful lot of money. + +ADOLPH. You have had a good time then? + +TEKLA. Very! But not exactly at that creche meeting. That was +plain piffle, to tell the truth.--But what has little brother +found to divert himself with while his Pussy was away? + +(Her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking for +somebody or sniffing something.) + +ADOLPH. I've simply been bored. + +TEKLA. And no company at all? + +ADOLPH. Quite by myself. + +TEKLA. [Watching him; she sits down on the sofa] Who has been +sitting here? ADOLPH. Over there? Nobody. + +TEKLA. That's funny! The seat is still warm, and there is a hollow +here that looks as if it had been made by an elbow. Have you had +lady callers? + +ADOLPH. I? You don't believe it, do you? + +TEKLA. But you blush. I think little brother is not telling the +truth. Come and tell Pussy now what he has on his conscience. + +(Draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his head +resting in her lap.) + +ADOLPH. You're a little devil--do you know that? + +TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all about myself. + +ADOLPH. You never think about yourself, do you? + +TEKLA. [Sniffing and taking notes] I think of nothing but myself-- +I am a dreadful egoist. But what has made you turn so philosophical +all at once? + +ADOLPH. Put your hand on my forehead. + +TEKLA. [Prattling as if to a baby] Has he got ants in his head +again? Does he want me to take them away, does he? [Kisses him on +the forehead] There now! Is it all right now? + +ADOLPH. Now it's all right. [Pause] + +TEKLA. Well, tell me now what you have been doing to make the time +go? Have you painted anything? + +ADOLPH. No, I am done with painting. + +TEKLA. What? Done with painting? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but don't scold me for it. How can I help it that I +can't paint any longer! + +TEKLA. What do you mean to do then? + +ADOLPH. I'll become a sculptor. + +TEKLA. What a lot of brand new ideas again! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but please don't scold! Look at that figure over +there. + +TEKLA. [Uncovering the wax figure] Well, I declare!--Who is that +meant for? + +ADOLPH. Guess! + +TEKLA. Is it Pussy? Has he got no shame at all? + +ADOLPH. Is it like? + +TEKLA. How can I tell when there is no face? + +ADOLPH. Yes, but there is so much else--that's beautiful! + +TEKLA. [Taps him playfully on the cheek] Now he must keep still or +I'll have to kiss him. + +ADOLPH. [Holding her back] Now, now!--Somebody might come! + +TEKLA. Well, what do I care? Can't I kiss my own husband, perhaps? +Oh yes, that's my lawful right. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but don't you know--in the hotel here, they don't +believe we are married, because we are kissing each other such a +lot. And it makes no difference that we quarrel now and then, for +lovers are said to do that also. + +TEKLA. Well, but what's the use of quarrelling? Why can't he +always be as nice as he is now? Tell me now? Can't he try? Doesn't +he want us to be happy? + +ADOLPH. Do I want it? Yes, but-- + +TEKLA. There we are again! Who has put it into his head that he is +not to paint any longer? + +ADOLPH. Who? You are always looking for somebody else behind me +and my thoughts. Are you jealous? + +TEKLA. Yes, I am. I'm afraid somebody might take him away from me. + +ADOLPH. Are you really afraid of that? You who know that no other +woman can take your place, and that I cannot live without you! + +TEKLA. Well, I am not afraid of the women--it's your friends that +fill your head with all sorts of notions. + +ADOLPH. [Watching her] You are afraid then? Of what are you +afraid? + +TEKLA. [Getting up] Somebody has been here. Who has been here? + +ADOLPH. Don't you wish me to look at you? + +TEKLA. Not in that way: it's not the way you are accustomed to +look at me. + +ADOLPH. How was I looking at you then? + +TEKLA. Way up under my eyelids. + +ADOLPH. Under your eyelids--yes, I wanted to see what is behind +them. + +TEKLA. See all you can! There is nothing that needs to be hidden. +But--you talk differently, too--you use expressions--[studying +him] you philosophise--that's what you do! [Approaches him +threateningly] Who has been here? + +ADOLPH. Nobody but my physician. + +TEKLA. Your physician? Who is he? + +ADOLPH. That doctor from Stroemstad. + +TEKLA. What's his name? + +ADOLPH. Sjoeberg. + +TEKLA. What did he have to say? + +ADOLPH. He said--well--among other things he said--that I am on +the verge of epilepsy-- + +TEKLA. Among other things? What more did he say? + +ADOLPH. Something very unpleasant. + +TEKLA. Tell me! + +ADOLPH. He forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. + +TEKLA. Oh, that's it! Didn't I just guess it! They want to +separate us! That's what I have understood a long time! + +ADOLPH. You can't have understood, because there was nothing to +understand. + +TEKLA. Oh yes, I have! + +ADOLPH. How can you see what doesn't exist, unless your fear of +something has stirred up your fancy into seeing what has never +existed? What is it you fear? That I might borrow somebody else's +eyes in order to see you as you are, and not as you seem to be? + +TEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolph! It is the beast +that dwells in man's soul. + +ADOLPH. Where did you learn that? From those chaste young men on +the boat--did you? + +TEKLA. [Not at all abashed] Yes, there is something to be learned +from youth also. + +ADOLPH. I think you are already beginning to have a taste for +youth? + +TEKLA. I have always liked youth. That's why I love you. Do you +object? + +ADOLPH. No, but I should prefer to have no partners. + +TEKLA. [Prattling roguishly] My heart is so big, little brother, +that there is room in it for many more than him. + +ADOLPH. But little brother doesn't want any more brothers. + +TEKLA. Come here to Pussy now and get his hair pulled because he +is jealous--no, envious is the right word for it! + +(Two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining room, where +GUSTAV is.) + +ADOLPH. No, I don't want to play now. I want to talk seriously. + +TEKLA. [Prattling] Mercy me, does he want to talk seriously? +Dreadful, how serious he's become! [Takes hold of his head and +kisses him] Smile a little--there now! + +ADOLPH. [Smiling against his will] Oh, you're the--I might almost +think you knew how to use magic! + +TEKLA. Well, can't he see now? That's why he shouldn't start any +trouble--or I might use my magic to make him invisible! + +ADOLPH. [Gets up] Will you sit for me a moment, Tekla? With the +side of your face this way, so that I can put a face on my figure. + +TEKLA. Of course, I will. + +[Turns her head so he can see her in profile.] + +ADOLPH. [Gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the figure] +Don't think of me now--but of somebody else. + +TEKLA. I'll think of my latest conquest. + +ADOLPH. That chaste young man? + +TEKLA. Exactly! He had a pair of the prettiest, sweetest +moustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach--it was so soft and +rosy that you just wanted to bite it. + +ADOLPH. [Darkening] Please keep that expression about the mouth. + +TEKLA. What expression? + +ADOLPH. A cynical, brazen one that I have never seen before. + +TEKLA. [Making a face] This one? + +ADOLPH. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how Bret Harte +pictures an adulteress? + +TEKLA. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something. + +ADOLPH. As a pale creature that cannot blush. + +TEKLA. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, then she must +blush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret may not be +allowed to see it. + +ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? + +TEKLA. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable of +bringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold the +charming spectacle. + +ADOLPH. [Enraged] Tekla! + +TEKLA. Oh, you little ninny! + +ADOLPH. Tekla! + +TEKLA. He should call her Pussy--then I might get up a pretty +little blush for his sake. Does he want me to? + +ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I could +bite you! + +TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!--Come! + +[Opens her arms to him.] + +ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'll +bite you to death! + +TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out--somebody might come! + +ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the world +if I can only have you! + +TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer? + +ADOLPH. Then I shall die! + +TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as I am too +old to be wanted by anybody else? + +ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it all +back now! + +TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so +cock-sure? + +ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possible +that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still +be gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our love +were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion +kept up as a matter of honor--and I can't think of anything that +would give me more pain than to have _him_ know that I am unhappy. +Oh, I have never seen him--but the mere thought that a person +exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily +calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when I +perish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, +fascinates me, paralyses me! + +TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think I +would make his prophecy come true? + +ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would. + +TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then? + +ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do you +play that kind of game? + +TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired--that's all! + +ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men! + +TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women. + +ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently? + +TEKLA. Not in the last sis months. + +ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him? + +TEKLA. No!--Since the child died we have broken off our +correspondence. + +ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all? + +TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West +Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now? + +ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was +alone, I kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he was +left alone that time. + +TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience? + +ADOLPH. I am. + +TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you? + +ADOLPH. Almost! + +TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal +children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal +property. I am very much obliged to you! + +ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more +than property--for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If +you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish +notions would leave you.--Have you not taken his place with me? + +ADOLPH. Well, have I?--And did you ever love him? + +TEKLA. Of course, I did! + +ADOLPH. And then-- + +TEKLA. I grew tired of him! + +ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also? + +TEKLA. But I won't! + +ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up--one who had all the +qualities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then you +would leave me? + +TEKLA. No. + +ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live without +him? Then you would leave me, of course? + +TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow. + +ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you? + +TEKLA. Yes! Why not? + +ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand. + +TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. All +persons are not made in the same way, you know. + +ADOLPH. I begin to see now! + +TEKLA. No, really! + +ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems to +struggle with some--memory that will not come back] Do you know, +Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful? + +TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, and +one that you taught me. + +ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something +behind that frankness of yours. + +TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know. + +ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly become +offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home--this +evening! + +TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and I +don't feel like starting on another trip. + +ADOLPH. But I want to. + +TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?--You can go! + +ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me! + +TEKLA. Demand?--What arc you talking about? + +ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife? + +TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband? + +ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things. + +TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!--You have never +loved me! + +ADOLPH. Haven't I? + +TEKLA. No, for to love is to give. + +ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to +take.--And I have given, given, given! + +TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given? + +ADOLPH. Everything! + +TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it. +Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if I +have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A woman +cannot receive anything except from her lover. + +ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have been +your lover, but never your husband. + +TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playing +chaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'll +send you packing, for I don't want a husband. + +ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when you +began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when +you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my +plumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you of +your debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom you +wanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, and +in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my +safe and began to try those of other people instead. Without +having done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband. +And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, +as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer, + +TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet +little idiot! + +ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but +oneself! + +TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks. + +ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he--your former +husband--was not so much of an idiot after all. + +TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with--him? + +ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it, + +TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance +and pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a striking +picture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I am +growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was at +least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me. + +ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud--we +might be overheard. + +TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people? + +ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at +the same time you have a taste for chaste young men? + +TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. My +heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the +small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--I love the +whole world. + +ADOLPH. Do you know what that means? + +TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just _feel_. + +ADOLPH. It means that old age is near. + +TEKLA. There you are again! Take care! + +ADOLPH. Take care yourself! + +TEKLA. Of what? + +ADOLPH. Of the knife! + +TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such +dangerous things. + +ADOLPH. I have quit playing. + +TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you +that--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, never +know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll +suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another +moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of +being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's +what married men never get. + +ADOLPH. You hate me then? + +TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's +probably because you are nothing to me but a child. + +ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while +the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms +and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss +your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that +you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to +the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to +sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were +afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a +single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of +public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was +dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was +strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so +I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you +admired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you had +just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled +new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty +brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back +your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a +little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let +themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my +house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and +blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then +where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St. +Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom King +Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I +compelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuated +vision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literally +down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything +possible became yours at last--and you could stand on your own +feet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and +I collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, I had pushed +myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance +to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you-- +and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a +secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your +rise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, +and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part of +little brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and even +increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had +in it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn as +my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in some +mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry +up when I could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wanted +to show its independence of me. And at last both of us began to +lose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. +A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your own +burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoat +and doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn't +realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time +our years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shoot +sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before +the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you +couldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its main +branch--and so stem and branch must die together. + +TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you have +written my books. + +ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me +out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and I +spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, +all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ has +only a single note in it. + +TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have +written my books. + +ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into a +single note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one +figure. I have made no blunt statements like that of having +written your books. + +TEKLA. But that's what you meant! + +ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it. + +TEKLA. But the sum of it-- + +ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You get +an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does +not work out evenly. I have not added anything. + +TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself. + +ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it. + +TEKLA. No. but that's what you wanted to do. + +ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no--don't speak to +me--you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone! +You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your claws +into my thoughts and tear them to pieces! + +(He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while +his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.) + +TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick? + +(ADOLPH motions her away.) + +TEKLA. Adolph! + +(ADOLPH shakes his head at her.) + +TEKLA. Adolph. + +ADOLPH. Yes. + +TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago? + +ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit! + +TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon? + +ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon--if you only won't speak +to me! + +TEKLA. Kiss my hand then! + +ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand--if you only don't +speak to me! + +TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air +before dinner. + +ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave. + +TEKLA. No! + +ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason. + +TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to- +night. + +ADOLPH. Oh, that's it! + +TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend-- + +ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, and +that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go. + +TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word. + +ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to +live up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there is +somebody who has made you promise to go. + +TEKLA. Yes. + +ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise because +your husband is sick. + +TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to +be kept from going with me. + +ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel safer +then? + +TEKLA. I don't know what you mean. + +ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean something +that--doesn't please you. + +TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me? + +ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again--Good-bye for a +while! + +(Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the +right.) + +(TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goes +straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. He +pretends not to see TEKLA.) + +TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is it +you? + +GUSTAV. Yes, it's me--I beg your pardon! + +TEKLA. Which way did you come? + +GUSTAV. By land. But--I am not going to stay, as-- + +TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.--Well, it was +some time ago-- + +GUSTAV. Yes, some time. + +TEKLA. You have changed a great deal. + +GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if +anything. Excuse me, however--I am not going to spoil your +happiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, I +should never-- + +TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay. + +GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear--well, +whatever I say, I am sure to offend you. + +TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possess +that rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness. + +GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect--that +your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light +as you. + +TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very +sympathetic terms. + +GUSTAV. Oh!--Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like +names cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itself +permanently in our minds. + +TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. And +as for me, I have always cherished a dream--that of seeing you +come together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for once +in my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go your +different ways again. + +GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used +to love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in good +hands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am +familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, +before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take +good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession. +In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have +developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace +and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through +the rest of my sorrowful days. + +TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood +me. I thank you for it! + +GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too +insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way of +living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could not +satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. But +you understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it cost +me to make such a confession to myself. + +TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own +shortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs] +But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable +nature--one that I had to respect--but-- + +GUSTAV. Not always--not at that time! But suffering purifies, +sorrow ennobles, and--I have suffered! + +TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you? + +GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive. + +TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us--we who +are old enough to know better! + +GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you--you grow +younger every day. + +(He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the +left and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa.) + +TEKLA. Do you think so? + +GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress. + +TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figured +out what colors would be most becoming to me? + +GUSTAV. No. + +TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember--hm!--I can even recall how you +used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least a +touch of crimson about my dress. + +GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you. + +TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do you +remember? For that was something I couldn't do at all. + +GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human being +does. And you have become quite keen at it--at least when you +write. + +TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dear +Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a +peaceful way like this. + +GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a +pretty peaceful time with me. + +TEKLA. Perhaps too much so. + +GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It was +at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged. + +TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time? +And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course. + +GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you can +wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and I +don't think your husband can be called a sluggard. + +TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing. + +GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are still +wearing the ear-rings I gave you? + +TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel between +us--and then I thought I might wear them as a token--and a +reminder--that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it is +impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes off +one of her ear-rings.] + +GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of +it? + +TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says? + +GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?--But you may be doing him an injury. +It is likely to make him ridiculous. + +TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was that +before! + +GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the +ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps? + +TEKLA. Oh--thank you! + +GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!--Think only if your +husband could see us now! + +TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though! + +GUSTAV. Is he jealous also? + +TEKLA. Is he? I should say so! + +[A noise is heard from the room on the right.] + +GUSTAV. Who lives in that room? + +TEKLA. I don't know.--But tell me how you are getting along and +what you are doing? + +GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along? + +(TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she is +doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.) + +GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?--Well!--It must be you! + +TEKLA. I don't believe so. + +GUSTAV. But it is very like you. + +TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so? + +GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story--you know it--"How could +your majesty see that?" + +TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!--Do you know any new +stories? + +GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some. + +TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays. + +GUSTAV. Is he modest also? + +TEKLA. Oh--well-- + +GUSTAV. Not an everything? + +TEKLA. He isn't well just now. + +GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into other +people's hives? + +TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing! + +GUSTAV. Poor chap!--Do you remember once when we were just +married--we lived in this very room. It was furnished differently +in those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wall +there--and over there stood the big bed. + +TEKLA. Now you stop! + +GUSTAV. Look at me! + +TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I? + +[They look hard at each other.] + +GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that has +made a very deep impression on him? + +TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularly +the memories of our youth. + +GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were a +pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had +made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled it +with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the +slate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why I +shouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's his +business! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meeting +you again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit here +and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own +bottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in +flavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely +picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For the +woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes +hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy. + +TEKLA. Are you going to marry again? + +GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I am +going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a +spill. + +TEKLA. Is she good looking? + +GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer--now when +chance has brought me together with you again--I am beginning to +doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again. + +TEKLA. How do you mean? + +GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old +wounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman, +Tekla! + +TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no more +conquests. + +GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you. + +TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him. + +GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at last +you cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You have +had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his +courage. There _are_ some drawbacks to a change, I tell you--there +are drawbacks to it, indeed. + +TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach-- + +GUSTAV. Not at all! Whatever happens is to a certain extent +necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would--but now +it did happen, and so it had to happen. + +TEKLA. _You_ are a man of discernment. And I have never met anybody +with whom I liked so much to exchange ideas. You are so utterly +free from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little of +people, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. Do you +know, I am jealous of your intended wife! + +GUSTAV. And do you realise that I am jealous of your husband? + +TEKLA. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever! + +GUSTAV. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell--or what do +you say? + +TEKLA. [Agitated] No! + +GUSTAV. [Following after her] Yes!--Let us have a farewell! Let us +drown our memories--you know, there are intoxications so deep that +when you wake up all memories are gone. [Putting his arm around +her waist] You have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who is +infecting you with his own anaemia. I'll breathe new life into +you. I'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, like +a remontant rose. I'll--- + +(Two LADIES in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading to +the veranda. They look surprised. Then they point at those within, +laugh, and disappear.) + +TEKLA. [Freeing herself] Who was that? + +GUSTAV. [Indifferently] Some tourists. + +TEKLA. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you! + +GUSTAV. Why? + +TEKLA. You take my soul away from me! + +GUSTAV. And give you my own in its place! And you have no soul for +that matter--it's nothing but a delusion. + +TEKLA. You have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody can +be angry with you. + +GUSTAV. It's because you feel that I hold the first mortgage on +you--Tell me now, when--and--where? + +TEKLA. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still in +love with me, and I don't want to do any more harm. + +GUSTAV. He does not love you! Do you want proofs? + +TEKLA, Where can you get them? + +GUSTAV. [Picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor] +Here! See for yourself! + +TEKLA. Oh, that's an outrage! + +GUSTAV. Do you see? Now then, when? And where? + +TEKLA. The false-hearted wretch! + +GUSTAV. When? + +TEKLA. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat. + +GUSTAV. And then-- + +TEKLA. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room] Who can +be living in there that makes such a racket? + +GUSTAV. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the keyhole] +There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe-- +that's all! I shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up in +there.--At nine o'clock then? + +TEKLA. All right! And let him answer for it himself.--What a depth +of deceit! And he who has always preached about truthfulness, +and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--But wait a little--how +was it now? He received me with something like hostility--didn't +meet me at the landing--and then--and then he made some remark +about young men on board the boat, which I pretended not to hear--- +but how could he know? Wait--and then he began to philosophise +about women--and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting +him--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art +of the time--exactly in accordance with your old speculations! + +GUSTAV. No, really! + +TEKLA. No, really?--Oh, now I understand! Now I begin to see what +a hideous creature you are! You have been here before and stabbed +him to death! It was you who had been sitting there on the sofa; +it was you who made him think himself an epileptic--that he had to +live in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against his +wife; yes, it was you!--How long have you been here? + +GUSTAV. I have been here a week. + +TEKLA. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat? + +GUSTAV. It was. + +TEKLA. And now you were thinking you could trap me? + +GUSTAV. It has been done. + +TEKLA. Not yet! + +GUSTAV. Yes! + +TEKLA. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came here with a +villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying it +out, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled you. + +GUSTAV. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it happened +in reality. Of course, it has been my secret hope that disaster +might overtake you. But I felt practically certain that no +interference on my part was required. And besides, I have been far +too busy to have any time left for intriguing. But when I happened +to be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those young +men on board the boat, then I guessed the time had come for me to +take a look at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threw +itself into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sort +of reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough to +explain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemed +to be in the same fix as I was once. But then he happened to touch +old wounds--that book, you know, and "the idiot"--and I was seized +with a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these so +thoroughly that they couldn't be put together again--and I +succeeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done the +work of preparation. Then I had to deal with you. For you were the +spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be taken +apart--and what a buzzing followed!--When I came in here, I didn't +know exactly what to say. Like a chess-player, I had laid a number +of tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on your +moves. One thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, and +finally I had you where I wanted you.--Now you are caught! + +TEKLA. No! + +GUSTAV. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has happened. The +world at large, represented by two lady tourists--whom I had not +sent for, as I am not an intriguer--the world has seen how you +became reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked back +repentantly into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough? + +TEKLA. It ought to be enough for your revenge--But tell me, how +can you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded--how is it +possible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, and +that all our actions are determined in advance-- + +GUSTAV. [Correcting her] To a certain extent determined. + +TEKLA. That's the same thing! + +GUSTAV. No! + +TEKLA. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, who hold me +guiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the circumstances into +acting as I did--how can you think yourself entitled to revenge--? + +GUSTAV. For that very reason--for the reason that my nature and +the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. Isn't that giving +both sides a square deal? But do you know why you two had to get +the worst of it in this struggle? + +(TEKLA looks scornful.) + +GUSTAV. And why you were doomed to be fooled? Because I am +stronger than you, and wiser also. You have been the idiot--and +he! And now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiot +because he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. It might be +well for you to bear this in mind. + +TEKLA. Are you then entirely without feelings? + +GUSTAV. Entirely! And for that very reason, you know, I am capable +of thinking--in which you have had no experience whatever-and of +acting--in which you have just had some slight experience. + +TEKLA. And all this merely because I have hurt your vanity? + +GUSTAV. Don't call that MERELY! You had better not go around +hurting other people's vanity. They have no more sensitive spot +than that. + +TEKLA. Vindictive wretch--shame on you! + +GUSTAV. Dissolute wretch--shame on you! + +TEKLA. Oh, that's my character, is it? + +GUSTAV. Oh, that's my character, is it?--You ought to learn +something about human nature in others before you give your own +nature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and then there will +be wailing and gnashing of teeth. + +TEKLA. You can never forgive:-- + +GUSTAV. Yes, I have forgiven you! + +TEKLA. You! + +GUSTAV. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you during all +these years? No! And now I came here only to have a look at you, +and it was enough to burst your bubble. Have I uttered a single +reproach? Have I moralised or preached sermons? No! I played a +joke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed to +finish him.--But there is no reason why I, the complainant, +should be defending myself as I am now--Tekla! Have you nothing at +all to reproach yourself with? + +TEKLA. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions are +governed by Providence; others call it Fate; in either case, are +we not free from all liability? + +GUSTAV. In a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow margin +left unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. +And sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. +Guiltless, but accountable! Guiltless in regard to one who is no +more; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings. + +TEKLA. So you came here to dun me? + +GUSTAV. I came to take back what you had stolen, not what you had +received as a gift. You had stolen my honour, and I could recover +it only by taking yours. This, I think, was my right--or was it +not? + +TEKLA. Honour? Hm! And now you feel satisfied? + +GUSTAV. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter.] + +TEKLA. And now you are going home to your fiancee? + +GUSTAV. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have one. I am +not going home, for I have no home, and don't want one. + +(A WAITER comes in.) + +GUSTAV. Get me my bill--I am leaving by the eight o'clock boat. + +(THE WAITER bows and goes out.) + +TEKLA. Without making up? + +GUSTAV. Making up? You use such a lot of words that have lost +their--meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps you want all three +of us to live together? You, if anybody, ought to make up by +making good what you took away, but this you cannot do. You just +took, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothing +left to restore.--Will it satisfy you if I say like this: forgive +me that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced +me; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils +through every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I set +you free from parental restraints, that I released you from the +tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule my +house, that I gave you position and friends, that I made a woman +out of the child you were before? Forgive me as I forgive you!-- +Now I have torn up your note! Now you can go and settle your +account with the other one! + +TEKLA. What have you done with him? I am beginning to suspect-- +something terrible! + +GUSTAV. With him? Do you still love him? + +TEKLA. Yes! + +GUSTAV. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true? + +TEKLA. It was true. + +GUSTAV. Do you know what you are then? + +TEKLA. You despise me? + +GUSTAV. I pity you. It is a trait--I don't call it a fault--just +a trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. Poor +Tekla! I don't know--but it seems almost as if I were feeling a +certain regret, although I am as free from any guilt--as you! But +perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I felt that time.-- +Do you know where your husband is? + +TEKLA. I think I know now--he is in that room in there! And he has +heard everything! And seen everything! And the man who sees his +own wraith dies! + +(ADOLPH appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. His face is +white as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. +His eyes are staring and void of all expression. His lips are +covered with froth.) + +GUSTAV. [Shrinking back] No, there he is!--Now you can settle with +him and see if he proves as generous as I have been.--Good-bye! + +(He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door.) + +TEKLA. [Goes to meet ADOLPH with open arms] Adolph! + +(ADOLPH leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to the +floor.) + +TEKLA. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressing +him] Adolph! My own child! Are you still alive--oh, speak, speak!-- +Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me, forgive me, forgive +me!--Little brother must say something, I tell him!--No, good God, +he doesn't hear! He is dead! O God in heaven! O my God! Help! + +GUSTAV. Why, she really must have loved _him_, too!--Poor creature! + +(Curtain.) + + + + +PARIAH + +INTRODUCTION + + +Both "Creditors" and "Pariah" were written in the winter of 1888- +89 at Holte, near Copenhagen, where Strindberg, assisted by his +first wife, was then engaged in starting what he called a +"Scandinavian Experimental Theatre." In March, 1889, the two plays +were given by students from the University of Copenhagen, and with +Mrs. von Essen Strindberg as _Tekla_. A couple of weeks later the +performance was repeated across the Sound, in the Swedish city of +Malmoe, on which occasion the writer of this introduction, then a +young actor, assisted in the stage management. One of the actors +was Gustav Wied, a Danish playwright and novelist, whose exquisite +art since then has won him European fame. In the audience was Ola +Hansson, a Swedish novelist and poet who had just published a +short story from which Strindberg, according to his own +acknowledgment on playbill and title-page, had taken the name and +the theme of "Pariah." + +Mr. Hansson has printed a number of letters (_Tilskueren_, +Copenhagen, July, 1912) written to him by Strindberg about that +time, as well as some very informative comments of his own. +Concerning the performance of Malmoe he writes: "It gave me a very +unpleasant sensation. What did it mean? Why had Strindberg turned +my simple theme upsidedown so that it became unrecognisable? Not a +vestige of the 'theme from Ola Hansson' remained. Yet he had even +suggested that he and I act the play together, I not knowing that +it was to be a duel between two criminals. And he had at first +planned to call it 'Aryan and Pariah'--which meant, of course, +that the strong Aryan, Strindberg, was to crush the weak Pariah, +Hansson, _coram populo_." + +In regard to his own story Mr. Hansson informs us that it dealt +with "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about it, doing +both in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby everything is left +vague and undefined." At that moment "Raskolnikov" was in the air, +so to speak. And without wanting in any way to suggest imitation, +I feel sure that the groundnote of the story was distinctly +Dostoievskian. Strindberg himself had been reading Nietzsche and +was--largely under the pressure of a reaction against the popular +disapproval of his anti-feministic attitude--being driven more and +more into a superman philosophy which reached its climax in the +two novels "Chandalah" (1889) and "At the Edge of the Sea" (1890). +The Nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two plays contained in +the present volume. + +But these plays are strongly colored by something else--by +something that is neither Hansson-Dostoievski nor Strindberg- +Nietzsche. The solution of the problem is found in the letters +published by Mr. Hansson. These show that while Strindberg was +still planning "Creditors," and before he had begun "Pariah," he +had borrowed from Hansson a volume of tales by Edgar Allan Poe. It +was his first acquaintance with the work of Poe, though not with +American literature--for among his first printed work was a +series of translations from American humourists; and not long ago +a Swedish critic (Gunnar Castren in _Samtiden_, Christiania, June, +1912) wrote of Strindberg's literary beginnings that "he had +learned much from Swedish literature, but probably more from Mark +Twain and Dickens." + +The impression Poe made on Strindberg was overwhelming. He returns +to it in one letter after another. Everything that suits his mood +of the moment is "Poesque" or "E. P-esque." The story that seems +to have made the deepest impression of all was "The Gold Bug," +though his thought seems to have distilled more useful material +out of certain other stories illustrating Poe's theories about +mental suggestion. Under the direct influence of these theories, +Strindberg, according to his own statements to Hansson, wrote the +powerful one-act play "Simoom," and made _Gustav_ in "Creditors" +actually _call forth_ the latent epileptic tendencies in _Adolph_. +And on the same authority we must trace the method of: psychological +detection practised by _Mr. X._ in "Pariah" directly to "The Gold +Bug." + +Here we have the reason why Mr. Hansson could find so little of +his story in the play. And here we have the origin of a theme +which, while not quite new to him, was ever afterward to remain a +favourite one with Strindberg: that of a duel between intellect +and cunning. It forms the basis of such novels as "Chandalah" and +"At the Edge of the Sea," but it recurs in subtler form in works +of much later date. To readers of the present day, _Mr. X._--that +striking antithesis of everything a scientist used to stand for in +poetry--is much less interesting as a superman _in spe_ than as an +illustration of what a morally and mentally normal man can do with +the tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways and +human motives. And in giving us a play that holds our interest as +firmly as the best "love plot" ever devised, although the stage +shows us only two men engaged in an intellectual wrestling match, +Strindberg took another great step toward ridding the drama of its +old, shackling conventions. + +The name of this play has sometimes been translated as "The +Outcast," whereby it becomes confused with "The Outlaw," a much +earlier play on a theme from the old Sagas. I think it better, +too, that the Hindu allusion in the Swedish title be not lost, for +the best of men may become an outcast, but the baseness of the +Pariah is not supposed to spring only from lack of social +position. + + +PARIAH +AN ACT +1889 + + +PERSONS + + +MR. X., an archaeologist, Middle-aged man. +MR. Y., an American traveller, Middle-aged man. + + +SCENE + +(A simply furnished room in a farmhouse. The door and the windows +in the background open on a landscape. In the middle of the room +stands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books, writing +materials, and antiquities; at the other end, by a microscope, +insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol.) + +(On the left side hangs a bookshelf. Otherwise the furniture is +that of a well-to-do farmer.) + +(MR. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net and +a botany-can. He goes straight up to the bookshelf and takes down +a book, which he begins to read on the spot.) + +(The landscape outside and the room itself are steeped in +sunlight. The ringing of church bells indicates that the morning +services are just over. Now and then the cackling of hens is heard +from the outside.) + +(MR. X. enters, also in his shirt-sleeves.) + +(MR. Y. starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf +upside-down, and pretends to be looking for another volume.) + +MR. X. This heat is horrible. I guess we are going to have a +thunderstorm. + +MR. Y. What makes you think so? + +MR. X. The bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies are +sticky, and the hens cackle. I meant to go fishing, but I couldn't +find any worms. Don't you feel nervous? + +MR. Y. [Cautiously] I?--A little. + +MR. X. Well, for that matter, you always look as if you were +expecting thunderstorms. + +MR. Y. [With a start] Do I? + +MR. X. Now, you are going away tomorrow, of course, so it is not +to be wondered at that you are a little "journey-proud."-- +Anything new?--Oh, there's the mail! [Picks up some letters from +the table] My, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a +letter! Nothing but debts, debts, debts! Have you ever had any +debts? + +MR. Y. [After some reflection] N-no. + +MR. X. Well, then you don't know what it means to receive a lot of +overdue bills. [Reads one of the letters] The rent unpaid--the +landlord acting nasty--my wife in despair. And here am I sitting +waist-high in gold! [He opens an iron-banded box that stands on +the table; then both sit down at the table, facing each other] +Just look--here I have six thousand crowns' worth of gold which I +have dug up in the last fortnight. This bracelet alone would bring +me the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I +might make a fine career for myself. Then I could get the +illustrations made for my treatise at once; I could get my work +printed, and--I could travel! Why don't I do it, do you suppose? + +MR. Y. I suppose you are afraid to be found out. + +MR. X. That, too, perhaps. But don't you think an intelligent +fellow like myself might fix matters so that he was never found +out? I am alone all the time--with nobody watching me--while I am +digging out there in the fields. It wouldn't be strange if I put +something in my own pockets now and then. + +MR. Y. Yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the stuff. + +MR. X. Pooh! I'd melt it down, of course--every bit of it--and +then I'd turn it into coins--with just as much gold in them as +genuine ones, of course-- + +MR. Y. Of course! + +MR. X. Well, you can easily see why. For if I wanted to dabble in +counterfeits, then I need not go digging for gold first. [Pause] +It is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody else did what I +cannot make myself do, then I'd be willing to acquit him--but I +couldn't possibly acquit myself. I might even make a brilliant +speech in defence of the thief, proving that this gold was _res +nullius_, or nobody's, as it had been deposited at a time when +property rights did not yet exist; that even under existing rights +it could belong only to the first finder of it, as the ground-owner +has never included it in the valuation of his property; and so on. + +MR. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do this if +the--hm!--the thief had not been prompted by actual need, but by a +mania for collecting, for instance--or by scientific aspirations-- +by the ambition to keep a discovery to himself. Don't you think +so? + +MR. X. You mean that I could not acquit him if actual need had +been the motive? Yes, for that's the only motive which the law +will not accept in extenuation. That motive makes a plain theft of +it. + +MR. Y. And this you couldn't excuse? + +MR. X. Oh, excuse--no, I guess not, as the law wouldn't. On the +other hand, I must admit that it would be hard for me to charge a +collector with theft merely because he had appropriated some +specimen not yet represented in his own collection. + +MR. Y. So that vanity or ambition might excuse what could not be +excused by need? + +MR. X. And yet need ought to be the more telling excuse--the only +one, in fact? But I feel as I have said. And I can no more change +this feeling than I can change my own determination not to steal +under any circumstances whatever. + +MR. Y. And I suppose you count it a great merit that you cannot-- +hm!--steal? + +MR. X. No, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible as +the inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. So it +cannot be called a merit. I cannot do it, and the other one cannot +refrain!--But you understand, of course, that I am not without a +desire to own this gold. Why don't I take it then? Because I +cannot! It's an inability--and the lack of something cannot be +called a merit. There! + +[Closes the box with a slam. Stray clouds have cast their shadows +on the landscape and darkened the room now and then. Now it grows +quite dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching.] + +MR. X. How close the air is! I guess the storm is coming all +right. + +[MR. Y. gets up and shuts the door and all the windows.] + +MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder? + +MR. Y. It's just as well to be careful. + +(They resume their seats at the table.) + +MR. X. You're a curious chap! Here you come dropping down like a +bomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as a Swedish-American +who is collecting flies for a small museum-- + +MR. Y. Oh, never mind me now! + +MR. X. That's what you always say when I grow tired of talking +about myself and want to turn my attention to you. Perhaps that +was the reason why I took to you as I did--because you let me +talk about myself? All at once we seemed like old friends. There +were no angles about you against which I could bump myself, no +pins that pricked. There was something soft about your whole +person, and you overflowed with that tact which only well-educated +people know how to show. You never made a noise when you came home +late at night or got up early in the morning. You were patient in +small things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemed +threatening. In a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion! +But you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering about +you in the long run--and you are too timid, too easily frightened. +It seems almost as if you were made up of two different +personalities. Why, as I sit here looking at your back in the +mirror over there--it is as if I were looking at somebody else. + +(MR. Y. turns around and stares at the mirror.) + +MR. X. No, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back, man!--In +front you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one meeting his +fate with bared breast, but from behind--really, I don't want to +be impolite, but--you look as if you were carrying a burden, or as +if you were crouching to escape a raised stick. And when I look at +that red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, it +looks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a +packing-box-- + +MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon-- + +MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks as +if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face +quite different in type from yours. And your ears come so close +together behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to. +[A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as if +that might have struck the sheriff's house! + +MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's! + +MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll get +much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as you +are going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you, +with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that yon +are one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away from +them. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, I +always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not +resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common. + +MR. Y. Who is he? + +MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years to +take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table +where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met a +little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderful +faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling +anybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary place +down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he +wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. He +seemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybody +he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he +would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human +face for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if +eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watched +him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character. +But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, for +then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man had +just your quality of being indefinite. At different times I made +him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non- +commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective-- +and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the +front of him never quite fitted the back. One day I happened to +read in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-known +government official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentleman +had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name was +Strawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used to +run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter +of a big daily. How in the world could I hope to establish a +connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man's +peculiar manners? It was beyond me; and when I asked a friend +whether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend +couldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [Pause.] + +MR. Y. Well, had he ever been--punished? + +MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had such +an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending +people? + +MR. X. Exactly! + +MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward? + +MR. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he +had been--punished? + +MR. X. Perfectly! + +(MR. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.) + +MR. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still? + +MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions? Are +you a Christian? + +MR. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not? + +(MR. Y. makes a face.) + +MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I require +punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, +be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to know the +difference. + +MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X., first with wild, +hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How--could--you-- +know--that? + +MR. X. Why, I could see it. + +MR. Y. How? How could you see it? + +MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others. +But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch, +arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and +hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs. +Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I am +going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to +the city with you. + +MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo. + +MR. X. Oh, you are not? + +MR. Y. No. + +MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature. + +MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind-- + +MR. X.--any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused to +write your own name. The first time nothing more serious was +involved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began to +watch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid +fear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a single +letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote +with a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out the +exact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like the +seventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which +place you have not visited at all during all this time. And yet +you came the whole way from America merely to have a look at +Malmo! And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old +mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance. +And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and look +out through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, yon +can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney of +the county jail.--And now I hope you see that it's your own +stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everything +clear to me. + +MR. Y. This means that you despise me? + +MR. X. Oh, no! + +MR. Y. Yes, you do--you cannot but do it! + +MR. X. No--here's my hand. + +(MR. Y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.) + +MR. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog! + +MR. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let me +touch his hand after learning-- + +MR. X. And now you call me "sir!"--What scares me about you is +that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the old +level, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered your +punishment. Do you care to tell me how it happened? Would you? + +MR. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what I say. +But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I am no +ORDINARY criminal. You'll become convinced, I think, that there +are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again] +which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without being +willed by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible-- +May I open the door a little now, since the storm seems to have +passed over? + +MR. X. Suit yourself. + +MR. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and begins +to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures, +and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was a +student in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan from +a bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned some +property--not a great deal, of course. However, I had sent the +note to the second man of the two who were to act as security, +and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. For a +while I was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a very +unpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! The note was lying in front +of me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. At first my eyes +stared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is, +not a death-doom, of course, for I could easily find other +securities, as many as I wanted--but as I have already said, it +was very annoying just the same. And as I was sitting there quite +unconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the +signature of the letter, which would have made my future secure if +it had only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well- +written signature--and you know how sometimes one may absent- +mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. I +had a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] like +this. And somehow it just began to run--I don't want to claim that +there was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic nature +back of it--for that kind of thing I don't believe in! It was a +wholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of that +beautiful autograph over and over again. When all the clean space +on the letter was used up, I had learned to reproduce the +signature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholder +with a violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night I +slept long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that I +had been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself. At +times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I seemed +to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distant +memory--and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to the table, +just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed an +irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. All +thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had disappeared-- +no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I was fulfilling +some sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet] What could +it be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case of mental +suggestion, as they call it? But from whom could it come? I +was sleeping alone in that room. Could it possibly be my primitive +self--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing-- +which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep-- +together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability to +calculate the results of an action? Tell me, what do you think of +it? + +MR. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself] Frankly +speaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it, +but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details-- +and I have read something about criminal suggestion--or I think I +have, at least--hm! But all that is neither here nor there! You +have taken your medicine--and you have had the courage to +acknowledge your fault. Now we won't talk of it any more. + +MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till I become sure of my +innocence. + +MR. X. Well, are you not? + +MR. Y. No, I am not! + +MR. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's exactly what +is bothering me!--Don't you feel fairly sure that every human +being hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we not, all of us, +stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly! Well, now there are +persons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannot +control their unlawful desires. Then comes the opportunity, and +there you have your criminal.--But I cannot understand why you +don't feel innocent. If the child is not held responsible, why +should the criminal be regarded differently? It is the more +strange because--well, perhaps I may come to repent it later. +[Pause] I, for my part, have killed a man, and I have never +suffered any qualms on account of it. + +MR. Y. [Very much interested] Have--you? + +MR. X, Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to shake +hands with a murderer? + +MR. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense! + +MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished, + +ME. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] So +much the better for you!--How did you get out of it? + +MR. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses. +This is the way it happened. One Christmas I was invited to hunt +with a fellow-student a little way out of Upsala. He sent a +besotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellow +went to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upset +the whole _equipage_ in a ditch. I am not going to pretend that my +life was in danger. It was sheer impatience which made me hit him +across the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--just +to wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all, +but collapsed then and there. + +MR. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it? + +MR. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so. The man +left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life could +be of the slightest use. He had already outlived his allotted +period of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filled +by somebody more in need of it. On the other hand, my life was +necessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhaps +also to the progress of my science. The outcome had once for all +cured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and I +didn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents for +the sake of an abstract principle of justice. + +MR. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life? + +MR. X. In the present case, yes. + +MR. Y. But the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of? + +MR. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no crime. As a +boy I had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, and +the fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by my +ignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderly +person. + +MR. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man is +punished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactly +what one gets for--writing names. + +MR. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And more than one +night I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell me now--is it really as +bad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar? + +MR. Y. You bet it is!--First of all they disfigure you by cutting +off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, you +are sure to do so afterward. And when you catch sight of yourself +in a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit. + +MR. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? Which +wouldn't be a bad idea, I should say. + +MR. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it!--And then they +cut down your food, so that every day and every hour you become +conscious of the border line between life and death. Every vital +function is more or less checked. You can feel yourself shrinking. +And your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead put +on a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlived +ages. You are not permitted to read anything but what was written +for the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. You +hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and what +actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. You are +torn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, put +beneath those who are really beneath yourself. Then you get a +sense of living in the bronze age. You come to feel as if you were +dressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating out +of a trough--ugh! + +MR. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts as if he +belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don the +proper costume. + +MR. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved like a man +from the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the golden +age. + +MR. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean with that +last expression--the golden age? + +MR. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all. + +MR. X. Now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to say +all you think. + +MR. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no coward when I +dared to show myself around here, where I had had to suffer as I +did.--But can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?-- +It is that the others are not in there too! + +MR. X. What others? + +MR. Y. Those that go unpunished. + +MR. X. Are you thinking of me? + +MR. Y. I am. + +MR. X. But I have committed no crime. + +MR. Y. Oh, haven't you? + +MR. X. No, a misfortune is no crime. + +MR. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder? + +MR. X. I have not committed murder. + +MR. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person? + +MR. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killing +in self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentional +and unintentional killing. However--now you really frighten me, +for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the most +dangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid. + +MR. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen--would you +like me to show you how clever I am? + +MR. X. Come on! + +MR. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both logic and +wisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you. You have +suffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years at +hard labor. You have completely escaped the disgrace of being +punished. And here you see before you a man--who has also suffered +a misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who has +had to stand two years of hard labor for it. Only by some great +scientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that has +become attached to him without any fault of his own--but in order +to arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot of +money--and money this minute! Don't you think that the other one, +the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into these +unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of a +fine? Don't you think so? + +MR. X. [Calmly] Yes. + +MR. Y. Then we understand each other.--Hm! [Pause] What do you +think would be reasonable? + +MR. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is fixed by the +law at fifty crowns. But this whole question is settled by the +fact that the dead man left no relatives. + +MR. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then I'll have to +speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine. + +MR. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to collect +fines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there is no +prosecutor. + +MR. Y. There isn't? Well--how would I do? + +MR. X. Oh, _now_ we are getting the matter cleared up! How much do +you want for becoming my accomplice? + +MR. Y. Six thousand crowns. + +MR. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them? + +(MR. Y. points to the box.) + +MR. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to become a +thief. + +MR. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll believe +that you haven't helped yourself out of that box before? + +MR. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could let +myself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with these soft +natures. You like them, and then it's so easy to believe that they +like you. And that's the reason why I have always been on my guard +against people I take a liking to!--So you are firmly convinced +that I have helped myself out of the box before? + +MR. Y. Certainly! MR. X. And you are going to report me if you +don't get six thousand crowns? + +MR. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's no use +trying. + +MR. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief for son, my +wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, my +fellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will never happen!-- +Now I am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself. + +MR. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait a moment! + +MR. X. For what? + +MR. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought--as I am no longer needed--it +wouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and I might just as well +leave. + +MR. X. No, you may not!--Sit down there at the table, where you +sat before, and we'll have another talk before you go. + +MR. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are you up +to now? + +MR. X. [Looking into the mirror back of MR. Y.] Oh, now I have it! +Oh-h-h! + +MR. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you discovering +now? + +MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinary +thief! A moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, I +could notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. I +couldn't make out just what it was, for I had to listen to you and +watch you. But as my antipathy increased, my vision became more +acute. And now, with your black coat to furnish the needed color +contrast For the red back of the book, which before couldn't be +seen against the red of your suspenders--now I see that you have +been reading about forgeries in Bernheim's work on mental +suggestion--for you turned the book upside-down in putting it back. +So even that story of yours was stolen! For tins reason I think +myself entitled to conclude that your crime must have been +prompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure. + +MR. Y. By need! If you only knew-- + +MR. X. If _you_ only knew the extent of the need I have had to face +and live through! But that's another story! Let's proceed with +your case. That you have been in prison--I take that for granted. +But it happened in America, for it was American prison life you +described. Another thing may also be taken for granted, namely, +that you have not borne your punishment on this side. + +MR. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind? + +MR. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn all +about it. + +(MR. Y. gets up.) + +ME. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the sheriff, in +connection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. And when a +person has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an old +mill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by the +window--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. And +that's why it was so hard to make you out. [Pause.] + +MR. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now? + +MR. X. Now you can go. + +MR. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me? + +MR. X. Yes--would you prefer me to pity you? + +MR. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better than I? + +MR. X. Of course I do, as I AM better than you. I am wiser, and I +am less of a menace to prevailing property rights. + +MR. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as clever as +you. For the moment you have me checked, but in the next move I +can mate you--all the same! + +MR. X. [Looking hard at MR. Y.] So we have to have another bout! +What kind of mischief are you up to now? + +MR. Y. That's my secret. + +MR. X. Just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymous +letter giving away MY secret! + +MR. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't dare to +have me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And when I am gone, +I can do what I please. + +MR. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable spot! Do you +want to make a real murderer out of me? + +MR. Y. That's more than you'll ever become--coward! + +MR. X. There you see how different people are. You have a feeling +that I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. And +that gives you the upper hand. But suppose you forced me to treat +you as I treated that coachman? + +[He lifts his hand as if ready to hit MR. Y.] + +MR. Y. [Staring MR. X. straight in the face] You can't! It's too +much for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box over +there. + +ME. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of the box? + +MR. Y. You were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly to +tell your wife that she had married a murderer. + +MR. X. You are a different man from what I took you to be--if +stronger or weaker, I cannot tell--if more criminal or less, +that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much is +quite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote another person's +name instead of begging--as I have had to do. Stupid you were when +you stole things out of my book--could you not guess that I might +have read my own books? Stupid you were when you thought yourself +cleverer than me, and when you thought that I could be lured into +becoming a thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance could +be restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. But +most stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed to +provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and write +my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husband +having killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!-- +Have you had enough now? + +MR. Y. May I go? + +MR. X. Now you _have_ to go! And at once! I'll send your things +after you!--Get out of here! + +(Curtain.) + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Plays by August Strindberg, Second +series, by August Strindberg + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYS BY STRINDBERG *** + +***** This file should be named 14347.txt or 14347.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/3/4/14347/ + +Produced by Nicole Apostola + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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