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Title: The coming of peace
A family catastrophe
Author: Gerhart Hauptmann
Translator: Janet Achurch
C. E. Wheeler
Release date: January 29, 2025 [eBook #75247]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Duckworth & Co, 1900
Credits: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMING OF PEACE ***
MODERN
PLAYS
EDITED BY
R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON
AND
N. ERICHSEN
_Authorised Translation_
_All Rights Reserved_
THE COMING OF PEACE
(_A FAMILY CATASTROPHE_)
BY GERHART HAUPTMANN
TRANSLATED BY
JANET ACHURCH
AND
C. E. WHEELER
[Illustration]
LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.
MDCCCC
PREFACE
A few words about the author of “Friedensfest,” which is here translated
as “The Coming of Peace,” will possibly be of interest to readers.
Gerhart Hauptmann, who is still a comparatively young man, is as
yet little known to English readers, and wholly unknown to English
play-goers, except for the performance of this play under the auspices
of the Stage Society on the 10th of June 1900, which has given occasion
for this translation. In German-speaking countries he is recognised by
many as the greatest modern dramatist with the single exception of Henrik
Ibsen.
He is certainly the only dramatist who, writing under the inspiration of
the great Norwegian poet, can by any remotest possibility be considered
to have advanced a step beyond his master in dramatic treatment of the
inner social forces of modern life.
It is not my intention here to do more than draw attention to the place
Friedensfest occupies chronologically among its author’s works, and to
point out its probable source of inspiration. Those who wish to trace the
author’s career up to three years ago—he is now only thirty-eight—may
be recommended to read “Gerhart Hauptmann, sein Lebensgang und seine
Dichtung,” written just after the publication of “Die Versunkene Glocke,”
by Dr Paul Schlenther, the gifted critic, now manager of the Vienna
Court Theatre. I may, perhaps, be allowed to quote the final sentences of
that book to show the high hopes entertained in Germany of Hauptmann’s
future. “At thirty-five years old,” writes Dr Schlenther, “he is a famous
man. He stands at life’s zenith. Half the Scriptural age lies behind him.
The best years of the strength and ripeness of manhood lie close ahead of
him. We wait for what shall come.”
“Friedensfest” was played in 1890, when Hauptmann was twenty-seven,
eight years before these lines were penned. It was preceded by “Vor
Sonnenaufgang” in 1889—the first utterance which gave more than local
fame to its author—and was succeeded by “Einsame Menschen” in 1891. Of
his later works “Die Weber” and “Hannele” have already been translated
into English.
In “Friedensfest” and “Einsame Menschen” the influence of Ibsen can
be traced more distinctly than in any of Hauptmann’s other works.
“Friedensfest” recalls in many respects Ibsen’s “Ghosts,” without any
servile copying on the part of the younger author—who has presented his
characters with a power and originality, a truth and subtlety peculiarly
his own. Moreover he has not been so relentless as Ibsen. Although the
“Family Catastrophe,” as he calls it, is gloomy enough, in a sense
the play ends more hopefully; the doom has not fallen on the younger
members of the Scholz family, with whose hereditary qualities the play
chiefly deals, and we are permitted to hope, if we choose, that it may
never fall. Hauptmann’s genius shows itself here of a softer and less
uncompromising mould than Ibsen’s. We feel that in as far as the play has
any tendency, it leans rather towards meliorism than pessimism. Like
Ibsen’s later works, however, it is more objective in treatment than
“Ghosts”—more a “family document” pure and simple, than a “tendency”
drama.
But it is not my business here to tell the story of the play or to
attempt any interpretation. I have merely helped to render it into
English.
In translating, we have tried to give the broken, elliptical language
in which Hauptmann’s characters express themselves, as faithfully
as possible—to keep the half-finished sentences and interjaculatory
outbursts without losing anything of the meaning of the play. Here and
there, the rude colloquialism of the speakers, especially of Mrs Scholz
and Friebe, have rendered our task almost impossible. We can only plead
that we have done our best.
JANET ACHURCH.
THE COMING OF PEACE
PERSONS
DR FRITZ SCHOLZ, aged 68.
MINNA SCHOLZ, _his wife_, aged 46.
AUGUSTA, } aged 29.
ROBERT, } _their children_, aged 28.
WILLIAM, } aged 26.
_So far as possible the above should show a family likeness._
MRS BUCHNER, aged 42.
IDA, _her daughter_, aged 20.
FRIEBE, _servant to the Scholzs_, aged 50.
The Play takes place on Christmas Eve 188—, in a lonely country house,
near Erkner, in Brandenburg.
SCENE.
A high, roomy, white-washed Hall—hung with old-fashioned
pictures—horns and heads of different animals. A chandelier of
stag’s horns hanging from the middle of the roof-tree is filled
with fresh candles. At the back, in the middle of the wall,
is a porch, which projects into the hall, with a glass door,
through which is seen the heavy carved oaken door of the house.
On the top of the porch is a stuffed moorcock: right and left
above the level of the porch are windows—frozen and partly dim
with snow.
To the left is an open arch, built like a gateway—which leads
by the staircase to the upper stories. Two low doors in the
same wall lead—one to the cellar, the other to the kitchen.
Two other doors in the opposite wall both open into one room;
between these stands an old grandfather’s clock, on the top of
which squats a stuffed screech-owl. The furniture of the room
consists of heavy old oak chairs and tables: parallel to the
left wall is a table covered with a white cloth. Down the stage
to the left is a small iron stove, the flue of which runs along
the wall. All the doors are gaily coloured, the panels filled
with old-fashioned paintings of parrots, etc.
ACT I
The hall is decorated with green branches. A Christmas tree
is lying on the stone flags. Friebe, sitting on the top of
the cellar steps, is making a socket for it; Mrs Buchner and
Mrs Scholz, standing on either side of the table, are busy
fastening gay coloured wax candles into their holders. Mrs
Buchner is a healthy looking, well nourished, friendly faced
woman, simple, genuine and very neatly dressed: wears her hair
smooth: her movements are decided and she is entirely at her
ease. Her whole appearance expresses an unusual cordiality
which is thoroughly sincere, even if at times her manner
suggests affectation. Her way of speaking is fluent and clear,
and in moments of excitement declamatory; an atmosphere of
peace and well-being seems to emanate from her. Mrs Scholz, on
the contrary, is a woman who looks older than she is, showing
signs of premature old age. She is unhealthily fat, with a
sallow skin. Her dress is untidy, her hair grey and unkempt;
she wears spectacles. Mrs Scholz is fidgety in her movements,
restless, has generally a tearful or whining way of speaking
and is evidently in a continual state of excitement. Whilst Mrs
Buchner seems only to live for others, Mrs Scholz is completely
occupied with herself.
On the table stand two five-branched candlesticks, fitted with
candles; but neither these nor the candles in the chandelier
are lighted. There is a lamp burning.
FRIEBE (_striking a blow with his hatchet_).
Not a stroke fails me!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ffff!!! But I can’t stand it, Friebe! How often have I told you.... You
might easily break the hatchet. The idea! chopping wood on stone!
FRIEBE.
You leave that to me! What! wasn’t I ten years in the regiment?
MRS BUCHNER.
In the regiment?
MRS SCHOLZ.
He was head man in the royal forests.
FRIEBE.
Not—(_he strikes again_) a blessed—(_strikes_) stroke!
[_He stands up, looks at his work by the lamp, and then fastens
the Christmas tree so that it stands upright. Friebe is small,
already a little bent, bandy-legged, and has a bald head. His
small, mobile, little monkey face is unshaven. His hair and
stubble beard are yellowish grey. He is a jack-of-all-trades.
His coat, stiff with a mixture of plate powder, oil,
boot-blacking and dust, was cut for a man twice his size,
so that the sleeves are tucked up and the skirts overlap
considerably. His brown servant’s apron is no cleaner than his
coat: from under it from time to time he brings out a snuff-box
and takes snuff with intense satisfaction. The tree made firm,
he puts it on the table, stands in front and gazes at it._
FRIEBE.
A real—bonny—well-set-up—little fir tree! (_with condescending
superiority to the women_) you don’t think so—eh?
MRS BUCHNER.
As an old forester, you should be the best judge of that.
FRIEBE.
Well, certainly, that would be rather too much; as to what a fir tree is—
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting him impatiently_).
We really mustn’t keep you here, Friebe; my daughter expressly said,
“send Friebe for me.”
FRIEBE.
H’m—tch—for all I care!
[_Goes out through the kitchen door, making a contemptuous
gesture._
MRS BUCHNER.
Are you vexed with him?
MRS SCHOLZ.
I should think so. Tiresome idiot! If it hadn’t been for my
husband—there, you see, that’s my husband all over.—This old
snuffler—Nothing else would do, he must have _him_ about the whole day,
or else he wasn’t content. Did you ever know such a man?
[_Enter Augusta from outside in haste and alarm: once inside,
she shuts the glass door violently and throws herself against
it as though to prevent some one from coming in._]
MRS SCHOLZ (_most violently startled_).
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!!
MRS BUCHNER.
Why?—what—?
[_Augusta is tall, lanky, and noticeably thin: she is dressed
in the height of fashion but without any taste. Fur jacket,
fur cap and muff. The face and the feet are long: the face
is sharply cut and bitter featured, with thin lips tightly
pressed together. She wears a lorgnette. Her nature unites
with her mother’s excitability, something of a pathologically
disagreeable character. Her personality diffuses round it an
atmosphere of discontent, dissatisfaction and comfortlessness._]
AUGUSTA.
Out there!—as true as I’m here—someone—was following me.
MRS BUCHNER (_pointing to the clock_).
William, perhaps.—No! not yet. The train can’t be in yet. (_To Augusta_)
Wait a moment!
[_She puts out her hand to open the door._
AUGUSTA.
No! No!—No! No!
MRS BUCHNER (_in a cooing manner_).
You’re nervous, dear child. (_She goes into the porch and opens the outer
door, a little timidly._) Is anyone there?—(_Resolutely_) Is anybody
there? (_Pause—no answer._)
MRS SCHOLZ (_irritated_).
Fine doings! As if I hadn’t had enough excitement—it’s enough to kill
one. You’re always complaining of _something_.
AUGUSTA (_snappishly_).
Complaining! Complaining!—Haven’t I got enough to complain about?
MRS SCHOLZ.
You behave charmingly to your mother, I must say.
AUGUSTA.
Oh! what do you expect? Who could help being frightened—in pitch
darkness—absolutely alone—
MRS BUCHNER (_putting her arms round Augusta’s waist from
behind—soothingly_).
Madcap! Madcap! to flare up like that for nothing! Come now. (_Helping
her to take off her jacket, etc._) There!—you see?—
AUGUSTA.
Ah! but it is _true_, Mrs Buchner!
MRS BUCHNER.
Now my dear people, listen! Four long days already since we came
to stay with you. I’ve been thinking—sha’n’t we drop all these
formalities?—Mayn’t I call you Augusta? Eh?—Good—then—(_embraces her and
kisses Mrs Scholz_).
MRS SCHOLZ (_before she responds to the embrace_).
Wait! wait! My hands are all greasy.
MRS BUCHNER (_to Augusta, who is warming herself at the stove_).
There now! Aren’t you better already?—Was the Christmas party nice?
AUGUSTA.
Nothing will take me there again!—Stuffy—no air—hot enough to make you
faint!
MRS BUCHNER.
Did the minister speak well?
AUGUSTA.
I know one thing; if _I_ were poor, I’d have been off after the great
man’s speech.—I’d have flung all their beggarly trash back in their faces.
MRS BUCHNER.
O—o—h! but it’s a great blessing for the poor people.
[_A fresh, clear woman’s voice is heard singing._
“When beneath the linden leaves
The blossom clings,
Memory in my spirit weaves
Dreams of bygone springs.”
[_Ida comes through the stairway. She is twenty years old,
and wears a close-clinging black woollen dress. She has a
fine, fully matured figure, a very small head, and, on this
first entrance, her long yellow hair is loose. She has an air
of quiet contentment about her, a subdued cheerfulness and
confident expectation of happiness. Although the expression of
her clever face is generally bright, it deepens at times into
a sudden seriousness, showing that she is unaffectedly lost in
her own thoughts._]
IDA (_a towel laid over her shoulders and some cardboard boxes under her
arm_).
Has anybody come?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Augusta has given us a fine fright.
IDA (_pointing back up the stairs_).
It’s not so very comfortable upstairs, either. I hurried (_laughing_) so
that I could come down.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But, child! Robert has the room over you now.
IDA (_putting the boxes on the table, opens them and takes out various
things_).
Well, if he has, the place is always empty.
MRS BUCHNER.
Your hair should be nearly dry by now, eh?
IDA (_turning her head lovingly, and throwing back her hair_).
Just feel!
MRS BUCHNER (_doing so_).
Oh dear—you should have washed it earlier, child!
IDA.
What a bother the old mane is; I’ve been scorching myself at the stove
for the last half hour (_taking from one of the boxes a yellow silk purse
and holding it out to Augusta_). Pretty colour, eh?—It’s only just a
little joke; has he had many purses?
AUGUSTA (_busy with her jacket, which she is brushing; shrugs her
shoulders_).
Don’t know (_she looks critically with her short-sighted eyes at the
purse_). H’m, h’m, rather loosely knitted (_immediately returning to her
jacket_). The plush is done for.
IDA (_displaying a little box of cigars_).
I—_am_ pleased—to think you have never dressed a Christmas tree!
AUGUSTA.
If you come to think of it—it’s really not the sort of thing for grown-up
people!
MRS SCHOLZ.
No indeed! If ever I’d suggested one, my husband would have never let
me hear the end of it. With my dear parents—Ah! when I remember—what
a beautiful family life that was. Never a Christmas without a tree!
(_Imitating her father’s gait and manner._) And then in the evening when
father came from the office and brought the beau—u—tiful gingerbread
with him (_joining thumb and fore-finger as if she held a piece of the
famous cake between them—she puts them to her mouth_). Ah yes—those days
are gone. My husband—he wouldn’t even eat his dinner with us—he lived
upstairs—we down—a perfect hermit. If one wanted anything from him—good
Lord—the only way was to get hold of Friebe.
AUGUSTA (_feeding the stove_).
Oh don’t go on like that everlastingly!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Don’t pile up the stove in that senseless fashion!
AUGUSTA.
Can’t we even have the room warm then?
MRS SCHOLZ.
All the heat flies up the chimney to-day.
AUGUSTA (_demurring crossly_).
Is that a reason for letting it go quite out?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Leave me in peace!
AUGUSTA (_throwing the shovel noisily back into the box_).
Have it your own way!
[_Exit Augusta in a rage._]
IDA.
Ah, Gussie! stay with us!—Just wait—I’ll soon bring her round.
[_Goes out after her._
MRS SCHOLZ (_with resignation_).
All my children are like that!—ah—what a girl! There’s no holding her!
First she wants one thing, then another:—all of a sudden—she takes it
into her head—she must study. She’ll stick upstairs and not say a word
for weeks; and the next thing is—she’s no use—nobody wants her.—Oh,
good Heavens, yes—you’re to be envied—a sweet little thing like _your_
daughter——
MRS BUCHNER.
Oh, but Gussie too!—
MRS SCHOLZ.
How charmingly she plays the piano, and that delicious voice—How I love
to listen to a voice like that!
MRS BUCHNER.
Why don’t you ever play now?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh that would be a fine thing. The little peace I have would be done for.
Augusta is so nervous—just like her father—he’d run away from the piano
as if he were hunted.
MRS BUCHNER.
You should hear your William play now; he has improved!—What would Ida be
without him! She’s learnt all she knows from him.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah yes! so you told me. Oh, he’s full of talent, there’s no doubt of
that! It was a pleasure to teach him.
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes! and he looks back with such affection on the time when his little
mother gave him his first lessons.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Does he?—Good Lord, yes! those were pleasant times. Then I used to
think—every thing turns out differently—Oh! I’m so agitated!
MRS BUCHNER.
So agitated?—What about?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Why—about his coming—how does he look now—really?
MRS BUCHNER.
Well—strong—healthy. You’ll be proud of your son.
MRS SCHOLZ.
I’m really surprised that the boy’s coming. It’s gone to my heart
many a time. And the notepaper he’s cost me—and never once answered
his old mother: how have you brought him to it? That’s what I can’t
understand—that I _can’t_ understand.
MRS BUCHNER.
I?—Oh! no! it was Ida who persuaded him.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Robert doesn’t trouble himself much about us either, but at least he
comes once a year at Christmas time for a few days: that’s not much to be
grateful for—but William—six whole years he’s not been here—neither he
nor my husband—for six whole years. Does she get on with him?
MRS BUCHNER.
Ida?—Very well in every way.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, that’s extraordinary. You simply can’t imagine _how_ reserved
the boy always was—just like his father. No playfellows, no school
friends,—nothing.
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, yes, that’s how he was with us at first. He never would come near
the house, except for the music-lesson.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Later, though, he came?
MRS BUCHNER.
Well,—yes. He said we mustn’t worry him, and when he felt able he’d come
of his own accord. We had the sense to let him have his own way, and
sure enough, after waiting for him half a year, in fact,—when we’d given
up waiting, he came—and afterwards, day after day, little by little, he
became quite different.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You must have bewitched him—his engagement alone—that’s what I can’t get
over.
MRS BUCHNER.
You must know how to manage with artists. I’ve learnt that—my dear
husband was one.
MRS SCHOLZ.
And that—business—with his father? Has he confided that to you, too?
MRS BUCHNER.
N-n-o, dear friend. You see that’s the one, only, point—the one thing he
can’t yet bring himself to—but you may believe me, the remembrance is
terribly painful to him—is still—to this very day. And certainly not less
so because he _has_ kept it to himself. At all costs he must get over
that, even in this matter too.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh, God forbid!—no, no—right is right! “Honour thy father and thy
mother.” A hand that you raise against your own father—that’s an
inhuman hand! We’ve had our quarrels—oh yes! we’ve both our faults, my
husband and I, but that’s _our_ business, no human being has a right to
interfere, least of all one’s own son. And who had to suffer for it? I,
of course. An old woman like me has broad shoulders; my husband left the
house the very same day, and half an hour later, William too. There was
no good talking; first I thought they would come back, but whoever else
did they didn’t! And William alone is to blame for it, no one else—no one.
MRS BUCHNER.
William may have been _much_ to blame—I’m convinced of that. But think,
to have repented for years, and—
MRS SCHOLZ.
No—no! Good heavens, what can you be thinking of! It’s not so easily got
over; that would be worse still. It’s very good of you to have taken so
to the boy, and it’s nice too that he’s coming—as indeed why shouldn’t
he? But, after all, what’s the good of it? It’s not so easy to fill up
a gulf—yes, yes, there _are_ gulfs—that’s what they are, gulfs—deep
gulfs—in our family.
MRS BUCHNER.
Still I can’t help thinking that we—that those of us with firm, honest
intentions—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Intentions, intentions! don’t talk to me! I know better! One can intend,
and intend, and intend, hundreds of things, and nothing gets any further.
No, no!—it’s quite another thing with your daughter. She is so—and
William is so—and both are what they are.—Much too good a sort for one of
us—much, much too good.—Oh, Lord, yes!—intentions!—Ah yes! all these good
intentions—Your intentions are all very well, but whether they lead to
anything—I doubt it!
MRS BUCHNER.
But I hope it—all the more.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, it may be. I’ll say nothing to spoil it. In spite of everything, my
heart goes out to the boy; only it excites me so, I’m frightened; and,
mind you, it won’t be all as easy as you think.
IDA (_enters right; to Mrs Scholz, sweetly_).
Little mother-in-law, she’s gilding the nuts.
MRS BUCHNER.
Time’s getting on, Ida! You must make yourself beautiful, he may be here
at any moment.
IDA (_startled_).
What? Already!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh, don’t trouble! She’s much too beautiful for him as it is.
MRS BUCHNER.
I’ve put the blue out for you (_calling after Ida_), and put on the
brooch; don’t forget.
[_Exit Ida._
MRS BUCHNER (_continuing, to Mrs Scholz_).
She doesn’t care a bit for jewellery.
[_The outer door of the house opens and shuts._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Wait—who—(_to Mrs Buchner_) please will you—I can’t see him yet—I—
MRS BUCHNER (_calling up the stairs_).
Ida! your William is here.
[_Dr Scholz enters through the glass door. He is unusually
tall, broad-shouldered, very bloated. The face is fat,
complexion muddy, the eyes sometimes glittering, with wandering
glances, but usually dull and lack-lustre. He has a grey,
stubbly beard, partially covering his cheeks; his movements
are clumsy and tremulous; he speaks brokenly, as if with his
mouth full; stumbles over syllables, and is interrupted by
gasping inspirations. He is slovenly dressed: a velvet vest,
coat and trousers of nondescript colour, once brown—cap with a
large peak, stone-grey in colour, peculiar in shape; red silk
neckerchief, linen creased. He uses a large Turkish pocket
handkerchief. On entering he carries a malacca cane with a
staghorn crook in his right hand, and has flung about him a
large military cloak, over his left arm a fur foot-bag._
DR SCHOLZ.
Servus! servus!
MRS SCHOLZ (_staring at him as if at an apparition_).
Fritz!—
DR SCHOLZ.
As you see.
MRS SCHOLZ (_throwing her arms about him with a scream_).
Fritz!!
AUGUSTA (_opens the door L., starts back_).
Father!
[_Mrs Buchner goes off backwards through the left door, her
eyes fixed on Dr Scholz._
DR SCHOLZ.
Yes, yes, yes, it’s I. But first of all—is Friebe there?
FRIEBE (_peeping through kitchen door, starts—coming forward_).
The doctor! (_He rushes to him and seizes and kisses both his hands._)
Now, would anyone have believed it!
DR SCHOLZ.
St!—Just go and see—see that the house door is shut.
[_Friebe nods and obeys with joyful alacrity._
MRS SCHOLZ.
But Fritz, tell me—only tell me, my mind’s all confused (_weeping,
embraces him_). Ah Fritz! what grief you’ve caused me all this long, long
time.
DR SCHOLZ (_putting his wife gently from him_).
Ah well, my life too—we’d better not begin with reproaches. You’re just
the same doleful old thing (_with gentle bitterness_). Anyhow I should
certainly not have troubled you—if it hadn’t been for—(_Friebe takes his
cloak, etc._) There are times in life, dear Minna—if one has powerful
enemies as I have—
[_Friebe goes out through the stairway with the Dr’s
belongings._
MRS SCHOLZ (_pretending to be cross_).
Nobody _made_ you come, Fritz. Here there has always been a safe, cosy
home;—you could have lived so comfortably here.
DR SCHOLZ.
Don’t be cross—you don’t understand.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah yes! I’m only a simpleton, I suppose,—but really, you weren’t
answerable to anyone; it wasn’t at all necessary for you—
DR SCHOLZ.
—St! It was very necessary (_half mysteriously_). After guilt, atonement;
after sin, chastisement.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, yes, Fritz,—it is true—you too had much to answer for. (_From here
to the end of the conversation, she continually looks with anxiety
towards the front door, as though she feared every moment to see William
come in._) We might have been so peaceful, so contented, if you had only
let us.
DR SCHOLZ.
It was all my fault, all of it.
MRS SCHOLZ.
There, now you are unjust again.
DR SCHOLZ.
Well, I won’t argue with you; many have banded together against me,
that’s certain—for instance, in the hotels, the waiters—not one night
could I sleep in peace—up and down, up and down, in the corridors—and
always just in front of _my_ door.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But come now, they wouldn’t have disturbed you on purpose!
DR SCHOLZ.
No—? oh you!—you don’t understand!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, well, it may be, waiters are sometimes very mean.
DR SCHOLZ.
Mean!—I should think they are.—However, we can speak of that later. I
have rather a headache—(_puts his hand on the back of his head_). There!
that’s another disgraceful thing! I know well enough whom I have to
thank for that! I’ll just see whether I can’t drive it away with a sound
sleep—I am very tired.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But there’s no fire upstairs, Fritz!
DR SCHOLZ.
Think of that. From Vienna without stopping and no fire!—Never mind;
Friebe will have seen to that. Tell me about Friebe—I mean—is he still as
trustworthy?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Friebe is—what he always was.
DR SCHOLZ.
I was sure of it—well for the present—(_after he has pressed his wife’s
hand, he turns with a deep thoughtful expression and goes towards
the staircase. Noticing the Christmas tree, he stops and looks at it
forlornly._) What is that?
MRS SCHOLZ (_disturbed, shamefaced, and a little frightened_).
We’re keeping Christmas.
DR SCHOLZ.
Keeping Christmas!—(_after a long pause, lost in memories_) It’s a
long—long—time (_turning and speaking with real emotion_). And you—you’ve
grown quite white!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, Fritz—both of us!
[_Dr Scholz nodding turns away and goes off through stairway L._
MRS BUCHNER (_entering quickly from R._).
So your husband has come back?
MRS SCHOLZ.
It’s as though—as if—I don’t know—Christ! what am I to think!
MRS BUCHNER.
That it is a gift, dear friend, for which we must all be thankful.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah! what he looks like! How he has lived! What an existence!—from one
country to another, from one town to—ah! he’s gone through something!
[_Mrs Buchner is going to stairway._
MRS SCHOLZ.
What are you going to do?
MRS BUCHNER.
Tell Ida of the joyful event.
[_Goes off through stairway._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes!—no, no,—what are you thinking of! We mustn’t let that out. If my
husband finds out that anyone but himself lives up there, I should get
into nice trouble.
MRS BUCHNER (_from the stairs_).
I’ll go very gently.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, quite gently.—That would be dreadful!
MRS BUCHNER.
I’m going quite gently.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!—Well—very, very gently!
AUGUSTA (_hastily entering from R._).
Father is here?
MRS SCHOLZ (_beside herself_).
Why, of course! And now what’s to be done! The next thing will be
William—Oh! the deadly fear I’ve been in! if he and his father were to
meet! Any minute he may come in! What an experience to go through for an
old woman like me!
AUGUSTA.
What an extraordinary sensation, mamma, extraordinary!—We were so used
to—It’s like a man risen from the dead after long years.—I’m frightened,
mamma.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Do you suppose he’s come to the end of his money?
AUGUSTA.
Now—that would be—Well! I—that would be the last straw!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, in that case, how should we manage at all! We might as well go and
beg at once.
[_Ida fully dressed enters from stairway, presses Augusta’s
hand joyfully._
IDA.
Gussie! (_winningly_) It’s really true! Oh! I am so glad.
[_Mrs Scholz and Augusta show a certain painful emotion._
[_Robert enters from one of the doors R.; he is of middle
height, slender, pale-faced, and haggard-looking. His eyes
are sunken, and at times glitter feverishly; moustache and
imperial. He smokes Turkish tobacco out of a noticeably
short-stemmed pipe._
ROBERT (_lightly_).
You’re going to have it warm here, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now _he’s_ beginning!
AUGUSTA.
For all I care!
[_Steals sidelong glances at Ida’s dress._
ROBERT (_to Ida, who has looked at him reproachfully_).
Yes, that’s how I’m made, Miss Ida!
IDA (_shaking her head at him incredulously_).
No! no!
AUGUSTA (_exploding_).
You’re too maddening, Robert!
ROBERT.
Not intentionally! Don’t _get_ mad!
[_Augusta makes a contemptuous gesture._
ROBERT.
And then——?
AUGUSTA.
And then!—And then!—Bosh!
ROBERT (_with simulated astonishment_).
I beg your pardon—I thought—but you no longer depend on mere outward
charms!
IDA (_soothingly_).
Oh! Mr Robert!
ROBERT.
H’m, mustn’t I defend myself?
AUGUSTA (_half choked with tears_).
Just like you! Just like you. Your whole—my age—it’s infamous of you!
Mrs Buchner! isn’t it too mean of him? To me! I—I who have stuck to
mother—through the best—most beautiful time of my young life!—whilst all
of you—I—just as if I’d been a servant-girl!
ROBERT.
On my word!—that has the true ring—try the stage! (_with an altered
manner: roughly_) Don’t play the fool; just think! you with a martyr’s
halo, that would be too funny! You’d have come off even worse anywhere
else than you have at home, that’s the truth of it!
AUGUSTA.
Mother! you can bear witness—haven’t I refused three proposals?
ROBERT.
Pff! If mother had only forked out the necessary money the gentlemen
would no doubt have included you in the bargain.
MRS SCHOLZ (_stepping up to Robert, holding her hand out_).
There, take a knife—cut it out of me—cut the money out of my hand!
AUGUSTA.
Listen to me! Would you like to see the letters of refusal?
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_).
Children! (_She makes a movement as if to bare her breast for a
death-stroke._) Here—rather kill me at once! Haven’t you so much pity for
me? Not so much? What? Ah! good Lord! Not five minutes! I never saw such
children; not five minutes can you keep peace!
ROBERT.
Exactly, that’s what I said: things are warming up again.
[_Friebe comes importantly from the stairway; he whispers to
Mrs Scholz, whereupon she gives him a key. Friebe goes out
through cellar door. Robert has stood watching this proceeding._
ROBERT (_as Friebe disappears down the cellar steps_).
Aha!
AUGUSTA (_who has kept her eye on Robert: breaking out furiously_).
You haven’t a shred of filial feeling!—not one shred!
ROBERT.
And then——?
AUGUSTA.
But you’re a good hand at acting—you lie abominably; and that’s the most
disgusting part of it.
ROBERT.
About father, do you mean?
AUGUSTA.
Especially about father.
ROBERT (_shrugging his shoulders_).
If you mean——
AUGUSTA.
Yes—yes—that—_that_! Yes—for—if it were _not_ so, then, yes _then_ you
would be a scoundrel——
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_).
Will you two be quiet or——
ROBERT (_without noticing her_).
Then I am a scoundrel—well and then?——
[_Ida, who for a long time has shown restless expectation goes
out through glass door._
AUGUSTA.
Pfui! shameless!
ROBERT.
Shameless—just so. So I am.
MRS BUCHNER.
Mr Robert! I don’t believe you—you are better than you would have us
believe—better than you yourself believe!
ROBERT (_with slight but increasing sarcasm, coldly_).
My dear Mrs Buchner! it is no doubt very kind of you—but as I said—I
hardly know—to what this honour—indeed I can lay no claim to your
indulgence. My self-esteem is at the present moment by no means so slight
that I feel the need of anyone to——
MRS BUCHNER (_slightly bewildered_).
That isn’t at all what I mean—only—your _father_?
ROBERT.
My father for me is a certain Fritz Scholz, doctor of medicine.
AUGUSTA.
Oh yes—go on!
ROBERT.
And if I cannot feel towards this man quite so indifferent as towards any
other tomfool, it is because I—and then—(_he smokes_) because I—well just
this—I am myself to a certain extent the product of his folly.
MRS BUCHNER (_hardly believing her ears_).
Excuse me! I can’t follow you so far. How can you say such a thing?—It
really quite upsets me.
MRS SCHOLZ (_to Mrs Buchner_).
There, there!—You’ll see things in this house——
AUGUSTA.
Now what do you mean by that, mother? We are—_what_ we are. Other people
who do—Lord knows what—they’re no better!
ROBERT.
As a matter of fact there are always simple souls to be found who are
never happy unless they can potter about tinkering their neighbours’
affairs—exploded ideas!—Rubbish!
MRS BUCHNER (_seizing Robert by both hands, with feeling_).
Mr Robert! I feel under a distinct obligation to you. I’m quite charmed.
Honestly, you haven’t offended me in the least!
ROBERT (_a little taken aback_).
You are an extraordinary woman!
[_Friebe comes from the cellar; he carries in his left
hand three bottles of red wine, the bottle necks between
his fingers, a bottle of cognac under his left arm. In his
right hand he has the cellar key. Advancing to Mrs Scholz,
importantly._]—
FRIEBE.
Now then—the cigars.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Good gracious, Friebe, I really don’t know—
ROBERT.
In the writing-table, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah—yes!—
[_She takes a bunch of keys and fumbles nervously for the right
one._
AUGUSTA.
Why! you know the key of the desk!
ROBERT.
The one with the straight ward.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes! wait a minute!
ROBERT.
Give it to me.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Wait—wait—here—ah!—no!—I’m quite confused! (_handing Robert the bunch_).
There!
ROBERT (_detaching the right key and passing it to Friebe_).
There, I trust my father’s cigars may meet with your approval.
FRIEBE.
There you are! We shan’t get him away from them all day! (_bell rings
loudly_) Coming—coming! (_goes off upstairs_).
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now the wine will soon come to an end!—Good heavens! What are we coming
to! All that wine. Always those strong, expensive cigars! I tell you he
will ruin himself!
ROBERT.
Well, it’s a free country!
MRS BUCHNER.
What do you mean?
ROBERT.
Everyone has a right to amuse himself in his own way. I, at any rate,
would not have my right interfered with, not even by law. H’m, it’s
extraordinary!
MRS BUCHNER.
What!
ROBERT.
Extraordinary!
MRS BUCHNER.
Why do you look at me so critically? Is it something about me that is
_extraordinary_?
ROBERT.
Depends how you look at it! You’ve been with us several days, and you’ve
not yet thought of going—!
AUGUSTA.
What a way to talk!
MRS SCHOLZ.
They _won’t_ stop!
[_She shakes her head despairingly._
ROBERT (_with brutal candour_).
Well mother, isn’t it true? Have any strangers ever been able to stand
us more than half a day? Haven’t they all cleared out?—The Schulzes—the
Lehmanns?
AUGUSTA.
As if we were dependent on strangers—for my part we’re enough for
ourselves.
ROBERT.
Oh _more_ than enough! (_Brutally_) I tell you, Mrs Buchner, they
would fly at each other’s throats before perfect strangers—like
wild beasts. Mother would tear off the tablecloth, father smash the
water-bottle—cheerful, eh?—Pretty scenes!—Charming impressions for
children!
AUGUSTA.
You ought to crawl out of sight for shame, you mean wretch, you!
[_Goes off quickly._
MRS SCHOLZ.
You see? _This_ is what I’ve endured for years—_years_!
[_Goes out in great agitation._
ROBERT (_going on, quite unmoved_).
And no wonder. A man of forty marries a girl of sixteen and carries her
off to this godforsaken corner. A man who has served as surgeon in the
Turkish army, and travelled through Japan. A cultivated, enterprising
spirit, who works out the most daring projects—joins himself to a
woman who a few years before was firmly convinced, that America was
one of the stars in the sky. Truly I don’t exaggerate! Well, the
result—a stagnant, corrupt, fermenting swamp—out of which we have had
the doubtful advantage of growing—Horrible!—Love?—not a trace. Mutual
understanding?—respect?—not a touch—and this is the soil from which we
children have grown.
MRS BUCHNER.
Mr Robert!—I want to beg you—
ROBERT.
All right! I don’t want to talk of it. Besides the story is—
MRS BUCHNER.
No, no!—I want to ask you for something—pressing.
ROBERT.
Ask me—what?
MRS BUCHNER.
Couldn’t you—to please me—couldn’t you?—wouldn’t it be possible—just this
one evening—couldn’t you put off your mask?
ROBERT.
That’s good! Put off my mask?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, for it’s not really you—it’s not really your own face that you show
us.
ROBERT.
What an idea!
MRS BUCHNER.
Promise me—Mr Robert!—
ROBERT.
But I really don’t know—
MRS BUCHNER.
William—your brother William may come at any moment—and—
ROBERT (_interrupting_).
Mrs Buchner, if you would only—Believe me!—your efforts, I assure you,
are quite useless—all this will lead to nothing—absolutely nothing—it’s
all been spoilt for us—ruined—bungled from the very beginning—bungled
through every year of our lives. There’s nothing more to be done.
It all looks very—promising—Christmas tree—candles—presents—family
gathering—That’s only on top: a downright damnable lie—nothing else! And
now—Father!—If I didn’t know how unmanageable he is—on my honour I should
believe—that it was you—who brought him here—
MRS BUCHNER.
Indeed no! That is just what has quickened my hopes. It is not chance,
it’s providence—and so from my heart I beg you to be kind and brotherly
to William. If you only knew how highly he speaks of you, with what love
and what respect—
ROBERT (_interrupting_).
H’m!—and what use will it be?
MRS BUCHNER.
What?
ROBERT.
Why should I be kind and brotherly to him?
MRS BUCHNER.
You ask that!
ROBERT.
Yes.
MRS BUCHNER.
Well—at least not to spoil his return home for him.
ROBERT.
Oh, we don’t affect each other as you seem to think, and, besides, if you
imagine he is going to be overcome by a subtle emotion on first entering
here—
MRS BUCHNER.
Your brother is so good—a really fine character!—He must have fought a
great fight before bringing himself to this point. He is coming with an
intense desire for reconciliation, that I can _assure_ you!
ROBERT.
I can’t understand all that. Reconciled—to what?—That’s what I can’t
see. As a rule, we understand one another fairly well in this family.
But this is quite beyond me! I’ve nothing to say against him, but on the
other hand there’s no disguising facts.—I ask you—do you imagine that
I have any exaggerated respect for my father?—Of course not.—Or that I
have any—love—for him?—Or any childlike feeling of gratitude?—You see,
I haven’t the slightest reason for any such feeling. In all our lives,
the most that we have ever been to each other, has been a source of
amusement. At moments, when we have blamed each other for our common
unhappiness, we have actually hated each other. Well, between father
and William this same hatred grew. That I understand well enough. That I
haven’t done what William did is perhaps an accident. So I have nothing
against him—_nota bene_, so long as I don’t see him. But if I see him,
then all my logic goes to the devil, for I am rather,—rather—h’m, what
shall I say?—Well, _then_ I only see the man who has struck my father,
not his, but _my_ father, struck him in the face!
MRS BUCHNER.
Oh my God!—
ROBERT.
And then I can answer for nothing—you see?—absolutely for nothing.
MRS BUCHNER.
My God!—Was that it!—Struck him, you say?—In—the—f—, in the face? His own
father?—
ROBERT.
Just that.
MRS BUCHNER (_half beside herself_).
Oh my God!—But then—then I can indeed!—Ah! then I must speak to him at
once.—Your good old father—for—
ROBERT (_quite startled_).
To whom?—
MRS BUCHNER (_bursting into tears_).
To your poor dear old ill-treated father!
ROBERT (_trying to restrain her_).
For heaven’s sake what can you—
MRS BUCHNER.
Let me go—I must—I must—!
[_Goes through stairway._
ROBERT (_calling after her_).
Mrs Buchner! (_Turning back_) Damned hysteria!—
[_He shrugs his shoulders, and paces the room more than once;
he makes a movement as if to hurry after her, but finally
gives up the idea, and forces himself into a state of apparent
indifference; he first occupies himself with his pipe; knocks
it out, fills it with new tobacco from his pouch, lights it,
and seems for some minutes lost in the enjoyment of smoking.
Presently his interest is roused by the Christmas tree, and
turning to the presents on the table, he plants himself before
them; while surveying them, pipe in mouth, he laughs bitterly
more than once. Suddenly he starts, takes his pipe in his hand,
and bends low over the table: straightening himself, he seems
for the first time to discover that he is alone; looking round
as cautiously as a thief, he bends forward again, hastily
seizes the yellow silk purse, looks at it more closely, and
presses it with a sudden passionate movement to his lips. In
this movement he shows, as by a lightning flash, an eerie,
feverish passion. A noise startles him. Instantly the purse
lies where it was. On tiptoe he tries to slip away. Just as he
is disappearing through the door down R., he sees his mother
enter by the adjoining door, and on his part stands still.
Mrs Scholz goes heavily but quickly across the room to the
stairway, where she stands and listens._]
ROBERT (_turning back_).
I say, mother, what does that woman want?
MRS SCHOLZ (_frightened_).
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!!! How you startle one!
ROBERT.
What! (_puffs_) wh—(_puffs again_), what does Mrs—Mrs Buchner really want
here, I should like to know?
MRS SCHOLZ.
What _I_ want to know is, what your father—what _he_ really wants? Ah,
just tell me! what is it?
ROBERT.
Well, you’ll scarcely refuse him a roof over his head?
MRS SCHOLZ (_perversely, almost in tears_).
I really don’t see. It’s so long since he wanted me; one was at any rate
one’s own master; now it will begin all over again. The old worry!—now in
one’s old days, one will be ordered about like a little child!
ROBERT.
Oh! how you exaggerate! It’s always the same, you will exaggerate so.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Just you wait till he sees the empty greenhouse to-morrow. There’s waste
enough without my keeping another gardener; the bee-hives, they’re
gone too. No flowers need trouble themselves to grow for anything I
care, they only give you headaches; and then the insects——I don’t know
what he gets out of it; and for that, one must be ordered about like a
good-for-nothing! The first “hallo!” startles me out of my wits. Oh, this
world is no longer any good.
ROBERT (_while Mrs Scholz speaks, shrugs his shoulders and turns to go,
then stops and answers_).
Was it ever better, then?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Better! I should think so!!
ROBERT.
Really! that must have been before my time!
[_Goes out through lower door._
MRS SCHOLZ (_listening again on stairway_).
When I remember—they’re talking upstairs (_she looks up, sees she is
alone, listens again uneasily, and finally goes out through stairway, one
hand up to her ear, her face expressing fright and curiosity_).
[_Ida and William enter through the glass door: William is of
middle height, strong, healthy-looking; fair hair, cut short;
his clothes fit well without being foppish; overcoat, hat,
satchel. His left arm is laid round Ida’s shoulders. She has
her right arm thrown around him, and with gentle force is
pushing him on._]
IDA.
You see now, you’re inside! The worst is over already.
WILLIAM.
Ah no!
[_Sighs heavily._
IDA.
You may believe me how very glad your mother is—and Gussie too. (_She
pulls off his winter gloves_) Where did you get these from!
WILLIAM.
So you know my—mother now?
IDA.
All of them, dearest; we’re sworn friends already.
WILLIAM.
And how do you—like them?
IDA.
_Dear_ people, as you know very well.
WILLIAM (_growing each moment more constrained and depressed, speaks as
though to himself_).
Extraordinary! (_his eyes catch sight of the Christmas tree, he
immediately lowers them; starting involuntarily_).
IDA.
But, dearest, surely that’s not the first Christmas tree which you—
WILLIAM.
Yes, _here_, and you cannot possibly feel with me how—how—extraordinary——
IDA (_taking off his coat; he remains passive_).
Please, please, Willy (_standing in front of him, his coat over her arm,
his hat and satchel in her hand_), Willy, look at me! (_encouragingly_)
straight—(_stands a moment drawn up to her full height, then puts the
things quickly to one side, and comes back to William_). You have
promised me!
WILLIAM.
Have you ever,—Ida,—have you ever seen a vaulted tomb hung with wreaths
and—
IDA (_shocked_).
Oh William! (_quite beside herself, throws her arms about him_) that _is_
bad of you!—that is too bad! that is really too, _too_ bad of you!
WILLIAM (_putting her gently from him with suppressed emotion_).
All that means nothing, nothing at all. (_Coldly repelling her._) Be
reasonable, be reasonable!
IDA.
Oh! what _is_ the matter with you!
WILLIAM (_looking through the tree_).
Everything else is as it used to be. Ida, you must really, really
remember what this all means to me.
IDA.
I’m getting so frightened, Willy! Perhaps, after all, it would have been
better to——Mother certainly did not know that it would be _so_ hard for
you,—and I—I only thought—because mother said—it wasn’t that _I_ wished
it—! But now, now that you’ve got so far, do—will you?—for my sake! Ah!
(_putting her arms round him_).
WILLIAM (_drawn a little further into the room by Ida’s embrace, with
sighs of deep inward disturbance_).
Every step forwards—what I have lived through in this very place!
IDA.
Only don’t stir that up! Don’t stir all that up!
WILLIAM.
See! now it’s getting clear to me—your mother should not have persuaded
me to this. She’s always so confident,—so—I knew—I told her—but that
simple absolute confidence! If only I hadn’t allowed myself to be blinded—
IDA.
Ah! how seriously you take everything, William! Believe me, you will
speak differently to-morrow,—as soon as you’ve once seen them all again.
Then you’ll at any rate have done your part; you will have proved that
you were in earnest in your wish to live at peace with your family.
WILLIAM.
To see it all again! all the old places! Everything comes back—so
vividly, you know—the past comes so close to me—so oppressively close—one
can—one is quite helpless—
IDA (_embracing him with tears_).
When I see you like this, William—ah, don’t think—for pity’s sake don’t
think I would have urged you. I am so frightfully sorry for you!
WILLIAM.
Ida, I can tell _you_!—I assure you—I must get away from here! That’s
evident.—I’m not equal to this struggle evidently; it might wreck me
altogether! You are such a child, Ida! a sweet, innocent child—how should
you know! Thank God indeed that you cannot even dream what I—what this
man whom you know—I can tell _you_—Hatred!—Bitterness!—the very moment I
came in—
IDA.
Shall we go? shall we go away? this minute?
WILLIAM.
Yes! For in these surroundings you—even you—I can scarcely separate you
in my mind from the rest! I’m losing you! It’s criminal in me the mere
fact that you should be here!
IDA.
If you could only explain, William, there must be—something terrible must
have happened here that—
WILLIAM.
Here! A crime—all the more terrible because it did not count as one.
Here my life was given to me, and here that same life—I can tell _you_,
was—I had almost said systematically destroyed, till it grew loathsome
to me—till I dragged it—bowed down like a beast of burden—crept about
with it—buried myself, hid myself.—What can I say—one suffers beyond
words!—Fury—hate—revenge—despair without ceasing, day and night; the same
gnawing devouring pain (_pointing to his forehead_) _here_ (_pointing to
his heart_) and _there_!
IDA.
Only—what can I do, William? I dare not trust myself to advise you in any
way, I am so—
WILLIAM.
You should have been contented to leave me with at least the happiness
that I had gained. It had all grown so mercifully dim, I realise now
_how_ dim! (_overcome with excitement, he sinks on to a chair_).
IDA (_with a suppressed cry_).
William!
MRS BUCHNER (_rushing in through the stairway to William_).
William! listen to me! Only remember now what has been said between us.
Now that I am so much to you—I implore you—now show your—yes, I demand
it—I demand it from you, as the mother of my child! William, it rests
with _you_ now—with you only, William! you have been terribly, terribly
to blame; you have a terrible debt to pay—you shall be happy again; I
have done it, I have spoken to your father—he—
WILLIAM (_springs up, straight and stiff, with fixed eyes, stammering_):—
F—F—father!—what—t—to my f—father (_he staggers and stumbles like one out
of his mind, and catches at his overcoat_) I—
IDA (_frightened_).
Willy! Willy!
WILLIAM (_makes signs that he must not be stopped_).
IDA.
Ah, mother! William! you—you shouldn’t have told him so suddenly.
MRS BUCHNER.
William! are you a man! you cannot have deceived us. If you have still a
spark of love for us—for Ida, I demand it of you. I—a woman—
IDA (_intercepts William, who has seized his outdoor things, flings her
arms round and holds him fast_).
You shall not go—or else I—mother, if he goes, I go with him!
WILLIAM.
Why have you concealed this from me?
IDA.
Never! don’t think so badly of us! We have concealed nothing from you!
All of us, your mother, your sister, we had not an idea, any more than
you had; he only came a few minutes ago,—without letting anyone know
beforehand, and so, you see—I thought immediately—
WILLIAM.
Who has told you that?
MRS BUCHNER (_in tears, seizing his hands_).
You were terribly, terribly to blame.
WILLIAM.
So you know?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, now.
WILLIAM.
Everything?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, everything, and you see I was right: you were still dragging a load,
that was the secret.
WILLIAM.
You know that I—?
MRS BUCHNER (_nods affirmatively_).
WILLIAM.
And Ida, is she to be sacrificed to a man like—like me? Does she know
it—do you know it, Ida, too?
IDA.
No, William, but whether I know it or not, that really does not matter.
WILLIAM.
No?—This hand, that you, that you have often,—this hand (_to Mrs
Buchner_), it _was_ that?
MRS BUCHNER (_nods as before_).
WILLIAM (_to Ida_).
How shamefully I have deceived you! No, I can’t tell you—another time!
MRS BUCHNER.
William, I know what I am asking, but I—you _must_ humble yourself before
your poor father; till then you will never feel quite free! Call to him,
pray to him. Ah! William! you _must_! You must cling to his knees, and
if he spurns you with his foot, you must not defend yourself! You must
not speak a word! patient as a lamb! Believe me, a woman who wishes the
_best_ for you!
WILLIAM.
You _don’t_ know, you cannot know, what you are asking of me! Ah! you may
thank God, Mrs Buchner, that he has hidden the extent of your cruelty
from you! Infamous it may have been what I did! Sacrilegious!—But
what I have gone through, here—fought through, suffered—those fearful
tortures—he laid the full burden, all the burden on me, and at the end
of all, that accursed sin! But in spite of all (_after a long deep look
into Ida’s eyes, bracing himself as if to a firm resolution_), perhaps I
shall succeed—in spite of all!
ACT II
The room is empty. It is lighted partly by a lamp, with a red
shade, placed in the arch of the stairway, but principally from
the open doors of the side room. Here the company is seated at
table, as is evident from the ringing of glasses and clatter of
plates, knives and forks.
[_Ida, followed at once by William, comes out of the side room._
IDA.
At last! (_Coaxingly._) And now, you _must_ think of your father, Willy.
Don’t be angry with me, but since you have a favour to ask your father,
you mustn’t wait till he comes down to you.
WILLIAM.
Did father think of coming down to dinner?
IDA.
Of course! Mamma has—
[_William seizes Ida suddenly in his arms and presses her to
him impulsively with passionate strength._
IDA.
Oh—oh—you—If anyone—my hair will be all—
[_William lets his arms fall nervelessly from round her, folds
his hands, hangs his head, and stands before her suddenly
sobered, like an arrested criminal._
(_Smoothing her hair._) Oh, what a rough boy you are, sometimes!
WILLIAM.
Rough you call it—I should call it something quite different.
IDA.
Oh, Willy! why are you so depressed again? All in a minute! Really,
you’re incorrigible!
WILLIAM (_gripping her hand, puts his arm round her shoulders, makes her
walk with him quickly through the hall_).
Incorrigible? Yes—you see—that’s just it; I’m afraid of nothing so much
as that I—as that—all your trouble with me will be thrown away, I’m so
terribly changeable! (_Touching his forehead._) There’s no peace here.
Any second might decide my fate! I’m afraid of myself! To be always
running away from one’s self. Have you any idea of what that means? Well,
that’s what I am, what I have been all my life.
IDA.
After all—but no, that won’t do—
WILLIAM.
But do say—
IDA.
I’ve often thought—really—it has seemed to me so often that—don’t be
angry—but that really there is nothing from which you need fly. I myself
sometimes think—
WILLIAM.
Ah, my dearest! You mustn’t—Did you notice Robert—did you see?
IDA.
No—what?
WILLIAM.
Did you see how he met me? He—you see—he _knows_ that I have to fly from
myself, he knows me. Just ask him, he will make it clear to you, that is
to say, he threatens to—Ah, I know better! Only just watch how he always
looks at me. He means me to be anxious, to be frightened—Ha! ha! ha! No,
my dear brother, we’re not so pitiful as all that yet! And now you _do_
see, don’t you, Ida, that I daren’t let you—I mean, you mustn’t have any
illusions about me. There is only one way. I must be frank with you—I
must manage _that_ somehow—I fight for that. When you know me through
and through, then—I mean if you can bear with me, if you can still—love
me—then—that would be—then I think something might arise in me, something
brave, even proud—then I should _really_ live, and if they were all to
despise me—(_Ida nestles against him devotedly._) And now, before I go up
to father, I’ll tell you too—you know what I mean?
[_Ida nods._
WILLIAM.
Now you shall—I must force myself to tell you what this—between me and my
father—yes, Ida, I _will_ do it—(_They walk arm in arm._) Just imagine!
I was here on a visit.—No, I can’t begin like that, I must go farther
back. You know before that I had been making my own way for a long time.
I suppose I hadn’t told you that?
IDA.
No—But quietly, only not so much—Don’t excite yourself so, Willy!
WILLIAM.
You see—there again! I am a coward. I’ve never yet dared to tell you what
my life has been. In any case it’s a risk—it’s a risk—even to one’s self.
Ah! well, if I can’t even bring myself to that point, how shall I ever
manage to go up to father?
IDA.
Ah, don’t—don’t torture yourself so! just now, when you have so much to
bear!
WILLIAM.
Ah! you are afraid? You’re afraid of what you may hear?
IDA.
Sh! you must not speak like that.
WILLIAM.
Well then, just picture it. Father spent his life up there. He had always
lived alone till he met mother, and he soon fell back into the old
lonely, fantastic way of life. All of a sudden he descended on us—Robert
and me,—he never troubled his head about Augusta.... Ten solid hours a
day we pored over books; when I look at our prison—even to-day—it was
next his study—you must have seen it?
IDA.
The great room upstairs?
WILLIAM.
Yes, that one. Once we had entered that room, the sun might shine as
brightly as it liked through the windows, it was night for us inside.
Well, then, you see, we used to take refuge with mother; we simply ran
away from him; and then there used to be scenes—mother pulling me by one
arm, father by the other. It came to this, that Friebe had to carry us
upstairs. We defended ourselves: we used to bite his hands. Of course,
nothing was any use; our life only became more unendurable—but we
remained obstinate and—I know now—father began to hate us. We drove him
to such a point that one day he hunted us downstairs; he couldn’t endure
us any more, the very sight of us was hateful to him.
IDA.
But your father—you’ll admit he meant well—he wanted you to learn a great
deal, and so—
WILLIAM.
Up to a certain point he may have meant well—may have—but at that time
we were only boys of nine or ten and afterwards the good intentions
disappeared. On the contrary, his intention then was to let us go utterly
to ruin. Yes, yes, mother was a cipher. For five years we were left
to ourselves in the most reckless way: we were scamps and loafers. I
had one thing left—my music; Robert had nothing. But we took to other
things besides. We shall scarcely ever get over the effects of some
of _them_.—At last I suppose father’s conscience pricked him; there
were frightful scenes with mother. In the end we were packed off to an
Institution, and when I could not stand the slavery of that any more and
ran away, he had me stopped and sent to Hamburg. The good-for-nothing
should go to America. The good-for-nothing naturally ran away again. I
let my parents alone and starved and fought my own way through the world.
Robert has much the same experience to look back upon. Nevertheless, in
father’s eyes we have remained good-for-nothings: later on I was simple
enough to ask him for some help—as a right, not as charity; I wanted
to go to the Conservatoire. Then he wrote to me, on a postcard, “Be a
cobbler.” And so you see, Ida, we are in a way self-made men, but we’re
not particularly proud of it.
IDA (_smiling_).
Really, Willy, I can’t help it! I do sympathise with you so, but at this
moment I can’t help—Oh, don’t look so strangely at me, please—please—
WILLIAM.
Ah, Ida, it’s bitter, not a thing to laugh at.
IDA (_breaking out_).
It’s a feeling of _joy_, William! I must tell you! It may be selfish,
but I am so inexpressibly glad that you—that you can be so much in need
of—Ah, I will be so good to you, Willy. I see clearly what I have to
do. Ah! I am quite confused! I pity you so, but the more I pity you,
the more glad I am. Do you understand? I mean, I am thinking how I may
perhaps—everything—all the love that you have had to go without—I may
perhaps more than—
WILLIAM.
If I’m only worth it—for now something is coming for which I alone am to
blame—Years ago—no! it’s—I used to come afterwards on a sort of visit to
mother. Picture to yourself, Ida, when I saw all that misery again, just
imagine how I used to feel.
IDA.
Your mother—suffered very much?
WILLIAM.
I think differently now in many ways about mother. In any case, father
was most to blame. In those days it used to seem to me as if he kept
mother here against her will. I even wanted her to separate from him.
IDA.
But, your mother surely couldn’t—
WILLIAM.
She didn’t see it as I did. She hadn’t the courage. Well, what father
used to look like in my eyes, you can perhaps imagine.
IDA.
But William! Perhaps you too, were not quite just to your father—a man—
WILLIAM (_without noticing Ida’s interruption._)
Once I committed the folly of bringing a friend—nonsense! not a friend, a
chance acquaintance, a musical fellow. I brought him here with me. That
was quite refreshing for mother; she played duets with him every day for
a whole week, and then—frightful!—as true as I’m here he—not the shadow
of a possibility! Yet at the end of the week even the servants flung it
in her face!
IDA.
Forgive me! I don’t—I—flung what?
WILLIAM.
Mother—mother was supposed to—my mother—supposed to—just think, they
actually dared to accuse her of it openly, she—a secret understanding
with—that she—I taxed her with it—the girl who said it—insolent—the
coachman had told her. I went to the coachman, and he—he stuck to it—had
it from the master, from the master himself—, naturally I—was it possible
I could believe such a thing! At least I tried not to—until I myself
overheard—in the stables—father and the stable boy—you may believe my
very hands tingled when I heard him—about my mother.
IDA.
Only do be—try—don’t excite yourself so _fearfully_. You are quite—
WILLIAM.
I don’t know any more—I only know there is something in a man—his will is
a mere wisp of straw. One must go through it to—It swept over me like a
flood. A state like—and in this state I found myself suddenly in father’s
room. I saw him. He was doing something—I can’t remember what. And then
I—literally—I thrashed him—with these hands.
[_He can scarcely hold himself up._
[_Ida dries the tears from her eyes. Pale and trembling she
stands some moments looking at William, then, crying quietly,
kisses him on the forehead._
WILLIAM.
You angel of pity! (_The Doctor’s voice is heard on the stair._) And
now—if ever—
[_He braces himself, Ida kisses him again. He has gripped her
hand. As the voice of the Doctor ceases, merry laughter is
heard from room R._
WILLIAM (_alluding to the laughter, as well as to the Doctor’s step,
heard descending the stairs_).
You have a wonderful power.
[_Another hand grip between them, and before Ida goes out she
turns round._
IDA (_again seizing William’s hand at door_).
Be brave.
[_Exit._
DR SCHOLZ (_still on the stairs_).
Eh! Nonsense! To the right, Friebe. Eh! My elbow! leave go, leave go!
Confound you.
[_During the Doctor’s approach William shows more and more
excitement. His colour changes quickly, he thrusts his hands
through his hair, breathes deeply, makes movements with his
right hand as though playing the piano. It is quite evident
that he is torn by different emotions, that his resolution is
shaken. He seems about to rush away, but is stopped by the
Doctor’s entrance. He has caught hold of the back of a chair
to support himself and stands there white and trembling. The
Doctor, drawn up to his full imposing height, measures his son
with a look in which terror, hate and contempt are expressed.
There is a silence. Friebe, who has entered with the Doctor,
whom he has led and lighted down the stairs, makes use of the
pause to slink away into the kitchen. William shows marked
signs of his mental conflict. He tries to speak, his voice
fails him, only his lips move noiselessly. He takes his hand
from the chair back and steps up to the old man. He stumbles,
staggers, and almost falls; stops and tries to speak again, and
cannot; drags himself nearer, and clasping his hands, sinks
at the old man’s feet. In Doctor Scholz’s face the expression
has changed from hate to astonishment, growing sympathy and
confusion._
DR SCHOLZ.
My boy—my dear boy! My—(_he tries to raise him by his hands_.) Only get
up! (_He takes William’s head, which has sunk between both hands, and
turns it towards him._) My boy—only look at me! Ah! what is the matter?
[_William moves his lips._
DR SCHOLZ (_with trembling voice_).
What—what are you saying to me?
WILLIAM.
Father—I—
DR SCHOLZ.
What?—Do you mean?
WILLIAM.
I have—I h—ha—have—
DR SCHOLZ.
Nonsense, nonsense. No more of such—
WILLIAM.
I have sinned against you—
DR SCHOLZ.
Nonsense, nonsense. I don’t know what you are talking about! Bygones are
bygones! For my sake—my boy!
WILLIAM.
Only take it from me! Take this burden from me!
DR SCHOLZ.
Forgiven and forgotten, boy! Forgiven and forgotten!
WILLIAM.
Thank—
[_He draws a deep breath and loses consciousness._
DR SCHOLZ.
My boy! What are you doing—what—
[_He lifts William, quite unconscious, drags and puts him
in a large armchair near R. table. Whilst he does so, Ida,
Robert, Augusta, Mrs Scholz and Mrs Buchner come hastily out of
dining-room, Friebe out of the kitchen._
Some wine—quick, some wine.
[_Ida in a moment goes and returns with wine._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!! water! sprinkle him with water!
[_Dr Scholz puts wine to his mouth._
AUGUSTA.
What was it?
IDA (_pale and in tears, laying one cheek against William’s arm_).
How icy cold he is.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But what has the boy got into such a state of excitement for? that’s what
I should like to know. That is completely—
ROBERT (_seizes her hand and stops her_).
Mother!
MRS BUCHNER.
Sprinkle more water, more water, Doctor!
DR SCHOLZ.
Tch! Tch! have none of you any Eau-de-Cologne?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes (_giving him small bottle_). Please—
DR SCHOLZ.
Thanks.
[_He wets the fainting man’s brow._
IDA (_to Doctor_).
It is only—isn’t it? but (_she bursts into tears_) he looks so—just as if
he were—he looks like death.
[_Robert comforts Ida._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Why, the poor boy’s in a cold sweat.
[_Wipes his brow; William yawns._
DR SCHOLZ.
Sh!
[_He and the rest watch William in suspense. William clears his
throat, stretches himself, opens and shuts his eyes like one
overcome with sleep, lays his head back as if to sleep._
DR SCHOLZ (_audibly_).
Thank God!
[_He straightens himself, wipes his forehead with his
handkerchief, and half touched, half embarrassed, surveys the
others. Ida has fallen on her mother’s neck between laughter
and tears. Robert, hardly master of his emotion, stands with
clasped hands and glances at the others alternately. Augusta
goes hastily up and down, her handkerchief pressed to her
mouth, and every time she passes William pauses a moment to
look at him searchingly. Friebe goes out on tiptoe. The
Doctor’s eyes meet his wife’s; touched, she ventures timidly to
approach him, gently seizes his hand and pats his back._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Dear old man!
AUGUSTA (_following her mother, embraces and kisses her father, who
suffers it without removing his hand from his wife’s_).
My dearest father!
[_Robert with sudden resolution steps up to his father and
shakes his hand. Mrs Scholz lets go of the Doctor’s hand
and leads Ida to him. Dr Scholz looks first at Ida, then at
William, and then at Mrs Buchner. Mrs Buchner nods assent. Dr
Scholz makes a grimace which expresses “I will say nothing
against it, I may be mistaken,” and then stretches out his
hand to the girl. Ida comes to him, takes his hand, bends over
it and kisses it. Dr Scholz immediately draws his hand back,
startled. William sighs deeply; all look at him. Augusta goes
off to the adjoining room, beckoning Mrs Scholz. Mrs Scholz
makes a sign to the Doctor that they should all go into the
next room because of William. Dr Scholz nods assentingly and
goes off quietly hand in hand with Mrs Scholz. Mrs Buchner, who
has signed to Ida to remain with William, also goes._
ROBERT (_in a low voice_).
Miss Ida, would you—would you leave me to watch him?
IDA (_with joyful surprise_).
Yes, indeed.
[_Presses his hand and goes off after the others. Robert draws
a chair near to William and sits down, watching him. After a
time he takes his pipe from his pocket, is about to light it,
then suddenly remembers the presence of his brother and puts it
back. William sighs and stretches his limbs._
ROBERT (_quickly, cautiously_).
William!
WILLIAM (_clears his throat, opens his eyes, not realising at first where
he is, and then as though Robert had only just spoken_).
Yes.
ROBERT.
How do you feel now?
WILLIAM (_after looking thoughtfully at Robert, in a weak voice_).
Robert? Eh?
ROBERT.
Yes, it’s I, Robert. How do you feel?
WILLIAM.
Well, (_clears his throat_) quite well, now.
[_He laughs constrainedly, makes a faint attempt to get up, but
fails._
ROBERT.
Oh, that’s a little bit too soon, eh?
[_William nods, sighs and shuts his eyes again as if exhausted.
Pause. William re-opens his eyes fully and speaks low but
clearly._
WILLIAM.
What has been going on here?
ROBERT.
I think, Willy, it will be best if we let that be for the present. I’ll
assure you of _one thing_, it’s something that I, for one, would never
have believed possible.
WILLIAM (_with emotion_).
Nor I.
ROBERT.
How on earth should a fellow—ah, rubbish! It was absolutely impossible to
foresee it. All the same it happened.
WILLIAM.
It comes back to me now, little by little; it was pleasant.
[_His eyes fill with tears._
ROBERT (_with a slight quiver in his voice_).
Sentimental! Just like a woman! There’s one thing certain, our judgment
was pretty wide of the mark; we haven’t known the old man really; it’s no
use thinking we have.
WILLIAM.
Father? No, we were all so blind! so blind!
ROBERT.
Yes, God knows, we were.
WILLIAM.
How strange it seems. The old fellow really cares for us; he’s a real
good sort.
ROBERT.
He can be, and till now I never knew it.
WILLIAM.
A good deal is beginning to dawn on me.
ROBERT.
With my brain and so on, you know, I have grasped it long enough.
Everything that happened had to be; I never held father responsible—at
least, I haven’t for years. Certainly not for me—not for any of us. But
to-day I have really _felt_ it; and that, you know, is quite another
thing—Frankly, it’s taken me right off my balance. When I saw him so—so
anxious over you, it was like a blow to me; and now I shall always be
thinking:—That was there, living, in us.—Why on earth didn’t it show
itself before? In father—in you—and, by God! in me too. It was there in
us! And there he has been stifling it in himself—father, I mean—yes, and
we too, for years and years—
WILLIAM.
I see one thing: we not only show a different self to every one of our
fellow-creatures, but we _are_ fundamentally different to each.
ROBERT.
But why must it be so with us? Why must we for ever keep each other at
such a distance?
WILLIAM.
I’ll tell you why; because we have no natural goodness of heart. Take Ida
for instance: what you have got at by hard thinking is natural to her.
She never sits in judgment, she treats everything so gently, with such
sympathy, and that spares people so much—you understand—and I believe it
is that—
ROBERT (_abruptly, rises_).
How do you feel now?
WILLIAM.
I feel relieved—free.
ROBERT.
Ah! what’s the use of all that—H’m! what was I going to say—Perhaps it
will turn out all right for you.
WILLIAM.
What do you mean?
ROBERT.
What should I mean? For you and—for Ida, of course.
WILLIAM.
Perhaps! Those two have such a power—Mrs Buchner too—but particularly
Ida. I have thought that might save me—At first I checked myself—
ROBERT (_thoughtfully_).
Yes they have! they have a power, and just because of that—at first—I—to
be frank, I blamed you.
WILLIAM.
I felt it.
ROBERT.
Well just think. I heard something about an engagement, and then I saw
Ida; she was so merry, singing, up and down stairs, without the least
thought of—
WILLIAM (_rising_).
Well I understood you, I even felt you were right. What would you have!
ROBERT.
Well—I too am—I must admit it’s quite a different matter now—As I—as I
said—it was chiefly—Quite jolly again?
WILLIAM.
Perfectly.
ROBERT.
Then you’ll come along soon?
WILLIAM.
I’ll only just—you go first.
ROBERT.
Right. (_Going, stops._) I can’t help it—I’ve got to tell you. Your whole
conduct—about father, and—altogether—it’s something to admire. With my
cursed prejudices—I too—downright accused you. One—devil take it! It’s
a long time since I’ve had such a desire to spit at myself. You’re glad
to hear that, eh? Well, perhaps you’ll do me the favour to—if I—I’ve
certainly done my level best to vex you since you’ve been home, so—I’m
sorry for it—there!
WILLIAM.
Brother!
[_They shake hands warmly._
ROBERT (_takes his hand quietly out of William’s, brings out his pipe,
lights it and puffs smoke, then says as if to himself_).
Acrobatic soul! (_Puff, puff._) Well, well! (_He turns to go; before
opening the door R. he speaks over his shoulder to William._) I’ll send
her out to you.
WILLIAM.
Ah, never mind!—Well, if you really—
[_Robert nods and disappears through the doorway. William draws
a deep breath, deep joy at what has happened possesses him._
IDA (_comes from the adjoining room, flies into his arms_.)
Willy!!!
WILLIAM.
Now—you—you two golden hearts have set me free. A new life! You can’t
think how that inspires me. I seem quite great in my own eyes!—Ah, Ida, I
can only now realise—how frightfully that weighed upon me, and now I feel
such strength—such strength, Ida! You may rely on me, I will show him
what the “good-for-nothing” can do. I’ll give father proofs. I will show
him there is something in me: strength, living power as an artist, before
which all shall bow—the stiffest necks shall bend—I feel it! Only that
has crippled me. Now my fingers are twitching! I could compose, create—
IDA.
Ah you see! Now it’s all right! Now I have your own old self
again—Dearest, I could sob—I could—shout for joy. Wasn’t I right? Nothing
was dead in you, it only slept. It will all wake anew, as I always told
you. It _has_ awaked—
[_She embraces and kisses him. Still embracing they pace the
room in silent happiness._
WILLIAM (_stopping, and looking with happy bewilderment first into her
eyes, then round the room_).
In these cold dreary walls—what joy—like blooming spring!
[_They kiss each other, closely entwined in silent happiness.
They continue walking._
IDA (_sings softly to the same tune as her song in Act I. roguishly_).
Now you see how right I was.
[_Mrs Scholz comes a step into the room, sees the lovers and is
going quickly out._
IDA (_noticing her, breaks off her song, and runs up to her_).
You’re not to run away, little mother-in-law!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah, why not! You don’t need me. (_William embraces and kisses his mother
and helps to pull her into the room._) (_Crossly_) You are so awkward!
You are—you are pulling me to pieces.
WILLIAM.
Oh, mother! what does that matter to-day—Mother! You see quite another
man before you! (_Between his mother and Ida, holding a hand of each._)
Come, little old mother, look at one another in the eyes, give each other
your hands.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Silly fellow!
WILLIAM.
Kiss each other!
MRS SCHOLZ (_after wiping her mouth with her apron_).
There, stupid boy, if nothing else will do.—You needn’t use force to
us.—There, Ida!
[_They kiss each other laughing._
WILLIAM.
And now—peace!
MRS SCHOLZ.
_Unberufen_, my boy!
[_Friebe comes out of the kitchen carrying a steaming
punch-bowl, goes towards the next room._
WILLIAM.
Oho! What have we here? Is it good, Friebe?
FRIEBE (_crossing room_).
Ay, if you was to set thirty such like in front of me, not a gulp would I
let down my throat.
WILLIAM.
Really not, Friebe?
FRIEBE.
There was a time—ay, yes—but now I’ve sworn off, ages ago. Now I drink
only—mostly bitters.
[_Goes out._
IDA (_who has been tying William’s necktie and pulling his coat
straight_).
There! now—
WILLIAM.
Thank you, darling.—Is father in good spirits?
MRS SCHOLZ.
He’s telling his tales. Often one can’t understand a word.
WILLIAM.
My heart is beginning to beat again.
MRS SCHOLZ.
If only Robert would not drink so much!
WILLIAM.
Ah, mother, to-day!—to-day nothing matters! To-day—
IDA.
Now come along quickly, before you—
WILLIAM (to _Mrs Scholz_).
You’re coming too?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Only be off with you! Be off!
[_Ida and William go into the next room. Mrs Scholz stands
thinking, draws her hand over her brow, and moved by a sudden
idea, goes to the door of the adjoining room where she listens._
FRIEBE (_steps in through the same door. He is evidently excited_).
Missis!
MRS SCHOLZ.
What do you want?
FRIEBE (_whispering mysteriously_).
I’ve got a—surprise, Mrs Sch—olz—
MRS SCHOLZ (_shrinking back_).
You’ve been drinking! You—
FRIEBE.
I’ve been on the look out, all sorts of ways, and I’ve—got something to
tell you.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well? yes, yes! Only say quickly what you’ve got to say.
FRIEBE.
H’m, I only mean—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, speak then, Friebe.
FRIEBE.
I only mean—that’s not the way. In my position there are many things I
mustn’t talk about. I only mean your husband—he can’t possibly keep it up
much longer—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh Jesus! Jesus! Friebe! has he—has he—complained? then, O Jesus! is he
ill?
FRIEBE.
Ah, as to that, what should I know?
MRS SCHOLZ.
But what has he complained of?
FRIEBE.
That—I wasn’t to—tell—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Is it true though? (_Friebe nods._) But he can’t have spoken of his death?
FRIEBE.
Ah, more than that,—he’s said pretty things!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now for goodness sake do try and speak clearly. Drunken creature!
FRIEBE (_angry_).
Yes, I’m—neither the gardener nor the boot boy; and as to what may
happen—I shouldn’t need—in every position what I want most—in my
position, but no!—Now you have the whole thing clear!
[_He wheels round, goes off into the kitchen._
MRS SCHOLZ.
The man’s gone crazy.
[_Ida enters through door of the adjoining room, shuts it
behind her; opening it a little again she calls into the room._
IDA.
Wait, good people. Quiet! No impatience!
WILLIAM (_pressing into the room_).
But I want to help.
IDA.
No one else, then.
[_Ida and William light Christmas Tree candles._
MRS SCHOLZ.
But, William, listen a minute.
WILLIAM (_busy_).
Directly, little mother.—Just ready.
[_The Christmas Tree, the candelabra and the chandelier are
lighted. Ida removes a large table cover which has been thrown
over presents on the table. William goes to his mother._
IDA (_calls through door R_).
Now!
[_Mrs Scholz, who is just going to speak to William, is
interrupted by the entrance of Dr Scholz, who is followed by
Augusta, Robert and Mrs Buchner. Dr Scholz, his face reddened
with drinking._
DR SCHOLZ (_with affected astonishment_).
Ah! Ah!
MRS BUCHNER.
Fairylike!
[_Augusta smiles constrainedly; Robert goes about pipe in mouth
at first embarrassed, then smiling more and more ironically.
William notices this with great annoyance._
IDA (_draws William to the table where the presents lie_).
Don’t laugh at me, Willy.
[_Gives him his purse._
WILLIAM.
But—Ida—I begged you—
IDA.
I crocheted it once for father. The year before his death he used it
often, and so I thought—
WILLIAM (_with increasing embarrassment under Robert’s eyes_).
Yes—yes.—Ever so many thanks, Ida!
ROBERT.
Things only want to be more practical.
MRS SCHOLZ (_who has been led to the table by Mrs Buchner_).
But what have you been doing! You cannot—I have nothing for you. (_Seeing
a crocheted shawl._) No, no! Only think!—You crocheted that for me—an old
woman like me? Well then, I do thank you, many, many times.
[_They kiss one another._
MRS BUCHNER.
Ah! I’m only too glad if it pleases you.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Beautiful—wonderful—lovely. The time and the trouble! I never!
IDA.
I’ve something for you too, Mr Robert, but you mustn’t laugh at me!
ROBERT (_getting scarlet_).
Ah! what now?
IDA.
I thought—your pipe—the next thing it will be burning your nose and
so I’ve had pity on you, and yesterday I—(_Shows a new pipe which she
has hitherto held behind her back and gives it to him._) Here is the
masterpiece!
[_All amused._
ROBERT (_without taking the pipe_).
You’re joking, Miss Ida!
IDA.
Ah well!—But I’m in deadly earnest over the present!
ROBERT.
No, no, I can’t believe that.
MRS SCHOLZ (_aside to William_).
Robert is unbearable!
IDA.
Ah, but no—really—
ROBERT.
You see, this thing here—I’ve got used to it—and of course you don’t
really mean it!
IDA (_her eyes full of tears, conquering her hurt feelings; with
trembling voice_).
Well, then, if you’d rather—
[_Puts the present back on the table._
MRS BUCHNER (_who during the foregoing has several times spoken to Ida,
now hurries to her_).
Ida, darling, have you forgotten?
IDA.
What, mamma?
MRS BUCHNER.
You know! (_To the others_) You’re all going to hear something.
[_Ida, glad to hide her emotion in this way, goes hand in hand
with her mother into the next room._
MRS SCHOLZ (_to Robert_).
Why did you spoil her pleasure for her?
WILLIAM (_twisting the ends of his moustache nervously; walks up and down
casting threatening glances at Robert_).
ROBERT.
What now? How do you mean? I don’t know what you want.
AUGUSTA.
Well, it certainly wasn’t exactly friendly.
ROBERT.
Do leave me alone. Besides, what should I do with it?
[_Song and piano accompaniment from next room interrupt
speakers. All look at one another, startled._
IDA’S VOICE.
Oh, come little children,
Oh, come one and all,
Come here to the manger
In Bethlehem’s stall.
Behold all the gladness
This wonderful night,
Our Father in Heaven
Has wrought in his might.
[_Dr Scholz, noticing Robert’s behaviour, has grown steadily
gloomier. At the beginning of the song he looks nervously round
like someone who dreads being attacked and seeks as far as
possible without being noticed to establish a certain distance
between himself and the others._
MRS SCHOLZ (_at the beginning of the song_).
Ah! how beautiful!
[_She listens for a moment with devotion, then breaks into
sobs. Robert moves slowly about; as the song continues makes a
grimace, as if to say, “Well, this is the last straw”; walks
further on, smiles ironically and several times shakes his
head. Passing Augusta, he says something to her half audibly.
Augusta, partly touched by the song, now breaks out. William
has been standing by the table, nervously drumming with his
fingers, a prey to conflicting emotions; now his face reddens
with resentment. Robert towards the end of the song appears
to suffer physically. The impossibility of escaping from the
impression of Ida’s tones appears to torture and embitter him
more and more. Just at the end of the verse, a word escapes him
involuntarily like the fragment of a soliloquy._
ROBERT.
Child’s play! (_in a biting contemptuous tone_).
[_All, including the Doctor, have heard him, and turn to him
with a shocked expression._
MRS SCHOLZ and AUGUSTA.
Robert!
[_Dr Scholz suppresses an explosion of violent anger. William,
white with rage, steps up to Robert._
MRS SCHOLZ (_rushing towards him, embraces him_).
William—for my sake!
WILLIAM.
All right, mother!
[_He goes up and down controlling himself with difficulty. At
this moment the second verse begins; scarcely are the first
tones heard when with sudden resolution he goes to the door of
the adjoining room._
IDA.
There lies he, oh children,
On hay and on straw,
And Joseph and Mary
Look on him with awe.
The honest souled shepherds
Kneel praying for love;
The choir of the angels
Sweeps singing above.
MRS SCHOLZ (_standing in his way_).
William, what are you going to do?
WILLIAM (_breaking out_).
She sha’n’t sing any more.
AUGUSTA.
You must be out of your mind!
WILLIAM.
Let me alone. I say she shall stop.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah, but do—you really are—Well then, you won’t see me any more this
evening.
ROBERT.
Stop, mother, let him see to it. It’s his affair.
WILLIAM.
Robert, don’t you go too far. Take my advice; you’ve already made one
touching scene; it only leaves you more unbearable.
ROBERT.
Quite true; made a touching scene! That’s just what I should call it.
[_William goes again towards the side room._
MRS SCHOLZ (_again restraining him_).
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God! My boy, why must you stop her?
[_The second verse comes to an end._
WILLIAM.
Because you’re none of you worthy of it, not one of you!
ROBERT (_stepping close to William with an insolently expressive look in
his eyes_).
You are, I suppose?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh Lord! you’re beginning again!
[_The third verse begins._
The children are bringing
With joy and good cheer,
Milk, butter and honey
To Bethlehem here;
A basket of apples
All yellow and red,
A snowy white lambkin
With flower-crowned head.
WILLIAM.
She _shall_ stop!
MRS SCHOLZ (_once more restraining him_).
My boy!!!
WILLIAM.
Simply beneath contempt! It is blasphemy! It is a crime against these
people if we—I—yes, on my honour, I’m ashamed of you all.
AUGUSTA (_piqued_).
No, after all we are not so very specially bad and contemptible.
WILLIAM.
Aug—it makes me sick.
AUGUSTA.
Well, let it!—Yes, yes, of course _I’m_ to be shoved into the background;
you must always find fault with your sister. Whatever _she_ does is
wrong. It’s not a bit fair. But your Miss Ida—
WILLIAM (_beside himself, interrupting_).
Don’t dare to speak her name!!
AUGUSTA.
The idea! I shall talk about Ida if—
WILLIAM.
Leave her name out of it, I tell you.
AUGUSTA.
You’ve gone mad, I think. I _shall_—after all she’s not an angel from
heaven.
WILLIAM (_screaming at her_).
Silence, I say!
AUGUSTA (_turning her back_).
Pah! you’re just in love!
WILLIAM (_seizing her roughly by the shoulder_).
You creature! I—
ROBERT (_seizing William’s arm, speaks slowly, emphasising each word_).
Perhaps, William, you intend again—?
WILLIAM.
Devil!
AUGUSTA.
_You_ say that—_you_, who lifted your hand against your own father!
DR SCHOLZ (_his voice trembling with rage, in a tone of absolute
command_).
Augusta!—leave the room—this instant!!!
AUGUSTA.
Well!—I should like to know—
DR SCHOLZ.
Leave the room this minute.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh, dear God, why can’t I die? Augusta, do you hear? (_crying_) Obey your
father!
ROBERT.
H’m—mother I should blame her if she did. She’s not a little child any
longer. Times have changed a bit, God knows.
DR SCHOLZ.
But I—_I_ have not changed. I am the master in this house—I’ll prove it
to you.
ROBERT.
Ridiculous!
DR SCHOLZ (_screaming_).
Scoundrels!—Wretches!—I disinherit you—I’ll throw you on the streets.
ROBERT.
That’s downright funny.
DR SCHOLZ (_masters a frightful outburst of rage and speaks with ominous
quietness and firmness_).
You or I—one of us leaves this house this moment.
ROBERT.
I, of course, with the greatest of pleasure.
MRS SCHOLZ (_half commanding, half entreating_).
Robert—stay!
DR SCHOLZ.
He shall go.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Fritz, listen to me. He is the only one—all these long lonely years, who
didn’t forget us. He—
DR SCHOLZ.
He or I!—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah, give way, Fritz—for my sake!
DR SCHOLZ.
Leave me alone—_He or I!_
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah, I won’t ask you to meet each other—it can be arranged quite
easily—but—
DR SCHOLZ.
Very well, I give way—I give way to you and your brood. You and your
brood—from to-day you have won the victory!
WILLIAM.
Stay, dear father—or if you go, let me go with you this time.
DR SCHOLZ (_involuntarily stepping back between anger and terror_).
Leave me alone! Good-for-nothing! (_fumbling among his things_)
Scoundrels and loafers!—Good-for-nothings!
WILLIAM (_boiling over_).
Father, you call us that—when it’s your doing that—Ah, Father dear, no,
no, I will say nothing. Let me go with you. I will stay with you. Let me
atone for all that I—(_Laying his hand on his father’s arm._)
DR SCHOLZ (_as though paralysed with fright and horror, draws back_).
Let go! I tell you—The army of the oppressors shall insuredly—shall
assuredly be brought to shame! Are they these people—these mighty ones
and these mighty ones—are they men? A man like me, who has his faults,
but still for all that is through and through—and up and down—and short
and sweet.
WILLIAM.
Father! father! dear father, come to yourself. Be your own self.
DR SCHOLZ (_swaying with the rhythm of the words, half aloud_).
And short and sweet—and through and through—
WILLIAM (_embracing him, instinctively seeking to control his gestures_).
Control yourself, pull yourself together!
DR SCHOLZ (_defending himself; imploring like a little child_).
Ah! don’t beat me! Don’t punish me!
WILLIAM.
But for God’s sake—
DR SCHOLZ.
Don’t beat me!—don’t beat me—again!
[_He makes cramped efforts to free himself from William’s arms._
WILLIAM.
May my hand perish!—Father dear, don’t think such a thing—dear father,
don’t dream it—
[_Dr Scholz frees himself, flies from William calling for help._
WILLIAM.
Father, you strike _me_, you beat _me_!
DR SCHOLZ.
Please! please, please help me.
[_Ida appears at the door of the room, deathly white._
WILLIAM (_rushes to his father, puts his arms round him again_).
Strike _me_!
DR SCHOLZ (_sinking on a chair with William’s arms still round him_).
I—ah—ah—a—ah! I think—it’s—all over—with me.
WILLIAM.
Father!
[_Mrs Scholz and Augusta seize one another in terror. Robert,
deathly white, has not moved. His face has an expression of
unshakable determination._
ACT III
Twilight. All lights are extinguished except a few on the
chandelier, and one on the Christmas tree. In front, near
the stove, William sits at the table, his back towards the
adjoining room, sunk in dreary hopeless meditation. Robert and
Mrs Scholz enter together from next room.
MRS SCHOLZ (_looking worn out, in lowered tones_).
No, my boy, don’t tell me! Now there’s no knowing what next. As soon as
trouble comes—Then, ah well!
ROBERT.
You’re not alone now, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah, just listen to you! You know better. It’s too absurd. Where can you
be off to in the middle of the night!
ROBERT.
Oh, there are always trains and I _must_ go. I really can’t stand it any
longer; besides, it’s best for all of us!
MRS SCHOLZ (_whimpering_).
These last years it has always been pleasant. And now they’ve come
back!—Since those Buchners came, everything’s turned upside down.
ROBERT.
Be glad that you have them, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh, I could have managed quite well by myself.
ROBERT.
Father seems able to bear none of us about him—?
MRS SCHOLZ (_crying_).
Just as if I had done him any harm! Surely I have always been the same—I
have always done my best—Do be just, Robert!—I have cooked him his hot
dinners, he’s had his warm stockings—
ROBERT.
Ah, leave it alone, mother! What good is this everlasting lamentation?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, that’s what you say. It’s all very well for you! But if you have
worried yourself sick all your life—if one has beaten one’s brain to
know:—Have I done _this_ right? have I done _that_ right?—and then
strange people come, and one sees them preferred!
ROBERT.
Ida is with him still?
MRS SCHOLZ.
A perfect stranger!—Ah, I might as well be dead—and that lump!—that
Friebe!—Creature!—The airs he gives himself!—But Gussie’s let him have
it!—Gussie talked to him pretty straight! The fellow’s as impudent—he
wanted to push her out of the room. The girl was beside herself!—His own
daughter! No—You children! What my life has been!—I wouldn’t wish a dog
to lead it.
ROBERT _(with a little sigh, involuntarily_).
Father too!
MRS SCHOLZ.
What?
ROBERT.
Oh, nothing. I only said, father too.
MRS SCHOLZ.
What about him?
ROBERT.
Well, father too has had a good deal to bear.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well not from me, anyhow. I haven’t troubled him much. I’ve made no very
great claims.
ROBERT (_sceptically_).
Hja—tja—tja!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Just wait till I’m in my grave, then he’ll begin to see—
ROBERT.
Ah, leave it alone, mother! I’ve heard that hundreds of times.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Maybe! You’ll see too, and before very long either.
ROBERT.
Ah, mother, I don’t deny that you’ve had a lot to bear with through
father. You’ve both suffered. But I don’t see why you—
MRS SCHOLZ.
Stuff and nonsense. I should like to know what has _he_ ever wanted for?
ROBERT (_incautiously_).
To be understood, if you will insist on knowing.
MRS SCHOLZ.
I can’t make myself cleverer than I am.
ROBERT.
Nobody asked you to try. Besides—it’s the merest folly to talk of it so
much.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now there’s an end of everything—(_Crying._) After all, it’s not my doing
that he lies there ill, and—
ROBERT.
I never said it was.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You did. That’s what you _did_ say.
ROBERT.
Ah, mother—I’d better go. I—mother, I really can’t stand any more.
MRS SCHOLZ.
No! I should just like to know what I have to reproach myself with. I
have a good conscience.
ROBERT.
Then keep it, in God’s name keep it! (_With a movement of self-defence_)
Only, _leave off_.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You mean that money business, I suppose?
ROBERT.
I mean nothing.
MRS SCHOLZ.
My parents earned it hardly enough, no woman would have put up with it!
Your father just pitched it out of window.
ROBERT.
But your uncle lied to you about it.
MRS SCHOLZ.
You can’t be sure of that.
ROBERT.
And father earned the whole over again.
MRS SCHOLZ.
He might as well have gambled with it.
[_Robert laughs bitterly._
MRS SCHOLZ.
I’m only a poor ignorant woman. Your father was always above me. His
mother was quite a lady too. But my father was once as poor as a rat.
I’ll never get the chill of poverty out of my blood! I can’t alter
myself. Well, it’s all the same!—for the year or two of life that’s left
me!—The Lord will deliver me in his own good time.
ROBERT.
I would rather be delivered _from_ the Lord.
MRS SCHOLZ.
For shame! What a scoundrelly speech! Delivered from the Lord.—I might as
well take a dagger and stab myself here in the heart—Frightful!—Delivered
from the Lord!—Where should I have been if it had not been for the
Lord?—Are you really going away, Robert?
ROBERT (_already on the stairs_).
Oh, be quiet, mother! It’s peace I want, peace!—
[_Goes up the stairs._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh dear, dear—yes—amongst you all, it isn’t an easy life! (_To William
who has remained the whole time at the table without paying attention to
them_) Just think!—You!—Robert’s going!
WILLIAM.
All the same to me!
MRS SCHOLZ.
What are you sitting there for?—That’s no use. Do be sensible.
WILLIAM (_sighing_).
Ah, yes!
MRS SCHOLZ.
And sighing’s no use! Look at me, at my age—and if I were to squat myself
down like you!—What’s done is done! There’s no changing it now. Look
here! Read something! Get up, take a book and amuse yourself!
WILLIAM (_sighing_).
Oh mother, do let me alone—I’m troubling nobody!—Has Friebe come back
from the Doctor’s?
MRS SCHOLZ.
No, that he hasn’t. It’s what I always say, as sure as one wants a
doctor, there isn’t one to be found.
WILLIAM.
It is serious, isn’t it, especially if—_that_ were to happen again?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah God! Who knows!
[_William stares at his mother, then with sudden passionate
sobs lets his head fall in his hands._
Yes, yes, my boy, who would have thought it! I’m not saying—I
blame no one, but just to-day you surely might have kept from
quarrelling.—However, we must just hope for the best.—At least his mind’s
not wandering any more. If Ida only doesn’t overlook anything! Any one of
us would have a hundred times more experience. Why he should have taken
so to Ida!—I don’t bite!—Though I will say in other ways—Ida—she’s really
a good girl—and you of all people! (_patting him on his shoulders_) You
may thank the Lord! You might wait long enough before you’d find another
one like Ida! (_Cautiously, confidentially_) Tell me,—are the Buchners
well off?
WILLIAM (_roused_).
Oh leave me alone! How should I know!—What do I care!
MRS SCHOLZ.
What now!—I suppose I’ve a right to ask!—You’re a perfect bear!
WILLIAM.
Ah mother, let me alone.—If you have a spark of pity for me, let me
alone.—Don’t trouble about me, let me alone.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes, of course, I’m always in the way. An old woman—good for nothing
but to snap at.
[_Augusta and Mrs Buchner come hastily out of Room R._
AUGUSTA.
Mother!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh Lord! What now?
AUGUSTA.
Friebe has just come.
MRS BUCHNER.
Friebe has brought no doctor with him.
AUGUSTA.
Father asked him, and he said—
MRS BUCHNER.
He won’t _have any_ doctor!
AUGUSTA.
He’s furious, he’ll throw him out of the room.
MRS BUCHNER.
Friebe won’t go again.
AUGUSTA.
You come and speak to Friebe.
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, _you_ speak to him. It is so necessary!
AUGUSTA.
A doctor _must_ come—or I’ll go myself; I’m not afraid, not if I have to
run all the way to Friedrichshafen.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, why not?—But it’s the middle of the night, won’t—just let me come.
[_Mrs Buchner, Mrs Scholz and Augusta go off hastily. Mrs
Buchner is scarcely out before she returns. Whilst speaking
she has looked several times furtively and with a grieved
expression at William, who is still in the same place, silent
and gloomy. Mrs Buchner looks round to make sure that William
and she are quite alone. At first quickly, then with hesitation
she approaches him._
WILLIAM (_raising his head as she goes to him_).
What do you want?—I told you everything before.
MRS BUCHNER.
But I wouldn’t believe you; I couldn’t picture it to myself.
WILLIAM.
And now you believe it?
MRS BUCHNER.
I—don’t—know.
WILLIAM.
Why do you lie to me?—Say straight out, yes. It was perfectly natural
that it would all turn out like this; so ridiculously natural. How in the
world I could have been so blind!
MRS BUCHNER (_with feverish eagerness_).
William, I take you to-day as I always have, for an honest, honourable
man. I assure you that not for one moment have I doubted you—even
now—when all at once I’m so afraid and anxious.
WILLIAM (_lifts himself up, draws a deep breath as though oppressed_).
It’s only what I—I’ve known it all along.
MRS BUCHNER.
I come to you, William, I speak to you frankly;—it has all come upon me
so suddenly. All at once I am so terribly anxious about Ida.
WILLIAM.
I must confess—only just now—
MRS BUCHNER.
I know well you love the child. Nobody could love her more truly! I know
that with all your strength you will try to make my daughter happy;—it
won’t be your _will_ that will fail, but now I have—I have seen and
discovered so many things. It’s only now that I really understand
much—much of what you told me. I _didn’t_ understand you; I took you
for a pessimist—in some things I scarcely took you seriously!—I came
here with a firm, happy faith. I’m really ashamed! The confidence I had
in myself!—I, to fancy I could influence such natures!—a weak, simple
creature like me! But now I’m uneasy about it all—now all at once I feel
my heavy responsibility. I am responsible for my child—for my Ida. Every
mother is responsible for her child! Only tell me, William, tell me
yourself, that it will all come right—Say to me, “we shall be happy,”
you and Ida. Convince me that my fear, my dread, is needless—_William_—
[_A pause._
WILLIAM.
Why did you let it go so far?—I warned you—and warned you. What did
I say to you? I said, all of us, every one in this family, are sick,
incurables—I most of all. That we all drag with us—“Don’t give your
daughter to a maimed creature,” I said to you—Why wouldn’t you believe?
MRS BUCHNER.
I don’t know. I myself don’t know.
WILLIAM.
Now you have lulled me to rest, weakened my conscience—and now I have
been half mad with happiness—I have tasted—lived through moments! and
others besides. The most frightful battle of my life, and _now_ you
demand—now one must consider—perhaps, yes, perhaps—
MRS BUCHNER.
William! I honour you!—I know that you would make any sacrifice. But
Ida!—If it should be too late for her—if it were to be her ruin!
WILLIAM.
Why couldn’t you believe me? You don’t know what that cost me; now I have
built it up by painful steps—step by step—so painfully! This place lay
far behind me—I was almost saved. Now to pull it all down. Why need you
have let it go so far? _Why?_—
MRS BUCHNER (_with tears_).
I don’t know! I myself don’t know! I brought the child up. She was all
in all to me; to work for her happiness has been all I have lived for.
Then—_you_ came into our house. I grew fond of you—I thought of your
happiness too, I—perhaps I ought not to have done that. I thought perhaps
just as much of _your_ happiness—and—who knows?—In the end, most of
all—of—_your_ happiness!
[_During a minute she and William look startled into each
other’s eyes._
WILLIAM.
Mrs Buchner!!!
[_Mrs Buchner, hiding her face in her hands, as if in shame,
goes off crying through the stairway. William follows her
mechanically a few steps, stops, tries to master his inward
excitement, then suddenly, shaken with weeping, leans for
support against the wall. Ida enters, her face pale, looking
serious and careworn, comes with gentle steps to William,
embraces him, pressing her cheek to his._
IDA.
Ah, Willy, sad days are coming, and, and, yes, Willy, bright days will
come again. You mustn’t give way like that—so hopelessly.
WILLIAM (_stammering passionately_).
Ida!—You only! Dearest, sweetest! Only say how I can—how could I bear my
life now without you! Your voice, your words, your whole sweet wondrous
presence, your hands—your gentle, faithful hands.
IDA.
And what of _me_?—What do you think of my life without _you_? No,
love!—we will cling to each other and never let go, close, close, and
however long it lasts—
WILLIAM.
Yes, yes! but supposing anything were to happen?
IDA.
Oh, don’t speak like that!
WILLIAM.
I only mean—one can never tell—one of us might die.
IDA.
Ah, we are young.
WILLIAM.
Even then!—One day it must happen, some day, and I, at any rate, shall
never live to be old.
IDA (_passionately_).
Then I shall fasten my arms round you—press myself to you—Then I shall go
with you.
WILLIAM.
Ida! That is what one _says_. But you would never really do it.
IDA.
I would do it!
WILLIAM.
You think so now. You don’t know how quickly one forgets.
IDA.
I could not breathe without you.
WILLIAM.
That is what one fancies—
IDA.
No, no, no, William!—
WILLIAM.
But to love like that, would be a kind of madness. One shouldn’t put
everything on the turn of one card.
IDA.
I—don’t quite understand you.
WILLIAM.
Why—I—you see (_in irritable tones_). Ugh! Darling, it’s not an
enlivening subject!—How’s Father?
IDA.
He’s asleep now! but what _is_ the matter with you?
WILLIAM (_walking about_).
The feeling will come, no one knows how. (_Suddenly grinding his teeth_)
I tell you, there are moments—when that rage of despair seizes you, those
are the moments—I can well understand—in those moments a man might throw
himself head first from five stories high on to the pavement.—The idea
becomes positively alluring.
IDA.
God forbid! You mustn’t give way to such ideas, Willy!
WILLIAM.
Why not, I should like to know? What should such fellows as I do,
crawling between heaven and earth?—Useless creatures! Exterminate
themselves! That would be something. They would at least have done _one_
useful thing.
IDA.
After all, it is not a thing to admire. You are overwrought and exhausted.
WILLIAM (_in sharp, unyielding tones_).
Leave me in peace, can’t you? What do you understand of all
that.—(_Shocked at himself, adds_) Ah, love! You must forgive me. You had
better leave me now—I can not bear to wound you. And in this mood, as I
feel now, I can’t answer for myself.
[_Ida kisses him silently on the mouth, then goes into the
next room. William looks after her, stands still, shows fright
and astonishment in his face, and strikes his forehead, like
one who has detected himself on the track of an evil thought.
Meantime, Robert has come downstairs. Robert, his hat in his
right hand, overcoat and rug over his arm, rug straps in his
left hand, goes to the table and lays his things down on it._
WILLIAM (_after he has watched him a moment or two_).
Where are you going?
ROBERT.
Away.
WILLIAM.
Now?
ROBERT.
Why not? (_spreading out his straps_) I’ve had enough of this and to
spare. In future mother—mother will celebrate Christmas without me!
(_Looks round at stove_) It’s cold here.
WILLIAM.
It’s freezing outside.
ROBERT (_rolling up his rug_).
There!—Is it? It was thawing about ten o’clock.
WILLIAM.
There’s a change.
ROBERT.
How’s one to get down the mountain and keep one’s footing?
WILLIAM.
There’s a fine moon.
ROBERT.
Yes, but still—
WILLIAM.
He’s not delirious any longer.
ROBERT.
H’m, h’m!
WILLIAM.
He won’t have a doctor.
ROBERT.
H’m, h’m!
WILLIAM.
It’s all come so suddenly, one hardly—
ROBERT.
H’m, yes!
WILLIAM.
It must have been latent in him.
ROBERT.
Of course, or he would not have come home.
WILLIAM.
I dread to think what’ll come of it.
ROBERT.
What’s one to do?
WILLIAM.
On my soul, I don’t know what _I_ should do if he died. Conscious as I
am, knowing what I now know!—I really did not know, and _now_ the added
remorse, the gnawing of conscience! Ah! well, what’s the use of it all?
ROBERT.
Eh! as to that! one would have enough to do. The old fellow is different,
not what we imagined, that’s true enough! But that doesn’t change
matters.
WILLIAM.
I tell you, it is sacred earnest to me—I would lay down this pitiful life
of mine gladly, if it would do him any good.
ROBERT.
To my thinking, there’s no sense in that. Now just look here! I go back
to my hot little den of an office, sit with my back to the fire, cross
my legs under the table, light this same old pipe, and write—in peace
and quietness of mind, I hope—the same old jokes, you know them,—the old
chestnuts—African traveller—nearly spent—h’m, and then I generally bring
along a caravan, which takes the article along with it.—My chief is well
satisfied, it gets copied in as many papers as possible—and, the main
thing is that—! Well, I sit there, and the gas jet hisses over my head
all day—a glance now and then into the court—the courtyard of a warehouse
like that has something marvellous about it—something even romantic, I
can tell you—in a word I’m not troubled with any bees in _my_ bonnet.
WILLIAM.
Rather be dead once for all.
ROBERT.
Matter of taste!—For me, that’s just an ideal nook—Is one to be always
getting shaken off one’s balance, always letting oneself be driven
crazy?—It’ll take me a good two or three days now to pick up my scattered
philosophy.
WILLIAM.
Say what you will, I call that cowardly.
ROBERT.
And then—If it is! Sooner or later, you will come to think as I do.
Father himself had at last got to that standpoint. Father and you, you
are as alike as two peas. You are both idealists of the same sort. In ’38
father started on the barricades, and he finishes up as a hypochondriacal
hermit—One must get accustomed to the world and to oneself _in time_,
that’s the thing; before one has finished sowing one’s wild oats.
WILLIAM.
Or else work at oneself, to become something different.
ROBERT.
I think I see myself! What I am, I am. I have the right to _be_, whatever
I am.
WILLIAM.
Then claim your right openly.
ROBERT.
Not I, for I mean to _have_ it. The Philistine morality-mongers are in
the majority at present. Anyhow it’s time for me to be off. And if I
were to offer you a bit of advice, it would be, beware of so-called good
intentions!
WILLIAM (_coldly_).
How do you mean?
ROBERT.
Simply that; it’s no use to think of accomplishing something which
entirely contradicts one’s whole natural bent.
WILLIAM.
As, for instance?
ROBERT.
Oh!—for instance, fellows come to me sometimes, who babble ideals to me
till my head swims. Fight for the ideals of humanity, and—God knows what
all! I—fight for other people!—Childish!—Why, and what for? But _you_,
that just suits you. You would rush round like a runaway thief. “What a
wretch I have been,” you would keep on telling yourself! Aren’t I right?
Well, and then on the top would come the good intentions, and they get
hold of you, I know. _I_ used to go about hung round with hundreds of
those good intentions—for years together—and it’s not pleasant, I can
tell you.
WILLIAM.
I don’t really know what you are driving at.
ROBERT.
Nothing very definite. This unrest, from which you are suffering now,
has no doubt other causes—At least I—if I once noticed—there was a time
when I went through something of the sort, but once I noticed that the
business was likely to be stronger than I—I generally made short work of
it, and turned my back.
WILLIAM.
Is that a hint?
ROBERT.
Hint? I didn’t know—well, once more—good luck to you and—
WILLIAM.
But just tell me—it has a certain objective interest for me—only because—
ROBERT.
Pray, what do you want to know?
WILLIAM.
Just now you said something.
ROBERT.
How—just now?
WILLIAM.
When we were speaking of father.
ROBERT.
Ah, true, yes;—what did I say?
WILLIAM.
You said, it might perhaps turn out well for Ida and me.
ROBERT.
Ah, yes, your engagement;—was that what I said?
WILLIAM.
That’s what you said.
ROBERT.
H’m, I said many things.
WILLIAM.
That is to say, you have changed your mind about a good deal of what you
said.
ROBERT.
Quite true, so I have.
WILLIAM.
And even—about that—very thing—
ROBERT.
Your engagement?
WILLIAM.
Yes.
ROBERT.
It’s important to you?
WILLIAM.
Yes, perhaps.
ROBERT.
Yes.
WILLIAM.
You no longer think—that we—
ROBERT.
No.
WILLIAM.
Good—Thanks—You are candid—I thank you—But let us suppose,—say that I
_did_ turn my back on the whole affair—leave on one side all thought of
what it would cost _me_, say I were to go straight off with you—then
what—about—Ida?
ROBERT.
H’m, Ida—Ida?—(_Shrugs his shoulders._) H’m, yes. That’s not so
quickly—at least—that wouldn’t trouble me over much.
WILLIAM.
Ah! That’s your old selfishness!!! Now I recognise you.
ROBERT.
Selfish? How? No, that’s just your mistake! I am not deeply enough
interested to be selfish—interested in this particular matter, I mean. I
really don’t believe—
WILLIAM.
I know better. You don’t suppose _you_ can teach me how to understand
this girl? Once for all, it _is_ so. Depend upon it—she has that sort
of feeling for me, which—well, I can’t alter it. You needn’t think me
conceited—But, you see, what’s to become of her, if I should go?
ROBERT.
H’m, you really ask yourself—that—seriously—
WILLIAM.
Most seriously—I do—indeed.
ROBERT.
Just oblige me by answering this one question first. If you were to
_marry_, what would Ida become then?
WILLIAM.
That no one can know.
ROBERT.
Oh yes, but one can:—mother!
WILLIAM.
As if mother is to be compared with Ida!
ROBERT.
But you with father.
WILLIAM.
Every man is a _new_ man.
ROBERT.
That’s what you’d _like_ to believe! Let it alone. You’re asking too much
of yourself. You yourself are the embodied argument against it.
WILLIAM.
I don’t believe it.
ROBERT.
You _know_ it well enough.
WILLIAM.
After all one can make oneself into something.
ROBERT.
If one is brought up that way.
WILLIAM.
Tch! There’s no sense in talking about it.
ROBERT.
Entirely my opinion.
WILLIAM.
It leads to nothing! (_Breaking out, quite beside himself_) You all want
to ruin me—I’m the victim of a conspiracy! You’re all in league against
me; you want to destroy me—you all want to destroy me—utterly!
ROBERT.
Father’s very words.
WILLIAM.
Ridiculous—Your remarks are simply ridiculous—Haven’t I reason enough
for what I’m saying? Don’t you want to part me from Ida? It is—simply!—I
haven’t words enough!—The absurdity of it! The brutality beyond
belief!—_I_ am to have pity on Ida! Who has pity on _me_!—Tell me that!
Name me any one person—who?
ROBERT.
Naturally!—When that’s the way you speak, naturally!
WILLIAM.
The sacrifices demanded of me!—The most senseless outrageous sacrifices!
I’m—
ROBERT.
You can spare yourself the trouble of talking; if that’s the case—You are
in your rights, keep the girl.
WILLIAM.
If that’s the case! If what’s the case, pray? Just tell me!
ROBERT.
You spoke of—Ida a while ago—if I remember—
WILLIAM.
Well—what then?
ROBERT.
Now it seems you’re speaking of yourself—H’m, plainly—if you are
indifferent as to what becomes of the girl, if you have the desirable
dose of—well call it recklessness—if you take her, as you would a new
coat or hat or something—
WILLIAM.
Robert!—Heartless through and through as you are—you’re right this time.
I’m with you, out of this place—That is, I’ll go with you a little
way, not far, and now, now I’ve done with all of you—Yes, yes, now
I’m—don’t speak!—now I’ve really done—absolutely—(_Robert looks at him
astonished, and shrugs his shoulders. With increasing vehemence_) Don’t,
don’t trouble yourself—it’s no good! You can’t do it—you can’t take me
in with your harmless quiet. You’re in the right, but what has put you
in the right, what has made you so clear-sighted? Shall I tell you?
Jealousy—miserable _jealousy_—nothing else—simply pitiful malice!—You
know very well that I should fight honestly—try to be a little worthier
of her. You know very well that with her purity, this girl has power
to purify me!—But you don’t want that! You don’t want to see me
cleansed!—Why not?—Because you—you yourself must always be what you
have been—because it is _me_ she loves, and never you! And so the whole
evening you have shadowed me with your detective looks—for ever there to
remind me you know me for what I am! Yes! You are right!—I am sin-stained
through and through!—Nothing left of me is pure. Tainted, I have nothing
in common with her innocence—and I am determined not to commit this
crime. But you, Robert!—That makes you none the purer; give thanks that
you no longer can feel shame!
[_Robert during the last part of William’s speech has taken his
things and gone towards the door. He stands, hand on the latch,
as if going to speak. Thinks better of it, shrugs his shoulders
resignedly, and goes out very quietly._
WILLIAM (_calling after him_).
Robert! Robert!
IDA (_coming from next room_).
Whom are you calling?
WILLIAM.
Ah, it’s you.
IDA.
The doctor’s there, William, he says it is very serious, it—
[_Voice of Mrs Scholz heard wailing, “My dear good husband.
Ah!—ah, my dear kind husband!”_
WILLIAM.
What have I done! What have I done now?
IDA.
It crushes my heart. I would like not to ask you—but something
must—something’s the matter, Willy!
WILLIAM.
Nothing. I want to be out there in solitude again. That is where I should
be. Our place is there, Ida.
IDA.
Why?—I can’t understand.
WILLIAM (_hastily and violently_).
Yes, yes, yes—the old story—: I don’t understand, I don’t
understand!—Mother and father have spoken different languages all
their lives; you don’t understand, you don’t _know_ me! You have stale
schoolgirl illusions and I have nothing more to do with all that, only to
hide away from you, hide—hide away, until there’s nothing of me but the
miserable traitor and scoundrel—
[_Ida, after looking dazed at William, bursts into tears._
WILLIAM.
There, you see, this is my real self. I need only for one moment to
forget my part, the part I play before you and my true self appears. You
can’t bear me as I really am. You cry, and you _would_ cry, year out,
year in, if I did not have pity on you.—No, Ida, it must come to an end
between us. I’ve come to that fixed resolve.
IDA (_throwing herself on his neck_).
That’s not true! That is not, that never _shall_ be true.
WILLIAM.
Think what you have seen here to-day; shall we start the game
afresh?—Shall we build this home again?
IDA.
It would be different! It would be better, William.
WILLIAM.
How can you say that?
IDA.
I _feel_ it.
WILLIAM.
But you are throwing yourself to destruction, Ida! I am dragging you to
your ruin.
IDA.
I’m not afraid of that, William, not the least afraid! Only have
faith again! Only give me your hand again! Then I can be something to
you.—Don’t push me away.
WILLIAM.
Let me go!—You are in love for the first time!—You love an illusion.
I have thrown myself in the gutter time after time. I have degraded
womanhood with other women.—I am an outcast—
IDA (_sobbing and crying, embraces him_).
You are _mine_, you are _mine_!
WILLIAM.
I am not fit for you!
IDA.
Oh, _don’t_ say that! I am so small before you, so small!—Like a little,
little moth. William, I am nothing without you—everything through
you;—don’t take your hand away from me.—I am so lost without you.
WILLIAM.
IDA!!! I—? _I_—
[_They embrace and kiss between laughing and crying._
I am not to take—my hand from you—what are you saying—what—why, you—bad—
IDA.
Now—promise me—now—
WILLIAM.
I _swear_ to you now—
[_A piercing scream from the next room cuts his words short.
Startled and terrified they stand looking into each other’s
eyes. Voice of Mrs Scholz:—“My husband’s dying, my dear good
Fritz is dying, my husband!”—Loud crying._]
WILLIAM.
My God!—What?—Father!!! Father!!!
[_Is about to rush into next room, Ida stops him._
IDA.
William!—Control yourself, and—don’t go without me.
[_Friebe comes shaking with sobs out of the next room and
disappears into the kitchen._]
AUGUSTA (_follows Friebe in; stopping in front of William, she moans at
him_).
Who—is to blame now, who—who?
[_She sinks with head and arms on a table, a muffled moaning is
wrung from her. Mrs Scholz is still heard crying loudly in next
room._
WILLIAM (_breaking out_).
Augusta!
IDA (_her hands on William’s breast, in trembling tones_:)
William—I think—your father—is dead.
[_William is again near an outbreak, but Ida calms him; he
controls his emotion, possesses himself of Ida’s hand, which he
grips in his own, and hand in hand they go with firm and quiet
steps out into the next room._]
NOTES
Title-page. _The Coming of Peace._ This is a somewhat free translation
of the title of Hauptmann’s play. Friedensfest means literally the Feast
or Festival of Peace, but the English title we have chosen seemed more
euphonious and has besides a bearing on the end of the play, when the old
man at any-rate enters into his rest.
P. 6. _O Gottogottogott!_ The effect of this exclamation, which Mrs
Scholz uses all through the play, cannot be reproduced in English. We
have tried, in the translation, by joining the words with a hyphen, to
give as far as might be the look of one word. Oh Godohgodohgod! would
only have puzzled readers. Even in speaking, the change from the _t_ to
_d_ makes the attempt to pronounce the exclamation as one word almost
impossible. Moreover to English eyes and ears “Oh God” of course carries
a weight quite incongruous in Mrs Scholz’s chatter. Here, as in many
other places, we were unable to arrive at an entirely satisfactory
equivalent for the German.
P. 16. _That’s an inhuman hand!_ This cannot be called a _translation_.
Mrs Scholz says: “Aus dem Grabe wachsen solche Hände!” She here alludes
to an old German saying still quoted among the peasantry, which declares
that the hand of anyone guilty of striking a parent would, after death,
point upward from the grave in ceaseless self-accusation. We have been
unable to find any similar superstition in English folk-lore.
MODERN PLAYS
EDITED BY
R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON AND N. ERICHSEN.
_=NOW READY=_
HENRIK IBSEN
“Love’s Comedy” (_Kjærlighedens Komedie_).—Professor C. H.
HERFORD
EMILE VERHAEREN
“The Dawn” (_Les Aubes_).—ARTHUR SYMONS
AUGUST STRINDBERG
“The Father” (_Fadren_).—N. ERICHSEN
OSTROVSKY
“The Storm.”—CONSTANCE GARNETT
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
“Intérieur.”—WILLIAM ARCHER
“La Mort de Tintagiles.” }
“Alladine et Palomides.” }—ALFRED SUTRO
1 vol.
GERHART HAUPTMANN
“The Coming of Peace” (_Das Friedensfest_).—JANET ACHURCH and
C. E. WHEELER
_=EARLY VOLUMES=_
VILLIERS DE L’ISLE ADAM
“La Révolte.” }
“L’Evasion.” }—THERESA BARCLAY
SERGIUS STEPNIAK
“The Convert.”—CONSTANCE GARNETT
BRIEUX
“Les Bienfaiteurs.”—LUCAS MALET
Arrangements are also in progress with representative dramatists of
Spain, Italy, and other countries. Further translations have been
promised by Dr GARNETT, Messrs WALTER LEAF, G. A. GREENE, EDGAR PRESTAGE,
etc.
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