PLAYS BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG

CREDITORSPARIAH

TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH, WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY EDWIN BJORKMAN

CREDITORS

INTRODUCTION

This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at the headof his dramatic production during the middle ultra-naturalisticperiod, the other two being "The Father" and "Miss Julia. " It is, in many ways, one of the strongest he ever produced. Its rarelyexcelled unity of construction, its tremendous dramatic tension, and its wonderful psychological analysis combine to make it amasterpiece. 

In Swedish its name is "Fordringsagare. " This indefinite form maybe either singular or plural, but it is rarely used except as aplural. And the play itself makes it perfectly clear that theproper translation of its title is "Creditors, " for under thisaspect appear both the former and the present husband of Tekla. One of the main objects of the play is to reveal her indebtednessfirst to one and then to the other of these men, while all thetime she is posing as a person of original gifts. 

I have little doubt that Strindberg, at the time he wrote thisplay--and bear in mind that this happened only a year before hefinally decided to free himself from an impossible marriage by anappeal to the law--believed Tekla to be fairly representative ofwomanhood in general. The utter unreasonableness of such a viewneed hardly be pointed out, and I shall waste no time on it. Aquestion more worthy of discussion is whether the figure of Teklabe true to life merely as the picture of a personality--as one outof numerous imaginable variations on a type decided not by sex butby faculties and qualities. And the same question may well beraised in regard to the two men, both of whom are evidentlyintended to win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate strongerthan himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse andhumiliating circumstances. 

Personally, I am inclined to doubt whether a Tekla can be found inthe flesh--and even if found, she might seem too exceptional togain acceptance as a real individuality. It must be remembered, however, that, in spite of his avowed realism, Strindberg did notdraw his men and women in the spirit generally designated asimpressionistic; that is, with the idea that they might stepstraight from his pages into life and there win recognition ashuman beings of familiar aspect. His realism is always mixed withidealism; his figures are always "doctored, " so to speak. And theyhave been thus treated in order to enable their creator to drivehome the particular truth he is just then concerned with. 

Consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what may bedesignated as "pure cultures" of certain human qualities. Butthese he took great pains to arrange in their proper psychologicalsettings, for mental and moral qualities, like everything else, run in groups that are more or less harmonious, if not exactlyhomogeneous. The man with a single quality, like Moliere'sHarpagon, was much too primitive and crude for Strindberg's art, as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "Miss Julia. "When he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did itby setting it in the midst of related qualities of a kind mostlikely to be attracted by it. 

Tekla is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally correlatedmental and moral qualities and functions and tendencies--of apersonality built up logically around a dominant central note. There are within all of us many personalities, some of whichremain for ever potentialities. But it is conceivable that any oneof them, under circumstances different from those in which we havebeen living, might have developed into its severely logicalconsequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would beheld abnormal if actually encountered. 

This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time and again, both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as inhis plays. In all of us a Tekla, an Adolph, a Gustav--or a Jeanand a Miss Julia--lie more or less dormant. And if we search oursouls unsparingly, I fear the result can only be an admissionthat--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we mighthave come unpleasantly close to one of those Strindbergiancreatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman. 

Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great Swedishdramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How could it otherwisehappen that so many critics, of such widely differingtemperaments, have recorded identical feelings as springing from astudy of his work: on one side an active resentment, a keenunwillingness to be interested; on the other, an attraction thatwould not be denied in spite of resolute resistance to it! ForStrindberg DOES hold us, even when we regret his power of doingso. And no one familiar with the conclusions of modern psychologycould imagine such a paradox possible did not the object of oursorely divided feelings provide us with something that our mindsinstinctively recognise as true to life in some way, and for thatreason valuable to the art of living. 

There are so many ways of presenting truth. Strindberg's is onlyone of them--and not the one commonly employed nowadays. Its mainfault lies perhaps in being too intellectual, too abstract. Forwhile Strindberg was intensely emotional, and while this factcolours all his writings, he could only express himself throughhis reason. An emotion that would move another man to murder wouldprecipitate Strindberg into merciless analysis of his own orsomebody else's mental and moral make-up. At any rate, I do notproclaim his way of presenting truth as the best one of allavailable. But I suspect that this decidedly strange way ofStrindberg's--resulting in such repulsively superior beings asGustav, or in such grievously inferior ones as Adolph--may comenearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways of muchmore plausible writers. This does not need to imply that thefuture will imitate Strindberg. But it may ascertain what he aimedat doing, and then do it with a degree of perfection which he, thepioneer, could never hope to attain. 

CREDITORS

A TRAGICOMEDY

1889

PERSONS

TEKLA

ADOLPH, her husband, a painter

GUSTAV, her divorced husband, a high-school teacher (who istravelling under an assumed name)

SCENE

(A parlor in a summer hotel on the sea-shore. The rear wall has adoor opening on a veranda, beyond which is seen a landscape. Tothe right of the door stands a table with newspapers on it. Thereis a chair on the left side of the stage. To the right of thetable stands a sofa. A door on the right leads to an adjoiningroom. )

(ADOLPH and GUSTAV, the latter seated on the sofa by the table tothe right. )

ADOLPH. [At work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling stand;his crutches are placed beside him]--and for all this I have tothank you!

GUSTAV. [Smoking a cigar] Oh, nonsense!

ADOLPH. Why, certainly! During the first days after my wife hadgone, I lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but long for her. It was as if she had taken away my crutches with her, so that Icouldn't move from the spot. When I had slept a couple of days, Iseemed to come to, and began to pull myself together. My headcalmed down after having been working feverishly. Old thoughtsfrom days gone by bobbed up again. The desire to work and theinstinct for creation came back. My eyes recovered their facultyof quick and straight vision--and then you showed up. 

GUSTAV. I admit you were in a miserable condition when I first metyou, and you had to use your crutches when you walked, but this isnot to say that my presence has been the cause of your recovery. You needed a rest, and you had a craving for masculine company. 

ADOLPH. Oh, that's true enough, like everything you say. Once Iused to have men for friends, but I thought them superfluous afterI married, and I felt quite satisfied with the one I had chosen. Later I was drawn into new circles and made a lot ofacquaintances, but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keepme to herself: worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends toherself. And so I was left alone with my own jealousy. 

GUSTAV. Yes, you have a strong tendency toward that kind ofdisease. 

ADOLPH. I was afraid of losing her--and I tried to prevent it. There is nothing strange in that. But I was never afraid that shemight be deceiving me--

GUSTAV. No, that's what married men are never afraid of. 

ADOLPH. Yes, isn't it queer? What I really feared was that herfriends would get such an influence over her that they would beginto exercise some kind of indirect power over me--and THAT issomething I couldn't bear. 

GUSTAV. So your ideas don't agree--yours and your wife's?

ADOLPH. Seeing that you have heard so much already, I may as welltell you everything. My wife has an independent nature--what areyou smiling at?

GUSTAV. Go on! She has an independent nature--

ADOLPH. Which cannot accept anything from me--

GUSTAV. But from everybody else. 

ADOLPH. [After a pause] Yes. --And it looked as if she especiallyhated my ideas because they were mine, and not because there wasanything wrong about them. For it used to happen quite often thatshe advanced ideas that had once been mine, and that she stood upfor them as her own. Yes, it even happened that friends of minegave her ideas which they had taken directly from me, and thenthey seemed all right. Everything was all right except what camefrom me. 

GUSTAV. Which means that you are not entirely happy?

ADOLPH. Oh yes, I am happy. I have the one I wanted, and I havenever wanted anybody else. 

GUSTAV. And you have never wanted to be free?

ADOLPH. No, I can't say that I have. Oh, well, sometimes I haveimagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. But the momentshe leaves me, I begin to long for her--long for her as for my ownarms and legs. It is queer that sometimes I have a feeling thatshe is nothing in herself, but only a part of myself--an organthat can take away with it my will, my very desire to live. Itseems almost as if I had deposited with her that centre ofvitality of which the anatomical books tell us. 

GUSTAV. Perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is justwhat has happened. 

ADOLPH. How could it be so? Is she not an independent being, withthoughts of her own? And when I met her I was nothing--a child ofan artist whom she undertook to educate. 

GUSTAV. But later you developed her thoughts and educated her, didn't you?

ADOLPH. No, she stopped growing and I pushed on. 

GUSTAV. Yes, isn't it strange that her "authoring" seemed to falloff after her first book--or that it failed to improve, at least?But that first time she had a subject which wrote itself--for Iunderstand she used her former husband for a model. You never knewhim, did you? They say he was an idiot. 

ADOLPH. I never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time. But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture ofhim. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the picture was correct. 

GUSTAV. I do!--But why did she ever take him?

ADOLPH. Because she didn't know him well enough. Of course, younever DO get acquainted until afterward!

GUSTAV. And for that reason one ought not to marry until--afterward. --And he was a tyrant, of course?

ADOLPH. Of course?

GUSTAV. Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way] And you notthe least. 

ADOLPH. I? Who let my wife come and go as she pleases--

GUSTAV. Well, that's nothing. You couldn't lock her up, could you?But do you like her to stay away whole nights?

ADOLPH. No, really, I don't. 

GUSTAV. There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to tell thetruth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it. 

ADOLPH. Ridiculous? Can a man be ridiculous because he trusts hiswife?

GUSTAV. Of course he can. And it's just what you are already--andthoroughly at that!

ADOLPH. [Convulsively] I! It's what I dread most of all--andthere's going to be a change. 

GUSTAV. Don't get excited now--or you'll have another attack. 

ADOLPH. But why isn't she ridiculous when I stay out all night?

GUSTAV. Yes, why? Well, it's nothing that concerns you, but that'sthe way it is. And while you are trying to figure out why, themishap has already occurred. 

ADOLPH. What mishap?

GUSTAV. However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took himonly to get her freedom. You see, a girl cannot have freedomexcept by providing herself with a chaperon--or what we call ahusband. 

ADOLPH. Of course not. 

GUSTAV. And now you are the chaperon. 

ADOLPH. I?

GUSTAV. Since you are her husband. 

(ADOLPH keeps a preoccupied silence. )

GUSTAV. Am I not right?

ADOLPH. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman for years, and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, and then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--Gustav, youare my friend. The only male friend I have. During this last weekyou have given me courage to live again. It is as if your ownmagnetism had been poured into me. Like a watchmaker, you havefixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again. Can'tyou hear, yourself, how I think more clearly and speak more to thepoint? And to myself at least it seems as if my voice hadrecovered its ring. 

GUSTAV. So it seems to me also. And why is that?

ADOLPH. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower yourvoice in talking to women. I know at least that Tekla always usedto accuse me of shouting. 

GUSTAV. And so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule ofthe slipper?

ADOLPH. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After somereflection] I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk ofsomething else!--What was I saying?--Yes, you came here, and youenabled me to see my art in its true light. Of course, for sometime I had noticed my growing lack of interest in painting, as itdidn't seem to offer me the proper medium for the expression ofwhat I wanted to bring out. But when you explained all this to me, and made it clear why painting must fail as a timely outlet forthe creative instinct, then I saw the light at last--and Irealised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to expressmyself by means of colour only. 

GUSTAV. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting--that you may not have a relapse?

ADOLPH. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself. When I went tobed that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argument point bypoint, and I knew you had it right. But when I woke up from a goodnight's sleep and my head was clear again, then it came over me ina flash that you might be mistaken after all. And I jumped out ofbed and got hold of my brushes and paints--but it was no use!Every trace of illusion was gone--it was nothing but smears ofpaint, and I quaked at the thought of having believed, and havingmade others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but apainted canvas. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and it was justas impossible for me to paint any more as it was to become a childagain. 

GUSTAV. And then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, its craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find itsproper form in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in allthree dimensions--

ADOLPH. [Vaguely] The three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word!

GUSTAV. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or rather, youhave been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothingwas needed but a guide to put you on the right road--Tell me, doyou experience supreme joy now when you are at work?

ADOLPH. Now I am living!

GUSTAV. May I see what you are doing?

ADOLPH. A female figure. 

GUSTAV. Without a model? And so lifelike at that!

ADOLPH. [Apathetically] Yes, but it resembles somebody. It isremarkable that this woman seems to have become a part of my bodyas I of hers. 

GUSTAV. Well, that's not so very remarkable. Do you know whattransfusion is?

ADOLPH. Of blood? Yes. 

GUSTAV. And you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. WhenI look at the figure here I comprehend several things which Imerely guessed before. You have loved her tremendously!

ADOLPH. Yes, to such an extent that I couldn't tell whether shewas I or I she. When she is smiling, I smile also. When she isweeping, I weep. And when she--can you imagine anything like it?--when she was giving life to our child--I felt the birth pangswithin myself. 

GUSTAV. Do you know, my dear friend--I hate to speak of it, butyou are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy. 

ADOLPH. [Agitated] I! How can you tell?

GUSTAV. Because I have watched the symptoms in a younger brotherof mine who had been worshipping Venus a little too excessively. 

ADOLPH. How--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of?

[During the following passage GUSTAV speaks with great animation, and ADOLPH listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitatesmany of GUSTAV'S gestures. ]

GUSTAV. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strongenough I won't inflict a description of it on you. 

ADOLPH. [Nervously] Yes, go right on--just go on!

GUSTAV. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent littlecreature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face ofa child and the pure soul of an angel. But nevertheless shemanaged to usurp the male prerogative--

ADOLPH. What is that?

GUSTAV. Initiative, of course. And with the result that the angelnearly carried him off to heaven. But first he had to be put onthe cross and made to feel the nails in his flesh. It washorrible!

ADOLPH. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened?

GUSTAV. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting togethertalking, he and I--and when I had been speaking for a while hisface would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs would growstiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the palms of hishands--like this. [He illustrates the movement and it is imitatedby ADOLPH] Then his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to chew--like this. [He chews, and again ADOLPH imitates him] The salivawas rattling in his throat. His chest was squeezed together as ifit had been closed in a vice. The pupils of his eyes flickeredlike gas-jets. His tongue beat the saliva into a lather, and hesank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he weredrowning. And then---

ADOLPH. [In a whisper] Stop now!

GUSTAV. And then--Are you not feeling well?

ADOLPH. No. 

GUSTAV. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now. Andwe'll talk of something else. 

ADOLPH. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on!

GUSTAV. Well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything atall. He had simply lost consciousness. Has that ever happened toyou?

ADOLPH. Yes, I have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but myphysician says it's only anaemia. 

GUSTAV. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But, believeme, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself. 

ADOLPH. What can I do?

GUSTAV. To begin with, you will have to observe completeabstinence. 

ADOLPH. For how long?

GUSTAV. For half a year at least. 

ADOLPH. I cannot do it. That would upset our married life. 

GUSTAV. Good-bye to you then!

ADOLPH. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it!

GUSTAV. Can you not save your own life?--But tell me, as you havealready given me so much of your confidence--is there no othercanker, no secret wound, that troubles you? For it is very rare tofind only one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety andso fruitful in chances for false relationships. Is there not acorpse in your cargo that you are trying to hide from yourself?--For instance, you said a minute ago that you have a child whichhas been left in other people's care. Why don't you keep it withyou?

ADOLPH. My wife doesn't want us to do so. 

GUSTAV. And her reason? Speak up now!

ADOLPH. Because, when it was about three years old, it began tolook like him, her former husband. 

GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband?

ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poorportrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightestresemblance. 

GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, he might have changed considerably since it was made. However, Ihope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you?

ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage, and the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happenedright here, in this very house even, and that's why we come hereevery summer. 

GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And youwouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for thechildren of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to herdead husband. It is annoying, of course, and that's why they usedto burn all widows in India, as you know. --But tell me: have youever felt jealous of him--of his memory? Would it not sicken youto meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your Tekla, use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We!

ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that verythought. 

GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There arediscords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. Forthis reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. Ifyou work, and grow old, and pile masses of new impressions on thehatches, then the corpse will stay quiet in the hold. 

ADOLPH. Pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful howyou resemble Tekla now and then while you are talking. You have away of blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, andyour eyes have the same influence on me as hers have at times. 

GUSTAV. No, really?

ADOLPH. And now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferentway that she does. She also has the habit of saying "no, really"quite often. 

GUSTAV. Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all humanbeings are said to be of one family. At any rate, it will beinteresting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if what yousay is true. 

ADOLPH. And do you know, she never takes an expression from me. She seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and I have never caughther using any of my gestures. And yet people as a rule developwhat is called "marital resemblance. "

GUSTAV. And do you know why this has not happened in your case?--That woman has never loved you. 

ADOLPH. What do you mean?

GUSTAV. I hope you will excuse what I am saying--but woman's loveconsists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takesnothing does not have her love. She has never loved you!

ADOLPH. Don't you think her capable of loving more than once?

GUSTAV. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once. Then oureyes are opened once for all. You have never been deceived, and soyou had better beware of those that have. They are dangerous, Itell you. 

ADOLPH. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I fool as ifsomething were being severed within me, but I cannot help it. Andthis cutting brings a certain relief, too. For it means thepricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen. --She has neverloved me!--Why, then, did she ever take me?

GUSTAV. Tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it wasyou who took her or she who took you?

ADOLPH. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all!--How did ithappen? Well, it didn't come about in one day. 

GUSTAV. Would you like to have me tell you how it did happen?

ADOLPH. That's more than you can do. 

GUSTAV. Oh, by using the information about yourself and your wifethat you have given me, I think I can reconstruct the whole event. Listen now, and you'll hear. [In a dispassionate tone, almosthumorously] The husband had gone abroad to study, and she wasalone. At first her freedom seemed rather pleasant. Then came asense of vacancy, for I presume she was pretty empty when she hadlived by herself for a fortnight. Then he appeared, and by and bythe vacancy was filled up. By comparison the absent one seemed tofade out, and for the simple reason that he was at a distance--youknow the law about the square of the distance? But when they felttheir passions stirring, then came fear--of themselves, of theirconsciences, of him. For protection they played brother andsister. And the more their feelings smacked of the flesh, the morethey tried to make their relationship appear spiritual. 

ADOLPH. Brother and sister? How could you know that?

GUSTAV. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing papaand mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--inorder to hide what should be hidden!--And then they took the vowof chastity--and then they played hide-and-seek--until they gotin a dark corner where they were sure of not being seen byanybody. [With mock severity] But they felt that there was ONEwhose eye reached them in the darkness--and they grew frightened--and their fright raised the spectre of the absent one--his figurebegan to assume immense proportions--it became metamorphosed:turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous slumbers; acreditor who knocked at all doors. Then they saw his black handbetween their own as these sneaked toward each other across thetable; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness ofthe night that should have been broken only by the beating oftheir own pulses. He did not prevent them from possessing eachother but he spoiled their happiness. And when they became awareof his invisible interference with their happiness; when they tookflight at last--a vain flight from the memories that pursued them, from the liability they had left behind, from the public opinionthey could not face--and when they found themselves without thestrength needed to carry their own guilt, then they had to sendout into the fields for a scapegoat to be sacrificed. They werefree-thinkers, but they did not have the courage to step forwardand speak openly to him the words: "We love each other!" To sum itup, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. Isthat right?

ADOLPH. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filledmy head with new thoughts--

GUSTAV. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could she noteducate the other man also--into a free-thinker?

ADOLPH. Oh, he was an idiot!

GUSTAV. Oh, of course--he was an idiot! But that's rather anambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seemsmainly to have consisted in failure to understand her. Pardon me aquestion: but is your wife so very profound after all? I havediscovered nothing profound in her writings. 

ADOLPH. Neither have I. --But then I have also to confess a certaindifficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs of our brainwheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went topieces in my head when I try to comprehend her. 

GUSTAV. Maybe you are an idiot, too?

ADOLPH. I don't THINK so! And it seems to me all the time as ifshe were in the wrong--Would you care to read this letter, forinstance, which I got today?

[Takes out a letter from his pocket-book. ]

GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwriting seemsstrangely familiar. 

ADOLPH. Rather masculine, don't you think?

GUSTAV. Well, I know at least ONE man who writes that kind ofhand--She addresses you as "brother. " Are you still playingcomedy to each other? And do you never permit yourselves anygreater familiarity in speaking to each other?

ADOLPH. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in thatway. 

GUSTAV. And is it to make you respect her that she calls herselfyour sister?

ADOLPH. I want to respect her more than myself. I want her to bethe better part of my own self. 

GUSTAV. Why don't you be that better part yourself? Would it beless convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? Doyou want to place yourself beneath your wife?

ADOLPH. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up toher. I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoyhearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. To begin with, I merely pretended to be awkward and timid in orderto raise her courage. And so it ended with my actually being herinferior, more of a coward than she. It almost seemed to me as ifshe had actually taken my courage away from me. 

GUSTAV. Have you taught her anything else?

ADOLPH. Yes--but it must stay between us--I have taught her how tospell, which she didn't know before. But now, listen: when shetook charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of thehabit of writing. And think of it: as the years passed on, lack ofpractice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar. Butdo you think she recalls that I was the one who taught her at thestart? No--and so I am "the idiot, " of course. 

GUSTAV. So you are an idiot already?

ADOLPH. Oh, it's just a joke, of course!

GUSTAV. Of course! But this is clear cannibalism, I think. Do youknow what's behind that sort of practice? The savages eat theirenemies in order to acquire their useful qualities. And this womanhas been eating your soul, your courage, your knowledge---

ADOLPH. And my faith! It was I who urged her to write her firstbook---

GUSTAV. [Making a face] Oh-h-h!

ADOLPH. It was I who praised her, even when I found her stuffrather poor. It was I who brought her into literary circles whereshe could gather honey from our most ornamental literary flowers. It was I who used my personal influence to keep the critics fromher throat. It was I who blew her faith in herself into flame;blew on it until I lost my own breath. I gave, gave, gave--until Ihad nothing left for myself. Do you know--I'll tell you everythingnow--do you know I really believe--and the human soul is sopeculiarly constituted--I believe that when my artistic successesseemed about to put her in the shadow--as well as her reputation--then I tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and bymaking my own art seem inferior to hers. I talked so long aboutthe insignificant part played by painting on the whole--talked solong about it, and invented so many reasons to prove what I said, that one fine day I found myself convinced of its futility. So allyou had to do was to breathe on a house of cards. 

GUSTAV. Pardon me for recalling what you said at the beginning ofour talk--that she had never taken anything from you. 

ADOLPH. She doesn't nowadays. Because there is nothing more totake. 

GUSTAV. The snake being full, it vomits now. 

ADOLPH. Perhaps she has been taking a good deal more from me thanI have been aware of?

GUSTAV. You can be sure of that. She took when you were notlooking, and that is called theft. 

ADOLPH. Perhaps she never did educate me?

GUSTAV. But you her? In all likelihood! But it was her trick tomake it appear the other way to you. May I ask how she set abouteducating you?

ADOLPH. Oh, first of all--hm!

GUSTAV. Well?

ADOLPH. Well, I---

GUSTAV. No, we were speaking of her. 

ADOLPH. Really, I cannot tell now. 

GUSTAV. Do you see!

ADOLPH. However--she devoured my faith also, and so I sank furtherand further down, until you came along and gave me a new faith. 

GUSTAV. [Smiling] In sculpture?

ADOLPH. [Doubtfully] Yes. 

GUSTAV. And have you really faith in it? In this abstract, antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of civilisation?Do you believe that you can obtain your effect by pure form--bythe three dimensions--tell me? That you can reach the practicalmind of our own day, and convey an illusion to it, without the useof colour--without colour, mind you--do you really believe that?

ADOLPH. [Crushed] No!

GUSTAV. Well, I don't either. 

ADOLPH. Why, then, did you say you did?

GUSTAV. Because I pitied you. 

ADOLPH. Yes, I am to be pitied! For now I am bankrupt! Finished!--And worst of all: not even she is left to me!

GUSTAV. Well, what could you do with her?

ADOLPH. Oh, she would be to me what God was before I became anatheist: an object that might help me to exercise my sense ofveneration. 

GUSTAV. Bury your sense of veneration and let something else growon top of it. A little wholesome scorn, for instance. 

ADOLPH. I cannot live without having something to respect---

GUSTAV. Slave!

ADOLPH. --without a woman to respect and worship!

GUSTAV. Oh, HELL! Then you had better take back your God--if youneeds must have something to kow-tow to! You're a fine atheist, with all that superstition about woman still in you! You're a finefree-thinker, who dare not think freely about the dear ladies! Doyou know what that incomprehensible, sphinx-like, profoundsomething in your wife really is? It is sheer stupidity!--Lookhere: she cannot even distinguish between th and t. And that, youknow, means there is something wrong with the mechanism. When youlook at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the worksinside are those of an ordinary cheap watch. --Nothing but theskirts-that's all! Put trousers on her, give her a pair ofmoustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober look ather, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find theinstrument has another sound to it. A phonograph, and nothingelse--giving yon back your own words, or those of other people--and always in diluted form. Have you ever looked at a naked woman--oh yes, yes, of course! A youth with over-developed breasts; anunder-developed man; a child that has shot up to full height andthen stopped growing in other respects; one who is chronicallyanaemic: what can you expect of such a creature?

ADOLPH. Supposing all that to be true--how can it be possible thatI still think her my equal?

GUSTAV. Hallucination--the hypnotising power of skirts! Or--thetwo of you may actually have become equals. The levelling processhas been finished. Her capillarity has brought the water in bothtubes to the same height. --Tell me [taking out his watch]: ourtalk has now lasted six hours, and your wife ought soon to behere. Don't you think we had better stop, so that you can get arest?

ADOLPH. No, don't leave me! I don't dare to be alone!

GUSTAV. Oh, for a little while only--and then the lady will come. 

ADOLPH. Yes, she is coming!--It's all so queer! I long for her, but I am afraid of her. She pets me, she is tender to me, butthere is suffocation in her kisses--something that pulls andnumbs. And I feel like a circus child that is being pinched by theclown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when it appearsbefore the public. 

GUSTAV. I feel very sorry for you, my friend. Without being aphysician, I can tell that you are a dying man. It is enough tolook at your latest pictures in order to see that. 

ADOLPH. You think so? How can you see it?

GUSTAV. Your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that thecadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. And it impressesme as if your own hollow, putty-coloured checks were showingbeneath--

ADOLPH. Oh, stop, stop!

GUSTAV. Well, this is not only my personal opinion. Have you readto-day's paper?

ADOLPH. [Shrinking] No!

GUSTAV. It's on the table here. 

ADOLPH. [Reaching for the paper without daring to take hold of it]Do they speak of it there?

GUSTAV. Read it--or do you want me to read it to you?

ADOLPH. No!

GUSTAV. I'll leave you, if you want me to. 

ADOLPH. No, no, no!--I don't know--it seems as if I were beginningto hate you, and yet I cannot let you go. --You drag me out of thehole into which I have fallen, but no sooner do you get me on firmice, than you knock me on the head and shove me into the wateragain. As long as my secrets were my own, I had still somethingleft within me, but now I am quite empty. There is a canvas by anItalian master, showing a scene of torture--a saint whoseintestines are being torn out of him and rolled on the axle of awindlass. The martyr is watching himself grow thinner and thinner, while the roll on the axle grows thicker. --Now it seems to me asif you had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when youleave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing butan empty shell behind. 

GUSTAV. How you do let your fancy run away with you!--Andbesides, your wife is bringing back your heart. 

ADOLPH. No, not since you have burned her to ashes. Everything isin ashes where you have passed along: my art, my love, my hope, myfaith!

GUSTAV. All of it was pretty nearly finished before I came along. 

ADOLPH. Yes, but it might have been saved. Now it's too late--incendiary!

GUSTAV. We have cleared some ground only. Now we'll sow in theashes. 

ADOLPH. I hate you! I curse you!

GUSTAV. Good symptoms! There is still some strength left in you. And now I'll pull you up on the ice again. Listen now! Do you wantto listen to me, and do you want to obey me?

ADOLPH. Do with me what you will--I'll obey you!

GUSTAV. [Rising] Look at me!

ADOLPH. [Looking at GUSTAV] Now you are looking at me again withthat other pair of eyes which attracts me. 

GUSTAV. And listen to me!

ADOLPH. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't talk of me any longer: Iam like an open wound and cannot bear being touched. 

GUSTAV. No, there is nothing to say about me. I am a teacher ofdead languages, and a widower--that's all! Take my hand. 

ADOLPH. What terrible power there must be in you! It feels as if Iwere touching an electrical generator. 

GUSTAV. And bear in mind that I have been as weak as you are now. --Stand up!

ADOLPH. [Rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throwinghis arms around the neck of GUSTAV] I am like a boneless baby, andmy brain seems to lie bare. 

GUSTAV. Take a turn across the floor!

ADOLPH. I cannot!

GUSTAV. Do what I say, or I'll strike you!

ADOLPH. [Straightening himself up] What are you saying?

GUSTAV. I'll strike you, I said. 

ADOLPH. [Leaping backward in a rage] You!

GUSTAV. That's it! Now you have got the blood into your head, andyour self-assurance is awake. And now I'll give you someelectriticy: where is your wife?

ADOLPH. Where is she?

GUSTAV. Yes. 

ADOLPH. She is--at--a meeting. 

GUSTAV. Sure?

ADOLPH. Absolutely!

GUSTAV. What kind of meeting?

ADOLPH. Oh, something relating to an orphan asylum. 

GUSTAV. Did you part as friends?

ADOLPH. [With some hesitation] Not as friends. 

GUSTAV. As enemies then!--What did you say that provoked her?

ADOLPH. You are terrible. I am afraid of you. How could you know?

GUSTAV. It's very simple: I possess three known factors, and withtheir help I figure out the unknown one. What did you say to her?

ADOLPH. I said--two words only, but they were dreadful, and Iregret them--regret them very much. 

GUSTAV. Don't do it! Tell me now?

ADOLPH. I said: "Old flirt!"

GUSTAV. What more did you say?

ADOLPH. Nothing at all. 

GUSTAV. Yes, you did, but you have forgotten it--perhaps becauseyou don't dare remember it. You have put it away in a secretdrawer, but you have got to open it now!

ADOLPH. I can't remember!

GUSTAV. But I know. This is what you said: "You ought to beashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any more lovers!"

ADOLPH. Did I say that? I must have said it!--But how can you knowthat I did?

GUSTAV. I heard her tell the story on board the boat as I camehere. 

ADOLPH. To whom?

GUSTAV. To four young men who formed her company. She is alreadydeveloping a taste for chaste young men, just like--

ADOLPH. But there is nothing wrong in that?

GUSTAV. No more than in playing brother and sister when you arepapa and mamma. 

ADOLPH. So you have seen her then?

GUSTAV. Yes, I have. But you have never seen her when you didn't--I mean, when you were not present. And there's the reason, yousee, why a husband can never really know his wife. Have you aportrait of her?

(Adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. There is a look ofaroused curiosity on his face. )

GUSTAV. You were not present when this was taken?

ADOLPH. No. 

GUSTAV. Look at it. Does it bear much resemblance to the portraityou painted of her? Hardly any! The features are the same, but theexpression is quite different. But you don't see this, becauseyour own picture of her creeps in between your eyes and this one. Look at it now as a painter, without giving a thought to theoriginal. What does it represent? Nothing, so far as I can see, but an affected coquette inviting somebody to come and play withher. Do you notice this cynical line around the mouth which youare never allowed to see? Can you see that her eyes are seekingout some man who is not you? Do you observe that her dress is cutlow at the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, thather sleeve has managed to slip back from her arm? Can you see?

ADOLPH. Yes--now I see. 

GUSTAV. Look out, my boy!

ADOLPH. For what?

GUSTAV. For her revenge! Bear in mind that when you said she couldnot attract a man, you struck at what to her is most sacred--theone thing above all others. If you had told her that she wrotenothing but nonsense, she would have laughed at your poor taste. But as it is--believe me, it will not be her fault if her desirefor revenge has not already been satisfied. 

ADOLPH. I must know if it is so!

GUSTAV. Find out!

ADOLPH. Find out?

GUSTAV. Watch--I'll assist you, if you want me to. 

ADOLPH. As I am to die anyhow--it may as well come first as last!What am I to do?

GUSTAV. First of all a piece of information: has your wife anyvulnerable point?

ADOLPH. Hardly! I think she must have nine lives, like a cat. 

GUSTAV. There--that was the boat whistling at the landing--nowshe'll soon be here. 

ADOLPH. Then I must go down and meet her. 

GUSTAV. No, you are to stay here. You have to be impolite. Ifher conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your ears tingle. If she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you. 

ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that?

GUSTAV. Not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn and run inloops, but I'll follow. My room is nest to this. [He points to thedoor on the right] There I shall take up my position and watch youwhile you are playing the game in here. But when you are done, we'll change parts: I'll enter the cage and do tricks with thesnake while you stick to the key-hole. Then we meet in the park tocompare notes. But keep your back stiff. And if you feel yourselfweakening, knock twice on the floor with a chair. 

ADOLPH. All right!--But don't go away. I must be sure that you arein the next room. 

GUSTAV. You can be quite sure of that. But don't get scaredafterward, when you watch me dissecting a human soul and layingout its various parts on the table. They say it is rather hard ona beginner, but once you have seen it done, you never want to missit. --And be sure to remember one thing: not a word about havingmet me, or having made any new acquaintance whatever while she wasaway. Not one word! And I'll discover her weak point by myself. Hush, she has arrived--she is in her room now. She's humming toherself. That means she is in a rage!--Now, straight in the back, please! And sit down on that chair over there, so that she has tosit here--then I can watch both of you at the same time. 

ADOLPH. It's only fifteen minutes to dinner--and no new guestshave arrived--for I haven't heard the bell ring. That means weshall be by ourselves--worse luck!

GUSTAV. Are you weak?

ADOLPH. I am nothing at all!--Yes, I am afraid of what is nowcoming! But I cannot keep it from coming! The stone has been setrolling--and it was not the first drop of water that started it--nor wad it the last one--but all of them together. 

GUSTAV. Let it roll then--for peace will come in no other way. Good-bye for a while now! [Goes out]

(ADOLPH nods back at him. Until then he has been standing with thephotograph in his hand. Now he tears it up and flings the piecesunder the table. Then he sits down on a chair, pulls nervously athis tie, runs his fingers through his hair, crumples his coatlapel, and so on. )

TEKLA. [Enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss; hermanner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] Hello, littlebrother! How is he getting on?

ADOLPH. [Almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if in jest]What mischief have you been up to now that makes you come and kissme?

TEKLA. I'll tell you: I've spent an awful lot of money. 

ADOLPH. You have had a good time then?

TEKLA. Very! But not exactly at that creche meeting. That wasplain piffle, to tell the truth. --But what has little brotherfound to divert himself with while his Pussy was away?

(Her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking forsomebody or sniffing something. )

ADOLPH. I've simply been bored. 

TEKLA. And no company at all?

ADOLPH. Quite by myself. 

TEKLA. [Watching him; she sits down on the sofa] Who has beensitting here? ADOLPH. Over there? Nobody. 

TEKLA. That's funny! The seat is still warm, and there is a hollowhere that looks as if it had been made by an elbow. Have you hadlady callers?

ADOLPH. I? You don't believe it, do you?

TEKLA. But you blush. I think little brother is not telling thetruth. Come and tell Pussy now what he has on his conscience. 

(Draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his headresting in her lap. )

ADOLPH. You're a little devil--do you know that?

TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all about myself. 

ADOLPH. You never think about yourself, do you?

TEKLA. [Sniffing and taking notes] I think of nothing but myself--I am a dreadful egoist. But what has made you turn sophilosophical all at once?

ADOLPH. Put your hand on my forehead. 

TEKLA. [Prattling as if to a baby] Has he got ants in his headagain? Does he want me to take them away, does he? [Kisses him onthe forehead] There now! Is it all right now?

ADOLPH. Now it's all right. [Pause]

TEKLA. Well, tell me now what you have been doing to make the timego? Have you painted anything?

ADOLPH. No, I am done with painting. 

TEKLA. What? Done with painting?

ADOLPH. Yes, but don't scold me for it. How can I help it that Ican't paint any longer!

TEKLA. What do you mean to do then?

ADOLPH. I'll become a sculptor. 

TEKLA. What a lot of brand new ideas again!

ADOLPH. Yes, but please don't scold! Look at that figure overthere. 

TEKLA. [Uncovering the wax figure] Well, I declare!--Who is thatmeant for?

ADOLPH. Guess!

TEKLA. Is it Pussy? Has he got no shame at all?

ADOLPH. Is it like?

TEKLA. How can I tell when there is no face?

ADOLPH. Yes, but there is so much else--that's beautiful!

TEKLA. [Taps him playfully on the cheek] Now he must keep still orI'll have to kiss him. 

ADOLPH. [Holding her back] Now, now!--Somebody might come!

TEKLA. Well, what do I care? Can't I kiss my own husband, perhaps?Oh yes, that's my lawful right. 

ADOLPH. Yes, but don't you know--in the hotel here, they don'tbelieve we are married, because we are kissing each other such alot. And it makes no difference that we quarrel now and then, forlovers are said to do that also. 

TEKLA. Well, but what's the use of quarrelling? Why can't healways be as nice as he is now? Tell me now? Can't he try? Doesn'the want us to be happy?

ADOLPH. Do I want it? Yes, but--

TEKLA. There we are again! Who has put it into his head that he isnot to paint any longer?

ADOLPH. Who? You are always looking for somebody else behind meand my thoughts. Are you jealous?

TEKLA. Yes, I am. I'm afraid somebody might take him away from me. 

ADOLPH. Are you really afraid of that? You who know that no otherwoman can take your place, and that I cannot live without you!

TEKLA. Well, I am not afraid of the women--it's your friends thatfill your head with all sorts of notions. 

ADOLPH. [Watching her] You are afraid then? Of what are youafraid?

TEKLA. [Getting up] Somebody has been here. Who has been here?

ADOLPH. Don't you wish me to look at you?

TEKLA. Not in that way: it's not the way you are accustomed tolook at me. 

ADOLPH. How was I looking at you then?

TEKLA. Way up under my eyelids. 

ADOLPH. Under your eyelids--yes, I wanted to see what is behindthem. 

TEKLA. See all you can! There is nothing that needs to be hidden. But--you talk differently, too--you use expressions--[studyinghim] you philosophise--that's what you do! [Approaches himthreateningly] Who has been here?

ADOLPH. Nobody but my physician. 

TEKLA. Your physician? Who is he?

ADOLPH. That doctor from Stromstad. 

TEKLA. What's his name?

ADOLPH. Sjoberg. 

TEKLA. What did he have to say?

ADOLPH. He said--well--among other things he said--that I am onthe verge of epilepsy--

TEKLA. Among other things? What more did he say?

ADOLPH. Something very unpleasant. 

TEKLA. Tell me!

ADOLPH. He forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. 

TEKLA. Oh, that's it! Didn't I just guess it! They want toseparate us! That's what I have understood a long time!

ADOLPH. You can't have understood, because there was nothing tounderstand. 

TEKLA. Oh yes, I have!

ADOLPH. How can you see what doesn't exist, unless your fear ofsomething has stirred up your fancy into seeing what has neverexisted? What is it you fear? That I might borrow somebody else'seyes in order to see you as you are, and not as you seem to be?

TEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolph! It is the beastthat dwells in man's soul. 

ADOLPH. Where did you learn that? From those chaste young men onthe boat--did you?

TEKLA. [Not at all abashed] Yes, there is something to be learnedfrom youth also. 

ADOLPH. I think you are already beginning to have a taste foryouth?

TEKLA. I have always liked youth. That's why I love you. Do youobject?

ADOLPH. No, but I should prefer to have no partners. 

TEKLA. [Prattling roguishly] My heart is so big, little brother, that there is room in it for many more than him. 

ADOLPH. But little brother doesn't want any more brothers. 

TEKLA. Come here to Pussy now and get his hair pulled because heis jealous--no, envious is the right word for it!

(Two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining room, whereGUSTAV is. )

ADOLPH. No, I don't want to play now. I want to talk seriously. 

TEKLA. [Prattling] Mercy me, does he want to talk seriously?Dreadful, how serious he's become! [Takes hold of his head andkisses him] Smile a little--there now!

ADOLPH. [Smiling against his will] Oh, you're the--I might almostthink you knew how to use magic!

TEKLA. Well, can't he see now? That's why he shouldn't start anytrouble--or I might use my magic to make him invisible!

ADOLPH. [Gets up] Will you sit for me a moment, Tekla? With theside of your face this way, so that I can put a face on my figure. 

TEKLA. Of course, I will. 

[Turns her head so he can see her in profile. ]

ADOLPH. [Gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the figure]Don't think of me now--but of somebody else. 

TEKLA. I'll think of my latest conquest. 

ADOLPH. That chaste young man?

TEKLA. Exactly! He had a pair of the prettiest, sweetestmoustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach--it was so soft androsy that you just wanted to bite it. 

ADOLPH. [Darkening] Please keep that expression about the mouth. 

TEKLA. What expression?

ADOLPH. A cynical, brazen one that I have never seen before. 

TEKLA. [Making a face] This one?

ADOLPH. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how Bret Hartepictures an adulteress?

TEKLA. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something. 

ADOLPH. As a pale creature that cannot blush. 

TEKLA. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, then she mustblush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret may not beallowed to see it. 

ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that?

TEKLA. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable ofbringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold thecharming spectacle. 

ADOLPH. [Enraged] Tekla!

TEKLA. Oh, you little ninny!

ADOLPH. Tekla!

TEKLA. He should call her Pussy--then I might get up a prettylittle blush for his sake. Does he want me to?

ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I couldbite you!

TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!--Come!

[Opens her arms to him. ]

ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'llbite you to death!

TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out--somebody might come!

ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the worldif I can only have you!

TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer?

ADOLPH. Then I shall die!

TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as I am tooold to be wanted by anybody else?

ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it allback now!

TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and socock-sure?

ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possiblethat the thought of somebody else having possessed you may stillbe gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our lovewere nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passionkept up as a matter of honor--and I can't think of anything thatwould give me more pain than to have HIM know that I am unhappy. Oh, I have never seen him--but the mere thought that a personexists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is dailycalling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when Iperish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, fascinates me, paralyses me!

TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think Iwould make his prophecy come true?

ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would. 

TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then?

ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do youplay that kind of game?

TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired--that's all!

ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men!

TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women. 

ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently?

TEKLA. Not in the last sis months. 

ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him?

TEKLA. No!--Since the child died we have broken off ourcorrespondence. 

ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all?

TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the WestCoast. But why is all this coming into your head just now?

ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I wasalone, I kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he wasleft alone that time. 

TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience?

ADOLPH. I am. 

TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you?

ADOLPH. Almost!

TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you stealchildren or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personalproperty. I am very much obliged to you!

ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal morethan property--for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! Ifyou only heard that he had married again, all these foolishnotions would leave you. --Have you not taken his place with me?

ADOLPH. Well, have I?--And did you ever love him?

TEKLA. Of course, I did!

ADOLPH. And then--

TEKLA. I grew tired of him!

ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also?

TEKLA. But I won't!

ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up--one who had all thequalities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then youwould leave me?

TEKLA. No. 

ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live withouthim? Then you would leave me, of course?

TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow. 

ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you?

TEKLA. Yes! Why not?

ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand. 

TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. Allpersons are not made in the same way, you know. 

ADOLPH. I begin to see now!

TEKLA. No, really!

ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems tostruggle with some--memory that will not come back] Do you know, Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful?

TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, andone that you taught me. 

ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding somethingbehind that frankness of yours. 

TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know. 

ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly becomeoffensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home--thisevening!

TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and Idon't feel like starting on another trip. 

ADOLPH. But I want to. 

TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?--You can go!

ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me!

TEKLA. Demand?--What arc you talking about?

ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife?

TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband?

ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things. 

TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!--You have neverloved me!

ADOLPH. Haven't I?

TEKLA. No, for to love is to give. 

ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is totake. --And I have given, given, given!

TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given?

ADOLPH. Everything!

TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it. Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if Ihave taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A womancannot receive anything except from her lover. 

ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have beenyour lover, but never your husband. 

TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playingchaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'llsend you packing, for I don't want a husband. 

ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when youbegan to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and whenyou began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt myplumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you ofyour debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom youwanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, andin order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging mysafe and began to try those of other people instead. Withouthaving done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband. And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer, TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweetlittle idiot!

ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot butoneself!

TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks. 

ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he--your formerhusband--was not so much of an idiot after all. 

TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with--him?

ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it, TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintanceand pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a strikingpicture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I amgrowing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was atleast a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me. 

ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud--wemight be overheard. 

TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people?

ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and atthe same time you have a taste for chaste young men?

TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. Myheart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and thesmall, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--I love thewhole world. 

ADOLPH. Do you know what that means?

TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just FEEL. 

ADOLPH. It means that old age is near. 

TEKLA. There you are again! Take care!

ADOLPH. Take care yourself!

TEKLA. Of what?

ADOLPH. Of the knife!

TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with suchdangerous things. 

ADOLPH. I have quit playing. 

TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show youthat--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, neverknow it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'llsuspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have anothermoment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, ofbeing deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that'swhat married men never get. 

ADOLPH. You hate me then?

TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that'sprobably because you are nothing to me but a child. 

ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was whilethe storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in armsand just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kissyour eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see thatyou fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes tothe cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had tosit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you wereafraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have asingle friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility ofpublic opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth wasdry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I wasstrong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And soI brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then youadmired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you hadjust left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instillednew nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your emptybrain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you backyour reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with alittle court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, letthemselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and myhouse. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds andblues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition thenwhere I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St. Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom KingEric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. Icompelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuatedvision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literallydown their throats, until that sympathy which makes everythingpossible became yours at last--and you could stand on your ownfeet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, andI collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, I had pushedmyself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyanceto you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you--and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was asecret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of yourrise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part oflittle brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and evenincreased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that hadin it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn asmy talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in somemysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dryup when I could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wantedto show its independence of me. And at last both of us began tolose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your ownburdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoatand doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn'trealise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this timeour years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shootsprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose beforethe shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why youcouldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its mainbranch--and so stem and branch must die together. 

TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you havewritten my books. 

ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make meout a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and Ispoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ hasonly a single note in it. 

TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you havewritten my books. 

ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into asingle note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of onefigure. I have made no blunt statements like that of havingwritten your books. 

TEKLA. But that's what you meant!

ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it. 

TEKLA. But the sum of it--

ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You getan endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division doesnot work out evenly. I have not added anything. 

TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself. 

ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it. 

TEKLA. No. But that's what you wanted to do. 

ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no--don't speak tome--you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone!You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your clawsinto my thoughts and tear them to pieces!

(He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead whilehis thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands. )

TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick?

(ADOLPH motions her away. )

TEKLA. Adolph!

(ADOLPH shakes his head at her. )

TEKLA. Adolph. 

ADOLPH. Yes. 

TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago?

ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit!

TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon?

ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon--if you only won't speakto me!

TEKLA. Kiss my hand then!

ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand--if you only don'tspeak to me!

TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh airbefore dinner. 

ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave. 

TEKLA. No!

ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason. 

TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to-night. 

ADOLPH. Oh, that's it!

TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend--

ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, andthat wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go. 

TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word. 

ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have tolive up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there issomebody who has made you promise to go. 

TEKLA. Yes. 

ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise becauseyour husband is sick. 

TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough tobe kept from going with me. 

ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel saferthen?

TEKLA. I don't know what you mean. 

ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean somethingthat--doesn't please you. 

TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me?

ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again--Good-bye for awhile!

(Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to theright. )

(TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goesstraight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. Hepretends not to see TEKLA. )

TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is ityou?

GUSTAV. Yes, it's me--I beg your pardon!

TEKLA. Which way did you come?

GUSTAV. By land. But--I am not going to stay, as--

TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't. --Well, it wassome time ago--

GUSTAV. Yes, some time. 

TEKLA. You have changed a great deal. 

GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, ifanything. Excuse me, however--I am not going to spoil yourhappiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, Ishould never--

TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay. 

GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear--well, whatever I say, I am sure to offend you. 

TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possessthat rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness. 

GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect--thatyour husband might regard my qualities in the same generous lightas you. 

TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in verysympathetic terms. 

GUSTAV. Oh!--Well, everything becomes covered up by time, likenames cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itselfpermanently in our minds. 

TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. Andas for me, I have always cherished a dream--that of seeing youcome together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for oncein my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go yourdifferent ways again. 

GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I usedto love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in goodhands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and amfamiliar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to takegood care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession. In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must havedeveloped instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peaceand humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live throughthe rest of my sorrowful days. 

TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understoodme. I thank you for it!

GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been tooinsignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way ofliving, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could notsatisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. Butyou understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it costme to make such a confession to myself. 

TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's ownshortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs]But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliablenature--one that I had to respect--but--

GUSTAV. Not always--not at that time! But suffering purifies, sorrow ennobles, and--I have suffered!

TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you?

GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive. 

TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us--we whoare old enough to know better!

GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you--you growyounger every day. 

(He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on theleft and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa. )

TEKLA. Do you think so?

GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress. 

TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figuredout what colors would be most becoming to me?

GUSTAV. No. 

TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember--hm!--I can even recall how youused to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least atouch of crimson about my dress. 

GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you. 

TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do youremember? For that was something I couldn't do at all. 

GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human beingdoes. And you have become quite keen at it--at least when youwrite. 

TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dearGustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in apeaceful way like this. 

GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had apretty peaceful time with me. 

TEKLA. Perhaps too much so. 

GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It wasat least the impression you gave me while we were engaged. 

TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time?And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course. 

GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you canwish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and Idon't think your husband can be called a sluggard. 

TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing. 

GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are stillwearing the ear-rings I gave you?

TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel betweenus--and then I thought I might wear them as a token--and areminder--that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it isimpossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes offone of her ear-rings. ]

GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say ofit?

TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says?

GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?--But you may be doing him an injury. It is likely to make him ridiculous. 

TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was thatbefore!

GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back theear-ring] May I help you, perhaps?

TEKLA. Oh--thank you!

GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!--Think only if yourhusband could see us now!

TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though!

GUSTAV. Is he jealous also?

TEKLA. Is he? I should say so!

[A noise is heard from the room on the right. ]

GUSTAV. Who lives in that room?

TEKLA. I don't know. --But tell me how you are getting along andwhat you are doing?

GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along?

(TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she isdoing, she takes the cover off the wax figure. )

GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?--Well!--It must be you!

TEKLA. I don't believe so. 

GUSTAV. But it is very like you. 

TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so?

GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story--you know it--"How couldyour majesty see that?"

TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!--Do you know any newstories?

GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some. 

TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays. 

GUSTAV. Is he modest also?

TEKLA. Oh--well--

GUSTAV. Not an everything?

TEKLA. He isn't well just now. 

GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into otherpeople's hives?

TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing!

GUSTAV. Poor chap!--Do you remember once when we were justmarried--we lived in this very room. It was furnished differentlyin those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wallthere--and over there stood the big bed. 

TEKLA. Now you stop!

GUSTAV. Look at me!

TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I?

[They look hard at each other. ]

GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that hasmade a very deep impression on him?

TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularlythe memories of our youth. 

GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were apretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses hadmade a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled itwith inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed theslate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why Ishouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's hisbusiness! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meetingyou again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit hereand chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my ownbottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal inflavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposelypicked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For thewoman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomeshers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy. 

TEKLA. Are you going to marry again?

GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I amgoing to make a better start, so that it won't end again with aspill. 

TEKLA. Is she good looking?

GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer--now whenchance has brought me together with you again--I am beginning todoubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again. 

TEKLA. How do you mean?

GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the oldwounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman, Tekla!

TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no moreconquests. 

GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you. 

TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him. 

GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at lastyou cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You havehad to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost hiscourage. There ARE some drawbacks to a change, I tell you--thereare drawbacks to it, indeed. 

TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach--

GUSTAV. Not at all! Whatever happens is to a certain extentnecessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would--but nowit did happen, and so it had to happen. 

TEKLA. YOU are a man of discernment. And I have never met anybodywith whom I liked so much to exchange ideas. You are so utterlyfree from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little ofpeople, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. Do youknow, I am jealous of your intended wife!

GUSTAV. And do you realise that I am jealous of your husband?

TEKLA. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever!

GUSTAV. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell--or what doyou say?

TEKLA. [Agitated] No!

GUSTAV. [Following after her] Yes!--Let us have a farewell! Let usdrown our memories--you know, there are intoxications so deep thatwhen you wake up all memories are gone. [Putting his arm aroundher waist] You have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who isinfecting you with his own anaemia. I'll breathe new life intoyou. I'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, likea remontant rose. I'll----

(Two LADIES in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading tothe veranda. They look surprised. Then they point at those within, laugh, and disappear. )

TEKLA. [Freeing herself] Who was that?

GUSTAV. [Indifferently] Some tourists. 

TEKLA. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you!

GUSTAV. Why?

TEKLA. You take my soul away from me!

GUSTAV. And give you my own in its place! And you have no soul forthat matter--it's nothing but a delusion. 

TEKLA. You have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody canbe angry with you. 

GUSTAV. It's because you feel that I hold the first mortgage onyou--Tell me now, when--and--where?

TEKLA. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still inlove with me, and I don't want to do any more harm. 

GUSTAV. He does not love you! Do you want proofs?

TEKLA, Where can you get them?

GUSTAV. [Picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor]Here! See for yourself!

TEKLA. Oh, that's an outrage!

GUSTAV. Do you see? Now then, when? And where?

TEKLA. The false-hearted wretch!

GUSTAV. When?

TEKLA. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat. 

GUSTAV. And then--

TEKLA. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room] Who canbe living in there that makes such a racket?

GUSTAV. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the keyhole]There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe--that's all! I shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up inthere. --At nine o'clock then?

TEKLA. All right! And let him answer for it himself. --What adepth of deceit! And he who has always preached abouttruthfulness, and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--But waita little--how was it now? He received me with something likehostility--didn't meet me at the landing--and then--and then hemade some remark about young men on board the boat, which Ipretended not to hear--but how could he know? Wait--and then hebegan to philosophise about women--and then the spectre of youseemed to be haunting him--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art of the time--exactly in accordance with yourold speculations!

GUSTAV. No, really!

TEKLA. No, really?--Oh, now I understand! Now I begin to see whata hideous creature you are! You have been here before and stabbedhim to death! It was you who had been sitting there on the sofa;it was you who made him think himself an epileptic--that he had tolive in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against hiswife; yes, it was you!--How long have you been here?

GUSTAV. I have been here a week. 

TEKLA. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat?

GUSTAV. It was. 

TEKLA. And now you were thinking you could trap me?

GUSTAV. It has been done. 

TEKLA. Not yet!

GUSTAV. Yes!

TEKLA. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came here with avillainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying itout, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled you. 

GUSTAV. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it happenedin reality. Of course, it has been my secret hope that disastermight overtake you. But I felt practically certain that nointerference on my part was required. And besides, I have been fartoo busy to have any time left for intriguing. But when I happenedto be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those youngmen on board the boat, then I guessed the time had come for me totake a look at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threwitself into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sortof reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough toexplain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemedto be in the same fix as I was once. But then he happened to touchold wounds--that book, you know, and "the idiot"--and I was seizedwith a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these sothoroughly that they couldn't be put together again--and Isucceeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done thework of preparation. Then I had to deal with you. For you were thespring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be takenapart--and what a buzzing followed!--When I came in here, I didn'tknow exactly what to say. Like a chess-player, I had laid a numberof tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on yourmoves. One thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, andfinally I had you where I wanted you. --Now you are caught!

TEKLA. No!

GUSTAV. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has happened. Theworld at large, represented by two lady tourists--whom I had notsent for, as I am not an intriguer--the world has seen how youbecame reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked backrepentantly into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough?

TEKLA. It ought to be enough for your revenge--But tell me, howcan you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded--how is itpossible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, andthat all our actions are determined in advance--

GUSTAV. [Correcting her] To a certain extent determined. 

TEKLA. That's the same thing!

GUSTAV. No!

TEKLA. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, who hold meguiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the circumstances intoacting as I did--how can you think yourself entitled to revenge--?

GUSTAV. For that very reason--for the reason that my nature andthe circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. Isn't that givingboth sides a square deal? But do you know why you two had to getthe worst of it in this struggle?

(TEKLA looks scornful. )

GUSTAV. And why you were doomed to be fooled? Because I amstronger than you, and wiser also. You have been the idiot--andhe! And now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiotbecause he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. It might bewell for you to bear this in mind. 

TEKLA. Are you then entirely without feelings?

GUSTAV. Entirely! And for that very reason, you know, I am capableof thinking--in which you have had no experience whatever-and ofacting--in which you have just had some slight experience. 

TEKLA. And all this merely because I have hurt your vanity?

GUSTAV. Don't call that MERELY! You had better not go aroundhurting other people's vanity. They have no more sensitive spotthan that. 

TEKLA. Vindictive wretch--shame on you!

GUSTAV. Dissolute wretch--shame on you!

TEKLA. Oh, that's my character, is it?

GUSTAV. Oh, that's my character, is it?--You ought to learnsomething about human nature in others before you give your ownnature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and then there willbe wailing and gnashing of teeth. 

TEKLA. You can never forgive:--

GUSTAV. Yes, I have forgiven you!

TEKLA. You!

GUSTAV. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you during allthese years? No! And now I came here only to have a look at you, and it was enough to burst your bubble. Have I uttered a singlereproach? Have I moralised or preached sermons? No! I played ajoke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed tofinish him. --But there is no reason why I, the complainant, should be defending myself as I am now--Tekla! Have you nothing atall to reproach yourself with?

TEKLA. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions aregoverned by Providence; others call it Fate; in either case, arewe not free from all liability?

GUSTAV. In a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow marginleft unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. And sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. Guiltless, but accountable! Guiltless in regard to one who is nomore; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings. 

TEKLA. So you came here to dun me?

GUSTAV. I came to take back what you had stolen, not what you hadreceived as a gift. You had stolen my honour, and I could recoverit only by taking yours. This, I think, was my right--or was itnot?

TEKLA. Honour? Hm! And now you feel satisfied?

GUSTAV. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter. ]

TEKLA. And now you are going home to your fiancee?

GUSTAV. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have one. I amnot going home, for I have no home, and don't want one. 

(A WAITER comes in. )

GUSTAV. Get me my bill--I am leaving by the eight o'clock boat. 

(THE WAITER bows and goes out. )

TEKLA. Without making up?

GUSTAV. Making up? You use such a lot of words that have losttheir--meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps you want all threeof us to live together? You, if anybody, ought to make up bymaking good what you took away, but this you cannot do. You justtook, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothingleft to restore. --Will it satisfy you if I say like this: forgiveme that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgracedme; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupilsthrough every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I setyou free from parental restraints, that I released you from thetyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule myhouse, that I gave you position and friends, that I made a womanout of the child you were before? Forgive me as I forgive you!--Now I have torn up your note! Now you can go and settle youraccount with the other one!

TEKLA. What have you done with him? I am beginning to suspect--something terrible!

GUSTAV. With him? Do you still love him?

TEKLA. Yes!

GUSTAV. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true?

TEKLA. It was true. 

GUSTAV. Do you know what you are then?

TEKLA. You despise me?

GUSTAV. I pity you. It is a trait--I don't call it a fault--justa trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. PoorTekla! I don't know--but it seems almost as if I were feeling acertain regret, although I am as free from any guilt--as you! Butperhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I felt that time. --Do you know where your husband is?

TEKLA. I think I know now--he is in that room in there! And he hasheard everything! And seen everything! And the man who sees hisown wraith dies!

(ADOLPH appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. His face iswhite as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. His eyes are staring and void of all expression. His lips arecovered with froth. )

GUSTAV. [Shrinking back] No, there he is!--Now you can settle withhim and see if he proves as generous as I have been. --Good-bye!

(He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door. )

TEKLA. [Goes to meet ADOLPH with open arms] Adolph!

(ADOLPH leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to thefloor. )

TEKLA. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressinghim] Adolph! My own child! Are you still alive--oh, speak, speak!--Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me, forgive me, forgiveme!--Little brother must say something, I tell him!--No, good God, he doesn't hear! He is dead! O God in heaven! O my God! Help!

GUSTAV. Why, she really must have loved HIM, too!--Poor creature!

(Curtain. )

PARIAH

INTRODUCTION

Both "Creditors" and "Pariah" were written in the winter of 1888-89 at Holte, near Copenhagen, where Strindberg, assisted by hisfirst wife, was then engaged in starting what he called a"Scandinavian Experimental Theatre. " In March, 1889, the two playswere given by students from the University of Copenhagen, and withMrs. Von Essen Strindberg as Tekla. A couple of weeks later theperformance was repeated across the Sound, in the Swedish city ofMalmo, on which occasion the writer of this introduction, then ayoung actor, assisted in the stage management. One of the actorswas Gustav Wied, a Danish playwright and novelist, whose exquisiteart since then has won him European fame. In the audience was OlaHansson, a Swedish novelist and poet who had just published ashort story from which Strindberg, according to his ownacknowledgment on playbill and title-page, had taken the name andthe theme of "Pariah. "

Mr. Hansson has printed a number of letters (Tilskueren, Copenhagen, July, 1912) written to him by Strindberg about thattime, as well as some very informative comments of his own. Concerning the performance of Malmo he writes: "It gave me a veryunpleasant sensation. What did it mean? Why had Strindberg turnedmy simple theme upsidedown so that it became unrecognisable? Not avestige of the 'theme from Ola Hansson' remained. Yet he had evensuggested that he and I act the play together, I not knowing thatit was to be a duel between two criminals. And he had at firstplanned to call it 'Aryan and Pariah'--which meant, of course, that the strong Aryan, Strindberg, was to crush the weak Pariah, Hansson, coram populo. "

In regard to his own story Mr. Hansson informs us that it dealtwith "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about it, doingboth in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby everything is leftvague and undefined. " At that moment "Raskolnikov" was in the air, so to speak. And without wanting in any way to suggest imitation, I feel sure that the groundnote of the story was distinctlyDostoievskian. Strindberg himself had been reading Nietzsche andwas--largely under the pressure of a reaction against the populardisapproval of his anti-feministic attitude--being driven more andmore into a superman philosophy which reached its climax in thetwo novels "Chandalah" (1889) and "At the Edge of the Sea" (1890). The Nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two plays contained inthe present volume. 

But these plays are strongly colored by something else--bysomething that is neither Hansson-Dostoievski nor Strindberg-Nietzsche. The solution of the problem is found in the letterspublished by Mr. Hansson. These show that while Strindberg wasstill planning "Creditors, " and before he had begun "Pariah, " hehad borrowed from Hansson a volume of tales by Edgar Allan Poe. Itwas his first acquaintance with the work of Poe, though not withAmerican literature--for among his first printed work was aseries of translations from American humourists; and not long agoa Swedish critic (Gunnar Castren in Samtiden, Christiania, June, 1912) wrote of Strindberg's literary beginnings that "he hadlearned much from Swedish literature, but probably more from MarkTwain and Dickens. "

The impression Poe made on Strindberg was overwhelming. He returnsto it in one letter after another. Everything that suits his moodof the moment is "Poesque" or "E. P-esque. " The story that seemsto have made the deepest impression of all was "The Gold Bug, "though his thought seems to have distilled more useful materialout of certain other stories illustrating Poe's theories aboutmental suggestion. Under the direct influence of these theories, Strindberg, according to his own statements to Hansson, wrote thepowerful one-act play "Simoom, " and made Gustav in "Creditors"actually CALL FORTH the latent epileptic tendencies in Adolph. Andon the same authority we must trace the method of: psychologicaldetection practised by Mr. X. In "Pariah" directly to "The GoldBug. "

Here we have the reason why Mr. Hansson could find so little ofhis story in the play. And here we have the origin of a themewhich, while not quite new to him, was ever afterward to remain afavourite one with Strindberg: that of a duel between intellectand cunning. It forms the basis of such novels as "Chandalah" and"At the Edge of the Sea, " but it recurs in subtler form in worksof much later date. To readers of the present day, Mr. X. --thatstriking antithesis of everything a scientist used to stand for inpoetry--is much less interesting as a superman in spe than as anillustration of what a morally and mentally normal man can do withthe tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways andhuman motives. And in giving us a play that holds our interest asfirmly as the best "love plot" ever devised, although the stageshows us only two men engaged in an intellectual wrestling match, Strindberg took another great step toward ridding the drama of itsold, shackling conventions. 

The name of this play has sometimes been translated as "TheOutcast, " whereby it becomes confused with "The Outlaw, " a muchearlier play on a theme from the old Sagas. I think it better, too, that the Hindu allusion in the Swedish title be not lost, forthe best of men may become an outcast, but the baseness of thePariah is not supposed to spring only from lack of socialposition. 

PARIAH

AN ACT

1889

PERSONS

MR. X. , an archaeologist, Middle-aged man. 

MR. Y. , an American traveller, Middle-aged man. 

SCENE

(A simply furnished room in a farmhouse. The door and the windowsin the background open on a landscape. In the middle of the roomstands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books, writingmaterials, and antiquities; at the other end, by a microscope, insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol. )

(On the left side hangs a bookshelf. Otherwise the furniture isthat of a well-to-do farmer. )

(MR. Y. Enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net anda botany-can. He goes straight up to the bookshelf and takes downa book, which he begins to read on the spot. )

(The landscape outside and the room itself are steeped insunlight. The ringing of church bells indicates that the morningservices are just over. Now and then the cackling of hens is heardfrom the outside. )

(MR. X. Enters, also in his shirt-sleeves. )

(MR. Y. Starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf upside-down, and pretends to be looking for another volume. )

MR. X. This heat is horrible. I guess we are going to have athunderstorm. 

MR. Y. What makes you think so?

MR. X. The bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies aresticky, and the hens cackle. I meant to go fishing, but I couldn'tfind any worms. Don't you feel nervous?

MR. Y. [Cautiously] I?--A little. 

MR. X. Well, for that matter, you always look as if you wereexpecting thunderstorms. 

MR. Y. [With a start] Do I?

MR. X. Now, you are going away tomorrow, of course, so it is notto be wondered at that you are a little "journey-proud. "--Anything new?--Oh, there's the mail! [Picks up some letters fromthe table] My, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open aletter! Nothing but debts, debts, debts! Have you ever had anydebts?

MR. Y. [After some reflection] N-no. 

MR. X. Well, then you don't know what it means to receive a lot ofoverdue bills. [Reads one of the letters] The rent unpaid--thelandlord acting nasty--my wife in despair. And here am I sittingwaist-high in gold! [He opens an iron-banded box that stands onthe table; then both sit down at the table, facing each other]Just look--here I have six thousand crowns' worth of gold which Ihave dug up in the last fortnight. This bracelet alone would bringme the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it Imight make a fine career for myself. Then I could get theillustrations made for my treatise at once; I could get my workprinted, and--I could travel! Why don't I do it, do you suppose?

MR. Y. I suppose you are afraid to be found out. 

MR. X. That, too, perhaps. But don't you think an intelligentfellow like myself might fix matters so that he was never foundout? I am alone all the time--with nobody watching me--while I amdigging out there in the fields. It wouldn't be strange if I putsomething in my own pockets now and then. 

MR. Y. Yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the stuff. 

MR. X. Pooh! I'd melt it down, of course--every bit of it--andthen I'd turn it into coins--with just as much gold in them asgenuine ones, of course---

MR. Y. Of course!

MR. X. Well, you can easily see why. For if I wanted to dabble incounterfeits, then I need not go digging for gold first. [Pause]It is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody else did what Icannot make myself do, then I'd be willing to acquit him--but Icouldn't possibly acquit myself. I might even make a brilliantspeech in defence of the thief, proving that this gold was resnullius, or nobody's, as it had been deposited at a time whenproperty rights did not yet exist; that even under existing rightsit could belong only to the first finder of it, as the ground-owner has never included it in the valuation of his property; andso on. 

MR. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do this ifthe--hm!--the thief had not been prompted by actual need, but by amania for collecting, for instance--or by scientific aspirations--by the ambition to keep a discovery to himself. Don't you thinkso?

MR. X. You mean that I could not acquit him if actual need hadbeen the motive? Yes, for that's the only motive which the lawwill not accept in extenuation. That motive makes a plain theft ofit. 

MR. Y. And this you couldn't excuse?

MR. X. Oh, excuse--no, I guess not, as the law wouldn't. On theother hand, I must admit that it would be hard for me to charge acollector with theft merely because he had appropriated somespecimen not yet represented in his own collection. 

MR. Y. So that vanity or ambition might excuse what could not beexcused by need?

MR. X. And yet need ought to be the more telling excuse--the onlyone, in fact? But I feel as I have said. And I can no more changethis feeling than I can change my own determination not to stealunder any circumstances whatever. 

MR. Y. And I suppose you count it a great merit that you cannot--hm!--steal?

MR. X. No, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible asthe inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. So itcannot be called a merit. I cannot do it, and the other one cannotrefrain!--But you understand, of course, that I am not without adesire to own this gold. Why don't I take it then? Because Icannot! It's an inability--and the lack of something cannot becalled a merit. There!

[Closes the box with a slam. Stray clouds have cast their shadowson the landscape and darkened the room now and then. Now it growsquite dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching. ]

MR. X. How close the air is! I guess the storm is coming allright. 

[MR. Y. Gets up and shuts the door and all the windows. ]

MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder?

MR. Y. It's just as well to be careful. 

(They resume their seats at the table. )

MR. X. You're a curious chap! Here you come dropping down like abomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as a Swedish-Americanwho is collecting flies for a small museum---

MR. Y. Oh, never mind me now!

MR. X. That's what you always say when I grow tired of talkingabout myself and want to turn my attention to you. Perhaps thatwas the reason why I took to you as I did--because you let metalk about myself? All at once we seemed like old friends. Therewere no angles about you against which I could bump myself, nopins that pricked. There was something soft about your wholeperson, and you overflowed with that tact which only well-educatedpeople know how to show. You never made a noise when you came homelate at night or got up early in the morning. You were patient insmall things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemedthreatening. In a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion!But you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering aboutyou in the long run--and you are too timid, too easily frightened. It seems almost as if you were made up of two differentpersonalities. Why, as I sit here looking at your back in themirror over there--it is as if I were looking at somebody else. 

(MR. Y. Turns around and stares at the mirror. )

MR. X. No, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back, man!--Infront you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one meeting hisfate with bared breast, but from behind--really, I don't want tobe impolite, but--you look as if you were carrying a burden, or asif you were crouching to escape a raised stick. And when I look atthat red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, itlooks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on apacking-box--

MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon--

MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks asif there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a facequite different in type from yours. And your ears come so closetogether behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to. [A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as ifthat might have struck the sheriff's house!

MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's!

MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll getmuch of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as youare going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you, with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that yonare one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away fromthem. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, Ialways get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does notresemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common. 

MR. Y. Who is he?

MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years totake my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-tablewhere they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met alittle blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderfulfaculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostlinganybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary placedown by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever hewanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. Heseemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybodyhe knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and hewould hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a humanface for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as ifeager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watchedhim and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character. But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, forthen all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man hadjust your quality of being indefinite. At different times I madehim out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non-commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective--and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for thefront of him never quite fitted the back. One day I happened toread in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-knowngovernment official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentlemanhad been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name wasStrawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used torun a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporterof a big daily. How in the world could I hope to establish aconnection between the forgery, the police, and my little man'speculiar manners? It was beyond me; and when I asked a friendwhether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friendcouldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [Pause. ]

MR. Y. Well, had he ever been--punished?

MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause. ]

MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had suchan attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offendingpeople?

MR. X. Exactly!

MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward?

MR. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause. ]

MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if hehad been--punished?

MR. X. Perfectly!

(MR. Y. Rises and walks back and forth several times. )

MR. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still?

MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions? Areyou a Christian?

MR. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not?

(MR. Y. Makes a face. )

MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I requirepunishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to know thedifference. 

MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X. , first with wild, hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How--could--you--know--that?

MR. X. Why, I could see it. 

MR. Y. How? How could you see it?

MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others. But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch, arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, andhands it to MR. Y. ] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs. Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I amgoing to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go tothe city with you. 

MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo. 

MR. X. Oh, you are not?

MR. Y. No. 

MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature. 

MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind--

MR. X. --any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused towrite your own name. The first time nothing more serious wasinvolved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began towatch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbidfear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a singleletter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrotewith a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out theexact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like theseventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, whichplace you have not visited at all during all this time. And yetyou came the whole way from America merely to have a look atMalmo! And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the oldmill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance. And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and lookout through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, yoncan see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney ofthe county jail. --And now I hope you see that it's your ownstupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everythingclear to me. 

MR. Y. This means that you despise me?

MR. X. Oh, no!

MR. Y. Yes, you do--you cannot but do it!

MR. X. No--here's my hand. 

(MR. Y. Takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it. )

MR. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog!

MR. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let metouch his hand after learning--

MR. X. And now you call me "sir!"--What scares me about you isthat you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the oldlevel, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered yourpunishment. Do you care to tell me how it happened? Would you?

MR. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what I say. But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I am noORDINARY criminal. You'll become convinced, I think, that thereare errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again]which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without beingwilled by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible--May I open the door a little now, since the storm seems to havepassed over?

MR. X. Suit yourself. 

MR. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and beginsto speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures, and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was astudent in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan froma bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned someproperty--not a great deal, of course. However, I had sent thenote to the second man of the two who were to act as security, and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. For awhile I was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a veryunpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! The note was lying in frontof me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. At first my eyesstared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is, not a death-doom, of course, for I could easily find othersecurities, as many as I wanted--but as I have already said, itwas very annoying just the same. And as I was sitting there quiteunconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon thesignature of the letter, which would have made my future secure ifit had only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well-written signature--and you know how sometimes one may absent-mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. Ihad a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] likethis. And somehow it just began to run--I don't want to claim thatthere was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic natureback of it--for that kind of thing I don't believe in! It was awholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of thatbeautiful autograph over and over again. When all the clean spaceon the letter was used up, I had learned to reproduce thesignature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholderwith a violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night Islept long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that Ihad been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself. Attimes it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I seemedto see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distantmemory--and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to the table, just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed anirrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. Allthought of the consequences, of the risk involved, haddisappeared--no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I wasfulfilling some sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet]What could it be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case ofmental suggestion, as they call it? But from whom could it come? Iwas sleeping alone in that room. Could it possibly be my primitiveself--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing--which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep--together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability tocalculate the results of an action? Tell me, what do you think ofit?

MR. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself] Franklyspeaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it, but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details--and I have read something about criminal suggestion--or I think Ihave, at least--hm! But all that is neither here nor there! Youhave taken your medicine--and you have had the courage toacknowledge your fault. Now we won't talk of it any more. 

MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till I become sure of myinnocence. 

MR. X. Well, are you not?

MR. Y. No, I am not!

MR. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's exactly whatis bothering me!--Don't you feel fairly sure that every humanbeing hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we not, all of us, stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly! Well, now there arepersons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannotcontrol their unlawful desires. Then comes the opportunity, andthere you have your criminal. --But I cannot understand why youdon't feel innocent. If the child is not held responsible, whyshould the criminal be regarded differently? It is the morestrange because--well, perhaps I may come to repent it later. [Pause] I, for my part, have killed a man, and I have neversuffered any qualms on account of it. 

MR. Y. [Very much interested] Have--you?

MR. X, Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to shakehands with a murderer?

MR. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense!

MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished, ME. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] Somuch the better for you!--How did you get out of it?

MR. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses. This is the way it happened. One Christmas I was invited to huntwith a fellow-student a little way out of Upsala. He sent abesotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellowwent to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upsetthe whole equipage in a ditch. I am not going to pretend that mylife was in danger. It was sheer impatience which made me hit himacross the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--justto wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all, but collapsed then and there. 

MR. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it?

MR. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so. The manleft no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life couldbe of the slightest use. He had already outlived his allottedperiod of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filledby somebody more in need of it. On the other hand, my life wasnecessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhapsalso to the progress of my science. The outcome had once for allcured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and Ididn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents forthe sake of an abstract principle of justice. 

MR. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life?

MR. X. In the present case, yes. 

MR. Y. But the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of?

MR. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no crime. As aboy I had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, andthe fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by myignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderlyperson. 

MR. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man ispunished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactlywhat one gets for--writing names. 

MR. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And more than onenight I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell me now--is it really asbad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar?

MR. Y. You bet it is!--First of all they disfigure you by cuttingoff your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, youare sure to do so afterward. And when you catch sight of yourselfin a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit. 

MR. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? Whichwouldn't be a bad idea, I should say. 

MR. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it!--And then theycut down your food, so that every day and every hour you becomeconscious of the border line between life and death. Every vitalfunction is more or less checked. You can feel yourself shrinking. And your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead puton a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlivedages. You are not permitted to read anything but what was writtenfor the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. Youhear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and whatactually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. You aretorn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, putbeneath those who are really beneath yourself. Then you get asense of living in the bronze age. You come to feel as if you weredressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating outof a trough--ugh!

MR. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts as if hebelonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don theproper costume. 

MR. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved like a manfrom the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the goldenage. 

MR. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean with thatlast expression--the golden age?

MR. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all. 

MR. X. Now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to sayall you think. 

MR. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no coward when Idared to show myself around here, where I had had to suffer as Idid. --But can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?--It is that the others are not in there too!

MR. X. What others?

MR. Y. Those that go unpunished. 

MR. X. Are you thinking of me?

MR. Y. I am. 

MR. X. But I have committed no crime. 

MR. Y. Oh, haven't you?

MR. X. No, a misfortune is no crime. 

MR. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder?

MR. X. I have not committed murder. 

MR. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person?

MR. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killingin self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentionaland unintentional killing. However--now you really frighten me, for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the mostdangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid. 

MR. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen--would youlike me to show you how clever I am?

MR. X. Come on!

MR. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both logic andwisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you. You havesuffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years athard labor. You have completely escaped the disgrace of beingpunished. And here you see before you a man--who has also suffereda misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who hashad to stand two years of hard labor for it. Only by some greatscientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that hasbecome attached to him without any fault of his own--but in orderto arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot ofmoney--and money this minute! Don't you think that the other one, the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into theseunequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of afine? Don't you think so?

MR. X. [Calmly] Yes. 

MR. Y. Then we understand each other. --Hm! [Pause] What do youthink would be reasonable?

MR. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is fixed by thelaw at fifty crowns. But this whole question is settled by thefact that the dead man left no relatives. 

MR. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then I'll have tospeak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine. 

MR. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to collectfines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there is noprosecutor. 

MR. Y. There isn't? Well--how would I do?

MR. X. Oh, NOW we are getting the matter cleared up! How much doyou want for becoming my accomplice?

MR. Y. Six thousand crowns. 

MR. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them?

(MR. Y. Points to the box. )

MR. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to become athief. 

MR. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll believethat you haven't helped yourself out of that box before?

MR. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could letmyself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with these softnatures. You like them, and then it's so easy to believe that theylike you. And that's the reason why I have always been on my guardagainst people I take a liking to!--So you are firmly convincedthat I have helped myself out of the box before?

MR. Y. Certainly! MR. X. And you are going to report me if youdon't get six thousand crowns?

MR. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's no usetrying. 

MR. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief for son, mywife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, myfellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will never happen!--Now I am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself. 

MR. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait a moment!

MR. X. For what?

MR. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought--as I am no longer needed--itwouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and I might just as wellleave. 

MR. X. No, you may not!--Sit down there at the table, where yousat before, and we'll have another talk before you go. 

MR. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are you upto now?

MR. X. [Looking into the mirror back of MR. Y. ] Oh, now I have it!Oh-h-h!

MR. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you discoveringnow?

MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinarythief! A moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, Icould notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. Icouldn't make out just what it was, for I had to listen to you andwatch you. But as my antipathy increased, my vision became moreacute. And now, with your black coat to furnish the needed colorcontrast For the red back of the book, which before couldn't beseen against the red of your suspenders--now I see that you havebeen reading about forgeries in Bernheim's work on mentalsuggestion--for you turned the book upsidedown in putting it back. So even that story of yours was stolen! For tins reason I thinkmyself entitled to conclude that your crime must have beenprompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure. 

MR. Y. By need! If you only knew--

MR. X. If YOU only knew the extent of the need I have had to faceand live through! But that's another story! Let's proceed withyour case. That you have been in prison--I take that for granted. But it happened in America, for it was American prison life youdescribed. Another thing may also be taken for granted, namely, that you have not borne your punishment on this side. 

MR. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind?

MR. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn allabout it. 

(MR. Y. Gets up. )

ME. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the sheriff, inconnection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. And when aperson has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an oldmill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by thewindow--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. Andthat's why it was so hard to make you out. [Pause. ]

MR. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now?

MR. X. Now you can go. 

MR. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me?

MR. X. Yes--would you prefer me to pity you?

MR. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better than I?

MR. X. Of course I do, as I AM better than you. I am wiser, and Iam less of a menace to prevailing property rights. 

MR. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as clever asyou. For the moment you have me checked, but in the next move Ican mate you--all the same!

MR. X. [Looking hard at MR. Y. ] So we have to have another bout!What kind of mischief are you up to now?

MR. Y. That's my secret. 

MR. X. Just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymousletter giving away MY secret!

MR. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't dare tohave me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And when I am gone, I can do what I please. 

MR. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable spot! Do youwant to make a real murderer out of me?

MR. Y. That's more than you'll ever become--coward!

MR. X. There you see how different people are. You have a feelingthat I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. Andthat gives you the upper hand. But suppose you forced me to treatyou as I treated that coachman?

[He lifts his hand as if ready to hit MR. Y. ]

MR. Y. [Staring MR. X. Straight in the face] You can't! It's toomuch for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box overthere. 

ME. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of the box?

MR. Y. You were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly totell your wife that she had married a murderer. 

MR. X. You are a different man from what I took you to be--ifstronger or weaker, I cannot tell--if more criminal or less, that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much isquite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote another person'sname instead of begging--as I have had to do. Stupid you were whenyou stole things out of my book--could you not guess that I mighthave read my own books? Stupid you were when you thought yourselfcleverer than me, and when you thought that I could be lured intobecoming a thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance couldbe restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. Butmost stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed toprovide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and writemy wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husbandhaving killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!--Have you had enough now?

MR. Y. May I go?

MR. X. Now you HAVE to go! And at once! I'll send your thingsafter you!--Get out of here!

(Curtain. )