PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG SECOND SERIES THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMESMISS JULIATHE STRONGERCREDITORSPARIAH TRANSLATED WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN AUTHORIZED EDITION CONTENTS Introduction to "There Are Crimes and Crimes"THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES Introduction to "Miss Julia"Author's PrefaceMISS JULIA Introduction to "The Stronger"THE STRONGER Introduction to "Creditors"CREDITORS Introduction to "Pariah"PARIAH THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMESINTRODUCTION Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There Are Crimes andCrimes. " In the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finesthistorical dramas: "The Saga of the Folkungs, " "Gustavus Vasa, "and "Eric XIV. " Just before, he had finished "Advent, " which hedescribed as "A Mystery, " and which was published together with"There Are Crimes and Crimes" under the common title of "In aHigher Court. " Back of these dramas lay his strange confessionalworks, "Inferno" and "Legends, " and the first two parts of hisautobiographical dream-play, "Toward Damascus"--all of which werefinished between May, 1897, and some time in the latter part of1898. And back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, when, at Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by thetransmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spiritwas travelling through all the seven hells in its search for theheaven promised by the great mystics of the past. "There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as hisfirst definite step beyond that crisis, of which the precedingworks were at once the record and closing chord. When, in 1909, heissued "The Author, " being a long withheld fourth part of hisfirst autobiographical series, "The Bondwoman's Son, " he prefixedto it an analytical summary of the entire body of his work. Opposite the works from 1897-8 appears in this summary thefollowing passage: "The great crisis at the age of fifty;revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings, Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells. " But concerning "There Are Crimesand Crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year hewrites triumphantly: "Light after darkness; new productivity, withrecovered Faith, Hope and Love--and with full, rock-firmCertitude. " In its German version the play is named "Rausch, " or"Intoxication, " which indicates the part played by the champagnein the plunge of _Maurice_ from the pinnacles of success to thedepths of misfortune. Strindberg has more and more come to seethat a moderation verging closely on asceticism is wise for mostmen and essential to the man of genius who wants to fulfil hisdivine mission. And he does not scorn to press home even thiscomparatively humble lesson with the naive directness and fieryzeal which form such conspicuous features of all his work. But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their jointpublication we have a better clue to what the author himselfundoubtedly regards as the most important element of his work--itsreligious tendency. The "higher court, " in which are tried thecrimes of _Maurice_, _Adolphe_, and _Henriette_, is, of course, the highest one that man can imagine. And the crimes of which theyhave all become guilty are those which, as _Adolphe_ remarks, "arenot mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes against thespirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against God. The play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritualchange, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the watersof life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled. There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramaticrevelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order--for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress isimplied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all in ourgrowing modern conviction that _any_ vital faith is better than noneat all. One of the currents in question refers to the means ratherthan the end, to the road rather than the goal. It brings us backto those uncanny soul-adventures by which Strindberg himself wonhis way to the "full, rock-firm Certitude" of which the play inits entirety is the first tangible expression. The elementsentering into this current are not only mystical, but occult. Theyare derived in part from Swedenborg, and in part from thatpicturesque French dreamer who signs himself "Sar Péladan"; butmostly they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences inmoments of abnormal tension. What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris in 1895, and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude inhis "Inferno" and "Legends, " all this is here presented indramatic form, but a little toned down, both to suit the needs ofthe stage and the calmer mood of the author. Coincidence is law. It is the finger-point of Providence, the signal to man that hemust beware. Mystery is the gospel: the secret knitting of man toman, of fact to fact, deep beneath the surface of visible andaudible existence. Few writers could take us into such a realm ofprobable impossibilities and possible improbabilities withoutlosing all claim to serious consideration. If Strindberg has thusventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his success can beexplained only by the presence in the play of that second, parallel current of thought and feeling. This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface isfantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm Certitude"to which I have already referred. And nothing will bring us nearerto it than Strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his"Speeches to the Swedish Nation" two years ago. In that pamphletthere is a chapter headed "Religion, " in which occurs thispassage: "Since 1896 I have been calling myself a Christian. I amnot a Catholic, and have never been, but during a stay of sevenyears in Catholic countries and among Catholic relatives, Idiscovered that the difference between Catholic and Protestanttenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial, and thatthe division which once occurred was merely political or elseconcerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane tothe religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain, but I can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but comenearest to being a Swedenborgian. I use my Bible Christianityinternally and privately to tame my somewhat decivilized nature--decivilised by that veterinary philosophy and animal science(Darwinism) in which, as student at the university, I was reared. And I assure my fellow-beings that they have no right to complainbecause, according to my ability, I practise the Christianteachings. For only through religion, or the hope of somethingbetter, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life asthat of an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it bepossible to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation. " Here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg'sreligiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself tomorality. At bottom he is first and last, and has always been, amoralist--a man passionately craving to know what is RIGHT and todo it. During the middle, naturalistic period of his creativecareer, this fundamental tendency was in part obscured, and heengaged in the game of intellectual curiosity known as "truth fortruth's own sake. " One of the chief marks of his final andmystical period is his greater courage to "be himself" in thisrespect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance, to aposition which the late William James undoubtedly would haveacknowledged as "pragmatic. " To combat the assertion ofover-developed individualism that we are ends in ourselves, that we have certain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasureand happiness merely because we happen to appear here in humanshape, this is one of Strindberg's most ardent aims in all hislater works. As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives mustbe held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may be another life. He calls it God. And the code of service he finds in the tenets ofall the Christian churches, but principally in the Commandments. The plain and primitive virtues, the faith that implies littlemore than square dealing between man and man--these figureforemost in Strindberg's ideals. In an age of supreme self-seekinglike ours, such an outlook would seem to have small chance ofpopularity, but that it embodies just what the time most needs is, perhaps, made evident by the reception which the public almostinvariably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes" when it is staged. With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly calledrealism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use ofmethods generally held superseded--such as the casual introductionof characters at whatever moment they happen to be needed on thestage--it has, from the start, been among the most frequentlyplayed and most enthusiastically received of Strindberg's laterdramas. At Stockholm it was first taken up by the Royal DramaticTheatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the IntimateTheatre, then devoted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It wasone of the earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was stillexperimenting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has alsobeen given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna. Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a word ofexplanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris. Not only thescenery, but the people and the circumstances are French. Yet hehas made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect Frenchmanners of speaking or ways of thinking. As he has given it to us, the play is French only in its most superficial aspect, in itssetting--and this setting he has chosen simply because he needed acertain machinery offered him by the Catholic, but not by theProtestant, churches. The rest of the play is purely human in itsnote and wholly universal in its spirit. For this reason I haveretained the French names and titles, but have otherwise strivento bring everything as close as possible to our own modes ofexpression. Should apparent incongruities result from this mannerof treatment, I think they will disappear if only the reader willtry to remember that the characters of the play move in anexistence cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeralreality in order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduringone. THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMESA COMEDY1899 CHARACTERS MAURICE, a playwrightJEANNE, his mistressMARION, their daughter, five years oldADOLPHE, a painterHENRIETTE, his mistressEMILE, a workman, brother of JeanneMADAME CATHERINETHE ABBÉA WATCHMANA HEAD WAITERA COMMISSAIRETWO DETECTIVESA WAITERA GUARDSERVANT GIRL ACT I, SCENE 1. THE CEMETERY 2. THE CRÊMERIE ACT II, SCENE 1. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS 2. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE ACT III, SCENE 1. THE CRÊMERIE 2. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS ACT IV, SCENE 1. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 2. THE CRÊMERIE (All the scenes are laid in Paris) THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES ACT I FIRST SCENE (The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery atParis. The background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses onwhich are inscribed "O Crux! Ave Spes Unica!" and the ruins of awind-mill covered with ivy. ) (A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and mutteringprayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers. ) (JEANNE is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody. ) (MARION is playing with some withered flowers picked from arubbish heap on the ground. ) (The ABBÉ is reading his breviary while walking along the furtherend of the avenue. ) WATCHMAN. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Look here, this is noplayground. JEANNE. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody who'll soonbe here-- WATCHMAN. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers. JEANNE. [To MARION] Drop the flowers, dear. ABBÉ. [Comes forward and is saluted by the WATCHMAN] Can't thechild play with the flowers that have been thrown away? WATCHMAN. The regulations don't permit anybody to touch even theflowers that have been thrown away, because it's believed they mayspread infection--which I don't know if it's true. ABBÉ. [To MARION] In that case we have to obey, of course. What'syour name, my little girl? MARION. My name is Marion. ABBÉ. And who is your father? (MARION begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer. ) ABBÉ. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention--I was justtalking to keep the little one quiet. (The WATCHMAN has gone out. ) JEANNE. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish you would saysomething to quiet me also. I feel very much disturbed afterhaving waited here two hours. ABBÉ. Two hours--for him! How these human beings torture eachother! O Crux! Ave spes unica! JEANNE. What do they mean, those words you read all around here? ABBÉ. They mean: O cross, our only hope! JEANNE. Is it the only one? ABBÉ. The only certain one. JEANNE. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father. ABBÉ. May I ask why? JEANNE. You have already guessed it. When he lets the woman andthe child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not faroff. ABBÉ. And when he has left you, what then? JEANNE. Then we have to go into the river. ABBÉ. Oh, no, no! JEANNE. Yes, yes! MARION. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry. JEANNE. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home. ABBÉ. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil. JEANNE. What is that woman doing at the grave over there? ABBÉ. She seems to be talking to the dead. JEANNE. But you cannot do that? ABBÉ. She seems to know how. JEANNE. This would mean that the end of life is not the end of ourmisery? ABBÉ. And you don't know it? JEANNE. Where can I find out? ABBÉ. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to learn aboutthis well-known matter, you can look me up in Our Lady's Chapel atthe Church of St. Germain--Here comes the one you are waiting for, I guess. JEANNE. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know him. ABBÉ. [To MARION] Good-bye, little Marion! May God take care ofyou! [Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Germain des Prés. EMILE. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you doing here? JEANNE. I am waiting for Maurice. EMILE. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for I sawhim on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with somefriends. [Kissing the child] Good morning, Marion. JEANNE. Ladies also? EMILE. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He writes plays, and his latest one has its first performance tonight. I suppose hehad with him some of the actresses. JEANNE. Did he recognise you? EMILE. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as well. Iknow my place as a workman, and I don't care for any condescensionfrom those that are above me. JEANNE. But if he leaves us without anything to live on? EMILE. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose Ishall have to introduce myself. But you don't expect anything ofthe kind, do you--seeing that he is fond of you and very muchattached to the child? JEANNE. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something dreadfulis in store for me. EMILE. Has he promised to marry you? JEANNE. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes. EMILE. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the start: don'thope for anything, for those above us don't marry downward. JEANNE. But such things have happened. EMILE. Yes, they have happened. But, would you feel at home in hisworld? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand whatthey were talking of. Now and then I take my meals where he iseating--out in the kitchen is my place, of course--and I don'tmake out a word of what they say. JEANNE. So you take your meals at that place? EMILE. Yes, in the kitchen. JEANNE. And think of it, he has never asked me to come with him. EMILE. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has somerespect for the mother of his child. The women over there are aqueer lot. JEANNE. Is that so? EMILE. But Maurice never pays any attention to the women. There issomething _square_ about that fellow. JEANNE. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as there isa woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer. EMILE. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you hard upfor money? JEANNE. No, nothing of that kind. EMILE. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet--Look! Over there!There he comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye, little girl. JEANNE. Is he coming? Yes, that's him. EMILE. Don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, Jeanne! [Goesout. ] JEANNE. No, I won't. (MAURICE enters. ) MARION. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] Papa, papa! MAURICE. My little girl! [Greets JEANNE] Can you forgive me, Jeanne, that I have kept you waiting so long? JEANNE. Of course I can. MAURICE. But say it in such a way that I can hear that you areforgiving me. JEANNE. Come here and let me whisper it to you. (MAURICE goes up close to her. ) (JEANNE kisses him on the cheek. ) MAURICE. I didn't hear. (JEANNE kisses him on the mouth. ) MAURICE. Now I heard! Well--you know, I suppose that this is theday that will settle my fate? My play is on for tonight, and thereis every chance that it will succeed--or fail. JEANNE. I'll make sure of success by praying for you. MAURICE. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least do noharm--Look over there, down there in the valley, where the haze isthickest: there lies Paris. Today Paris doesn't know who Mauriceis, but it is going to know within twenty-four hours. The haze, which has kept me obscured for thirty years, will vanish before mybreath, and I shall become visible, I shall assume definite shapeand begin to be somebody. My enemies--which means all who wouldlike to do what I have done--will be writhing in pains that shallbe my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that I havesuffered. JEANNE. Don't talk that way, don't! MAURICE. But that's the way it is. JEANNE. Yes, but don't speak of it--And then? MAURICE. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and Marion willbear the name I have made famous. JEANNE. You love me then? MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion alittle more. JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not ofher. MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you? JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid ofsomething terrible-- MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, whichonce more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of? JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without havingany particular reason to do so. MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasonsfor doing so: the keen instincts of the management and theirknowledge of the public, not to speak of their personalacquaintance with the critics. So now you must be in good spirits-- JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbé here awhile ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith--which youhaven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on awindow to clean it--I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, butthis old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the lightcame through, and it was possible again to see that the peoplewithin were at home--To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain. MAURICE. Now I am getting scared. JEANNE. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. MAURICE. God? What is that? Who is he? JEANNE. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to yourmanhood. And it is he who will carry us through the terrors thatlie ahead of us. MAURICE. What is lying ahead of us? What do you know? Where haveyou learned of this? This thing that I don't know? JEANNE. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heardnothing. But during these two dreadful hours I have experiencedsuch an infinity of pain that I am ready for the worst. MARION. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am hungry. MAURICE. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [Takes herinto his arms. ] MARION. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa! JEANNE. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye then, Maurice. And good luck to you! MAURICE. [To MARION] How did I hurt you? Doesn't my little girlknow that I always want to be nice to her? MARION. If you are nice, you'll come home with us. MAURICE. [To JEANNE] When I hear the child talk like that, youknow, I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But then reasonand duty protest--Good-bye, my dear little girl! [He kisses thechild, who puts her arms around his neck. ] JEANNE. When do we meet again? MAURICE. We'll meet tomorrow, dear. And then we'll never partagain. JEANNE. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again! [She makes thesign of the cross on his forehead] May God protect you! MAURICE. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved Jeanne! (JEANNE and MARION go toward the right; MAURICE toward the left. Both turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other. ) MAURICE. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself. I am alwaysforgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. Hereare the tickets for tonight. JEANNE. Thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post ofduty alone, and so I have to take up mine--with Marion. MAURICE. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. Yes, I am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure toserve her husband--I must have my hands free tonight, and there isno place for women and children on the battle-field--and this youunderstood! JEANNE. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, andthen you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll see that Ican be as forgetful as you--I have bought you a tie and a pair ofgloves which I thought you might wear for my sake on your day ofhonour. MAURICE. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear. JEANNE. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, as you do all the time. I want you to be good-looking, so thatothers will like you too. MAURICE. There is no jealousy in _you_! JEANNE. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it. MAURICE. Just now I feel as if I could give up this evening'svictory--for I am going to win-- JEANNE. Hush, hush! MAURICE. And go home with you instead. JEANNE. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny is waitingfor you. MAURICE. Good-bye then! And may that happen which must happen![Goes out. ] JEANNE. [Alone with MARION] O Crux! Ave spes unica! (Curtain. ) SECOND SCENE (The Crêmerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placedan aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit, preserves, etc. In the background is a door leading to thekitchen, where workmen are taking their meals. At the other end ofthe kitchen can be seen a door leading out to a garden. On theleft, in the background, stands a counter on a raised platform, and back of it are shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On theright, a long table with a marble top is placed along the wall, and another table is placed parallel to the first further out onthe floor. Straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. Thewalls are covered with oil-paintings. ) (MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter. ) (MAURICE stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and issmoking a cigarette. ) MME. CATHERINE. So it's tonight the great event comes off, Monsieur Maurice? MAURICE. Yes, tonight. MME. CATHERINE. Do you feel upset? MAURICE. Cool as a cucumber. MME. CATHERINE. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you havedeserved it, Monsieur Maurice, after having had to fight againstsuch difficulties as yours. MAURICE. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have been very kind tome, and without your help I should probably have been down and outby this time. MME. CATHERINE. Don't let us talk of that now. I help along whereI see hard work and the right kind of will, but I don't want to beexploited--Can we trust you to come back here after the play andlet us drink a glass with you? MAURICE. Yes, you can--of course, you can, as I have alreadypromised you. (HENRIETTE enters from the right. ) (MAURICE turns around, raises his hat, and stares at HENRIETTE, who looks him over carefully. ) HENRIETTE. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet? MME. CATHERINE. No, madame. But he'll soon be here now. Won't yousit down? HENRIETTE. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him outside. [Goesout. ] MAURICE. Who--was--that? MME. CATHERINE. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend. MAURICE. Was--that--her? MME. CATHERINE. Have you never seen her before? MAURICE. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he wasafraid I might take her away from him. MME. CATHERINE. Ha-ha!--Well, how did you think she looked? MAURICE. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell--I didn't seeher, for it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at onceand come so close to me that I couldn't make out her features atall. And she left her impression on the air behind her. I canstill see her standing there. [He goes toward the door and makes agesture as if putting his arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes agesture as if he had pricked his finger] There are pins in herwaist. She is of the kind that stings! MME. CATHERINE. Oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies! MAURICE. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do you know, Madame Catherine, I am going before she comes back, or else, orelse--Oh, that woman is horrible! MME. CATHERINE. Are you afraid? MAURICE. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some others. MME. CATHERINE. Well, go then. MAURICE. She seemed to suck herself out through the door, and inher wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--Yes, youmay laugh, but can't you see that the palm over there on thebuffet is still shaking? She's the very devil of a woman! MME. CATHERINE. Oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all yourreason. MAURICE. I want to go, but I cannot--Do you believe in fate, Madame Catherine? MME. CATHERINE. No, I believe in a good God, who protects usagainst evil powers if we ask Him in the right way. MAURICE. So there are evil powers after all! I think I can hearthem in the hallway now. MME. CATHERINE. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tearsoff a piece of linen for you. Get away now--through the kitchen. (MAURICE rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps intoEMILE. ) EMILE. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came. ] ADOLPHE. [Comes in first; after him HENRIETTE] Why, there'sMaurice. How are you? Let me introduce this lady here to my oldestand best friend. Mademoiselle Henriette--Monsieur Maurice. MAURICE. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you. HENRIETTA. We have seen each other before. ADOLPHE. Is that so? When, if I may ask? MAURICE. A moment ago. Right here. ADOLPHE. O-oh!--But now you must stay and have a chat with us. MAURICE. [After a glance at MME. CATHERINE] If I only had time. ADOLPHE. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here very long. HENRIETTE. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business. MAURICE. The only business we have is so bad that we don't want totalk of it. HENRIETTE. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the hat awayfrom MAURICE and hangs it up] Now be nice, and let me becomeacquainted with the great author. MME. CATHERINE signals to MAURICE, who doesn't notice her. ADOLPHE. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him. [Theyseat themselves at one of the tables. ] HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] You certainly have a good friend inAdolphe, Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of anything but you, andin such a way that I feel myself rather thrown in the background. ADOLPHE. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side neverleaves me in peace about you, Maurice. She has read your works, and she is always wanting to know where you got this and wherethat. She has been questioning me about your looks, your age, yourtastes. I have, in a word, had you for breakfast, dinner, andsupper. It has almost seemed as if the three of us were livingtogether. MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Heavens, why didn't you come over here andhave a look at this wonder of wonders? Then your curiosity couldhave been satisfied in a trice. HENRIETTE. Adolphe didn't want it. (ADOLPHE looks embarrassed. ) HENRIETTE. Not that he was jealous-- MAURICE. And why should he be, when he knows that my feelings aretied up elsewhere? HENRIETTE. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings. MAURICE. I can't understand that, seeing that I am notorious formy constancy. ADOLPHE. Well, it wasn't that-- HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because you have notfaced the fiery ordeal-- ADOLPHE. Oh, you don't know-- HENRIETTE. [Interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld afaithful man. MAURICE. Then it's going to behold one. HENRIETTE. Where? MAURICE. Here. (HENRIETTE laughs. ) ADOLPHE. Well, that's going it-- HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him and directing herself continuously toMAURICE] Do you think I ever trust my dear Adolphe more than amonth at a time? MAURICE. I have no right to question your lack of confidence, butI can guarantee that Adolphe is faithful. HENRIETTE. You don't need to do so--my tongue is just running awaywith me, and I have to take back a lot--not only for fear offeeling less generous than you, but because it is the truth. It isa bad habit I have of only seeing the ugly side of things, and Ikeep it up although I know better. But if I had a chance to bewith you two for some time, then your company would make me goodonce more. Pardon me, Adolphe! [She puts her hand against hischeek. ] ADOLPHE. You are always wrong in your talk and right in youractions. What you really think--that I don't know. HENRIETTE. Who does know that kind of thing? MAURICE. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who couldthen clear himself? HENRIETTE. Do you also have evil thoughts? MAURICE. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of crueltiesin my dreams. HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course--Just think of it—-No, I am ashamed of telling-- MAURICE. Go on, go on! HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting themuscles on Adolphe's breast--you see, I am a sculptor--and he, with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me insteadwith the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than I. MAURICE. Was he dead? HENRIETTE. No, he was living. MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer? HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I amrather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, Adolphe? ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not theleast when animals are concerned. MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward thesufferings both of myself and others. ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what doyou say, Madame Catherine? MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart thanMonsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because Ididn't give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on thebuffet. Just look at them: it is as if they could hear what I amsaying. MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind ofpolite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--Soyou are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette? HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one ofyou--which has long been my cherished dream--I hold myself quitecapable. MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in comingtrue. HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind untilthis evening's success is over. Not until then will you havebecome what you should be. MAURICE. How sure you are of victory! HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going towin this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself. MAURICE. Why do you think so? HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, youknow, and now I am well. (ADOLPHE begins to look depressed. ) MAURICE. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left--onlyone. I place it at your disposal, Adolphe. ADOLPHE. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette. HENRIETTE. But that wouldn't do? ADOLPHE. Why not? And I never go to the theatre anyhow, as Icannot stand the heat. HENRIETTE. But you will come and take us home at least after theshow is over. ADOLPHE. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to come backhere, where we shall all be waiting for him. MAURICE. You can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. Infact, I ask, I beg you to do so--And if you don't want to waitoutside the theatre, you can meet us at the Auberge des Adrets--That's settled then, isn't it? ADOLPHE. Wait a little. You have a way of settling things to suityourself, before other people have a chance to consider them. MAURICE. What is there to consider--whether you are to see yourlady home or not? ADOLPHE. You never know what may be involved in a simple act likethat, but I have a sort of premonition. HENRIETTE. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks while the sun isshining. Let him come or not, as it pleases him. We can alwaysfind our way back here. ADOLPHE. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you--model, you know. Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you, Maurice. To-morrowyou will be out on the right side. Good-bye, Henriette. HENRIETTE. Do you really have to go? ADOLPHE. I must. MAURICE. Good-bye then. We'll meet later. (ADOLPHE goes out, saluting MME. CATHERINE in passing. ) HENRIETTE. Think of it, that we should meet at last! MAURICE. Do you find anything remarkable in that? HENRIETTE. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe has donehis best to prevent it. MAURICE. Has he? HENRIETTE. Oh, you must have noticed it. MAURICE. I have noticed it, but why should you mention it? HENRIETTE. I had to. MAURICE. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted to runaway through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and wasstopped by a guest who closed the door in front of me. HENRIETTE. Why do you tell me about it now? MAURICE. I don't know. (MME. CATHERINE upsets a number of glasses and bottles. ) MAURICE. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's nothing to beafraid of. HENRIETTE. Was that meant as a signal or a warning? MAURICE. Probably both. HENRIETTE. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to haveflagmen ahead of it? MAURICE. And switchmen! The danger is always greatest at theswitches. HENRIETTE. How nasty you can be! MME. CATHERINE. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all. So far nobodyhas been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him. MAURICE. Sh, sh, sh! HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] The old lady is rather impertinent. MAURICE. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so. HENRIETTE. With pleasure. This is not the place for me. I can justfeel their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out. ] MAURICE. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine. MME. CATHERINE. A moment! May I speak a word to you, MonsieurMaurice? MAURICE. [Stops unwillingly] What is it? MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! Don't do it! MAURICE. What? MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! MAURICE. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind, but sheinterests me. Or hardly that even. MME. CATHERINE, Don't trust yourself! MAURICE. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out. ] (Curtain. ) ACT II FIRST SCENE (The Auberge des Adrets: a café in sixteenth century style, with asuggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are scatteredin corners and nooks. The walls are decorated with armour andweapons. Along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses andjugs. ) (MAURICE and HENRIETTE are in evening dress and sit facing eachother at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and threefilled glasses. The third glass is placed at that side of thetable which is nearest the background, and there an easy-chair iskept ready for the still missing "third man. ") MAURICE. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table] If hedoesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming atall. And suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [Touchesthe third glass with the rim of his own. ] HENRIETTE. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe! MAURICE. He won't come. HENRIETTE. He will come. MAURICE. He won't. HENRIETTE. He will. MAURICE. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I can hardly graspthat a new life has begun. Think only: the manager believes that Imay count on no less than one hundred thousand francs. I'll spendtwenty thousand on a villa outside the city. That leaves me eightythousand. I won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for Iam tired, tired, tired. [Sinks back into the chair] Have you everfelt really happy? HENRIETTE. Never. How does it feel? MAURICE. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot express it, but I seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. Itisn't nice, but that's the way it is. HENRIETTE. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies? MAURICE. Why, the victor has to count his killed and woundedenemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory. HENRIETTE. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that? MAURICE. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pressure of otherpeople's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant toshake off the enemy and draw a full breath at last. HENRIETTE. Don't you find it strange that yon are sitting here, alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you--and on an evening like this, when you ought to have a craving toshow yourself like a triumphant hero to all the people, on theboulevards, in the big restaurants? MAURICE. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to behere, and your company is all I care for. HENRIETTE. You don't look very hilarious. MAURICE. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep alittle. HENRIETTE. What is the meaning of that? MAURICE. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness andwaiting for misfortune to appear. HENRIETTE. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing anyhow? MAURICE. I miss the only thing that gives value to life. HENRIETTE. So you love her no longer then? MAURICE. Not in the way I understand love. Do you think she hasread my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh, she is so good, soself-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for anight's fun she would regard as sinful. Once I treated her tochampagne, you know, and instead of feeling happy over it, shepicked up the wine list to see what it cost. And when she read theprice, she wept--wept because Marion was in need of new stockings. It is beautiful, of course: it is touching, if you please. But Ican get no pleasure out of it. And I do want a little pleasurebefore life runs out. So far I have had nothing but privation, butnow, now--life is beginning for me. [The clock strikes twelve] Nowbegins a new day, a new era! HENRIETTE. Adolphe is not coming. MAURICE. No, now he won't, come. And now it is too late to go backto the Crêmerie. HENRIETTE. But they are waiting for you. MAURICE. Let them wait. They have made me promise to come, and Itake back my promise. Are you longing to go there? HENRIETTE. On the contrary! MAURICE. Will you keep me company then? HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me. MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, youknow, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't placeit at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless whenyou have not a woman. HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you? MAURICE. Well, that's the question. HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hourof success and fame? MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it. HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are themost envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps yourconscience is troubling you because you have neglected thatinvitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at themilk shop? MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, andeven here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, their well-grounded anger. My comrades in distress had the rightto demand my presence this evening. The good Madame Catherine hada privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope wasto spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. And Ihave robbed them of their faith in me. I can hear the vows theyhave been making: "Maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; hedoesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his word. " Now Ihave made them forswear themselves. (While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begunto play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. 3). The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and atlast passionately, violently, with complete abandon. ) MAURICE. Who can be playing at this time of the night? HENRIETTE. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. Butlisten! Your presentation of the case is not correct. Rememberthat Adolphe promised to meet us here. We waited for him, and hefailed to keep his promise. So that you are not to blame-- MAURICE. You think so? While you are speaking, I believe you, butwhen you stop, my conscience begins again. What have you in thatpackage? HENRIETTE. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send upto the stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me give it to younow--it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. [She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him onthe forehead] Hail to the victor! MAURICE. Don't! HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King! MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me. HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid offortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned youinto a dwarf? MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in theclouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge myweapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You thinkthat my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. On thecontrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I amafraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits overthere and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which youdon't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glassoff the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--youabsent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. Youstayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourselfalready beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I willcrush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple nolonger yours. HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero! MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithfulhelper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied? HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think youlove me, Maurice. MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man'scourage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where doyou lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when Iheard them speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, yoursoul poured itself into mine. And when you left, I could stillfeel your presence in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, butsomething held me back, and this evening we have been driventogether as the prey is driven into the hunter's net. Whose is thefault? Your friend's, who pandered for us! HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what doesit mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us togetherbefore. He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had no right himself. I am jealous of him on yourbehalf. I hate him because he has cheated you out of yourmistress. I should like to blot him from the host of the living, and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make himunmade, unborn! MAURICE. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. We'llcover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, andthen we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will neverlook up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is sealed. Woe untous! What will come next? HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package? MAURICE. I cannot remember. HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair ofgloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fiftycentimes. MAURICE. [Snatching the things away from her] Don't you touchthem! HENRIETTE. They are from her? MAURICE. Yes, they are. HENRIETTE. Give them to me. MAURICE. No, she's better than we, better than everybody else. HENRIETTE. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider andstingier. One who weeps because you order champagne-- MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a goodwoman. HENRIETTE. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I am anartist, and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's capinstead of the laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne? MAURICE. How do you know? HENRIETTE. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers. MAURICE. Henriette! (HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into thefireplace. ) MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. You shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, then I'll send you packing. HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me? MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. ButI believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. Ibelieve that the evil within you draws me with the irresistiblelure of novelty. HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime? MAURICE. No real one. Have you? HENRIETTE. Yes. MAURICE. Well, how did you find it? HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by thatwe are placed on equality with others; it was greater than toperform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised aboveothers and rewarded. That crime placed me outside and beyond life, society, and my fellow-beings. Since then I am living only apartial life, a sort of dream life, and that's why reality nevergets a hold on me. MAURICE. What was it you did? HENRIETTE. I won't tell, for then you would get scared again. MAURICE. Can you never be found out? HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where thescaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open apack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds. MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime? HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind. MAURICE. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. Have youno conscience? HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk ofsomething else. MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love? HENRIETTE. Of that you don't talk until it is over. MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe? HENRIETTE. I don't know. The goodness of his nature drew me likesome beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet therewas much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had tospend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, before I could make a presentable figure of him. When he talked, Icould notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson wasoften badly digested and awkwardly applied. You can imagine thenhow miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted tostudy the original. That's why he was afraid of having us twomeet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his timewas up. MAURICE. Poor Adolphe! HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must besuffering beyond all bounds-- MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming. HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he? MAURICE. That would be unbearable. HENRIETTE. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you thinkthe situation would have shaped itself? MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you becausehe had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried tofind us in several other cafes--but his soreness would havechanged into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had notdeceived him. And in the joy at having wronged us by hissuspicions, he would love both of us. And so it would make himhappy to notice that we had become such good friends. It hadalways been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dreamthat the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set theworld a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, Itrust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partlybecause your feelings are tied up elsewhere. " HENRIETTE. Bravo! You must have been in a similar situationbefore, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. Do youknow that Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannotenjoy his mistress without having his friend along? MAURICE. That's why I had to be called in to entertain you--Hush!There is somebody outside--It must be he. HENRIETTE. No, don't you know these are the hours when ghostswalk, and then you can see so many things, and hear them also. Tokeep awake at night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me thesame charm as a crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond thelaws of nature. MAURICE. But the punishment is fearful--I am shivering orquivering, with cold or with fear. HENRIETTE. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this on. It willmake you warm. MAURICE. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your skin, asif my body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were beingremoulded in your shape. I can feel the moulding process going on. But I am also growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, whereyour bosom has left an impression, I can feel my own beginning tobulge. (During this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has beenpracticing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimeswildly fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a littlewhile, and at other times nothing has been heard but a part of thefinale: bars 96 to 107. ) MAURICE. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing on thepiano. It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know what I propose? Letus drive out to the Bois de Boulogne and take breakfast in thePavilion, and see the sun rise over the lakes. HENRIETTE. Bully! MAURICE. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail and themorning papers sent out by messenger to the Pavilion. Tell me, Henriette: shall we invite Adolphe? HENRIETTE. Oh, that's going too far! But why not? The ass can alsobe harnessed to the triumphal chariot. Let him come. [They getup. ] MAURICE. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring. HENRIETTE. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms. ] (Curtain. ) SECOND SCENE (A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois deBoulogne. It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, and divans. There are glass doors in the background, and besidethem windows overlooking the lakes. In the foreground a table isspread, with flowers in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine indecanters, oysters on platters, many different kinds of wineglasses, and two lighted candelabra. On the right there is a roundtable full of newspapers and telegrams. ) (MAURICE and HENRIETTE are sitting opposite each other at thissmall table. ) (The sun is just rising outside. ) MAURICE. There is no longer any doubt about it. The newspaperstell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on mysuccess. This is the beginning of a new life, and my fate iswedded to yours by this night, when you were the only one to sharemy hopes and my triumph. From your hand I received the laurel, andit seems to me as if everything had come from you. HENRIETTE. What a wonderful night! Have we been dreaming, or isthis something we have really lived through? MAURICE. [Rising] And what a morning after such a night! I feel asif it were the world's first day that is now being illumined bythe rising sun. Only this minute was the earth created andstripped of those white films that are now floating off intospace. There lies the Garden of Eden in the rosy light of dawn, and here is the first human couple--Do you know, I am so happy Icould cry at the thought that all mankind is not equally happy--Doyou hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves beating against arocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest? Do you knowwhat it is? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the columnsof smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands?They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, then it must become so, for I will it. At this moment all thetelegraph instruments of Europe are clicking out my name. TheOriental Express is carrying the newspapers to the Far East, toward the rising sun; and the ocean steamers are carrying them tothe utmost West. The earth is mine, and for that reason it isbeautiful. Now I should like to have wings for us two, so that wemight rise from here and fly far, far away, before anybody cansoil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out of mydream--for it is probably a dream! HENRIETTE. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can feel thatyou are not dreaming. MAURICE. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a poor youngman, you know, when I was walking in the woods down there, andlooked up to this Pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, and always my thoughts carried me up to this room, with thebalcony outside and the heavy curtains, as to a place of supremebliss. To be sitting here in company with a beloved woman and seethe sun rise while the candles were still burning in thecandelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my youth. Now ithas come true, and now I have no more to ask of life--Do you wantto die now, together with me? HENRIETTE. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living. MAURICE. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes reality. Ican hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting with alarm, andhis heart is beating with dread of having lost what it holds mostprecious. Can you believe me if I tell you that Adolphe is underthis roof? Within a minute he will be standing in the middle ofthis floor. HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him to comehere, and I am already regretting it--Well, we shall see anyhow ifyour forecast of the situation proves correct. MAURICE. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings. (The HEAD WAITER enters with a card. ) MAURICE. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To HENRIETTE] I am afraidwe'll regret this. HENRIETTE. Too late to think of that now--Hush! (ADOLPHE enters, pale and hollow-eyed. ) MAURICE. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are! Whatbecame of you last night? ADOLPHE. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and waited awhole hour. MAURICE. So you went to the wrong place. We were waiting severalhours for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and we are still waitingfor you, as you see. ADOLPHE. [Relieved] Thank heaven! HENRIETTE. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always expecting theworst and worrying yourself needlessly. I suppose you imaginedthat we wanted to avoid your company. And though you see that wesent for you, you are still thinking yourself superfluous. ADOLPHE. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was dreadful. (They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows. ) HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Well, are you not going to congratulateMaurice on his great success? ADOLPHE. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and envy itselfcannot deny it. Everything is giving way before you, and even Ihave a sense of my own smallness in your presence. MAURICE. Nonsense!--Henriette, are you not going to offer Adolphea glass of wine? ADOLPHE. Thank you, not for me--nothing at all! HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] What's the matter with you? Are you ill? ADOLPHE. Not yet, but-- HENRIETTE. Your eyes-- ADOLPHE. What of them? MAURICE. What happened at the Crêmerie last night? I suppose theyare angry with me? ADOLPHE. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused adepression which it hurt me to watch. But nobody was angry withyou, believe me. Your friends understood, and they regarded yourfailure to come with sympathetic forbearance. Madame Catherineherself defended you and proposed your health. We all rejoiced inyour success as if it had been our own. HENRIETTE. Well, those are nice people! What good friends youhave, Maurice. MAURICE. Yes, better than I deserve. ADOLPHE. Nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are aman greatly blessed in his friends--Can't you feel how the air issoftened to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that streamtoward you from a thousand breasts? (MAURICE rises in order to hide his emotion. ) ADOLPHE. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of thenightmare that had been crushing them during a lifetime. Humanityhad been slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why menfeel grateful toward you. To-day they are once more holding theirheads high and saying: You see, we are a little better than ourreputation after all. And that thought makes them better. (HENRIETTE tries to hide her emotion. ) ADOLPHE. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a little in yoursunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go. MAURICE. Why should you go when you have only just arrived? ADOLPHE. Why? Because I have seen what I need not have seen;because I know now that my hour is past. [Pause] That you sent forme, I take as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of whathas happened, a frankness that hurts less than deceit. You hearthat I think well of my fellow-beings, and this I have learnedfrom you, Maurice. [Pause] But, my friend, a few moments ago Ipassed through the Church of St. Germain, and there I saw a womanand a child. I am not wishing that you had seen them, for what hashappened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought or a word tothem before you set them adrift on the waters of the great city, then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. And now I bid yougood-by. HENRIETTE. Why must you go? ADOLPHE. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell you? HENRIETTE. No, I don't. ADOLPHE. Good-by then! [Goes out. ] MAURICE. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked. " HENRIETTE. What a difference between this scene and the one weimagined! He is better than we. MAURICE. It seems to me now as if all the rest were better thanwe. HENRIETTE. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, andthat the woods have lost their rose colour? MAURICE. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black. Let usflee to some place where the sky is always blue and the trees arealways green. HENRIETTE. Yes, let us--but without any farewells. MAURICE. No, with farewells. HENRIETTE. We were to fly. You spoke of wings--and your feet areof lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and gettwo pairs of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourselfaway. MAURICE. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little armsis needed to hold me fast. HENRIETTE. It is the child that holds you then, and not the woman? MAURICE. It is the child. HENRIETTE. The child! Another woman's child! And for the sake ofit I am to suffer. Why must that child block the way where I wantto pass, and must pass? MAURICE. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never existed. HENRIETTE. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But now itdoes exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in theground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage. MAURICE. The triumphal chariot!--The ass is driven to death, butthe rock remains. Curse it! [Pause. ] HENRIETTE. There is nothing to do. MAURICE. Yes, we must get married, and then our child will make usforget the other one. HENRIETTE. This will kill this! MAURICE. Kill! What kind of word is that? HENRIETTE. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love. MAURICE. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, but it will not be killed. HENRIETTE. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] Lookat it! Five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! Can it be possiblethat our fates are determined in advance? That our thoughts areguided as if through pipes to the spot for which they are bound, without chance for us to stop them? But I don't want it, I don'twant it!--Do you realise that I must go to the scaffold if mycrime should be discovered? MAURICE. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time for it. HENRIETTE. No, I should regret it afterward, and you would despiseme--no, no, no!--Have you ever heard that a person could be hatedto death? Well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and mysisters, and he melted away like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let ustalk of something else. And, above all, let us get away. The airis poisoned here. To-morrow your laurels will be withered, thetriumph will be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant herowill hold the public attention. Away from here, to work for newvictories! But first of all, Maurice, you must embrace your childand provide for its immediate future. You don't have to see themother at all. MAURICE. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour, and I loveyou doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide. HENRIETTE. And then you go to the Crêmerie and say good-by to theold lady and your friends. Leave no unsettled business behind tomake your mind heavy on our trip. MAURICE. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at therailroad station. HENRIETTE. Agreed! And then: away from here--away toward the seaand the sun! (Curtain. ) ACT III FIRST SCENE (In the Crêmerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at thecounter, ADOLPHE at a table. ) MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young onesare always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubberover it afterward. ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond asever of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick atheart. You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; somuch that I wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give himpleasure--but now I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than theloss of her. I have lost both of them, and so my loneliness ismade doubly painful. And then there is still something else whichI have not yet been able to clear up. MME. CATHERINE. Don't brood so much. Work and divert yourself. Now, for instance, do you ever go to church? ADOLPHE. What should I do there? MME. CATHERINE. Oh, there's so much to look at, and then there isthe music. There is nothing commonplace about it, at least. ADOLPHE. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold, I guess, for it never stirs me to any devotion. And then, Madame Catherine, faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven't got it yet. MME. CATHERINE. Well, wait till you get it--But what is this Iheard a while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture inLondon for a high price, and that you have got a medal? ADOLPHE. Yes, it's true. MME. CATHERINE. Merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say aboutit? ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almostworthless to me at this moment. I am afraid of it as of a spectre:it brings disaster to speak of having seen it. MME. CATHERINE. You're a queer fellow, and that's what you havealways been. ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune comein the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings outtrue friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour ofsuccess--You asked me if I ever went to church, and I answeredevasively. This morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germainwithout really knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I werelooking for somebody in there--somebody to whom I could silentlyoffer my gratitude. But I found nobody. Then I dropped a gold coinin the poor-box. It was all I could get out of my church-going, and that was rather commonplace, I should say. MME. CATHERINE. It was always something; and then it was fine tothink of the poor after having heard good news. ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something Idid because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurredwhile I was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, and her child. Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, theyseemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune. MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shapeyou keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful andconsiderate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden deserta woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain. ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understandit himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quitenatural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagineanything else. It was as if they had been enjoying the satisfactionof a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, Madame Catherine, that we cannot explain, and for this reason itis not for us to judge. And besides, you saw how it happened. Maurice felt the danger in the air. I foresaw it and tried toprevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run away from it, butnothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid by someinvisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile intoeach other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this case, butI wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty. " MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that'swhat I call religion. ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowingit. MME. CATHERINE. But then, to _let_ oneself be driven or temptedinto evil, as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or badcharacter. And if you feel your strength failing you, then you askfor help, and then you get it. But he was too conceited to dothat--Who is this coming? The Abbé, I think. ADOLPHE. What does he want here? ABBÉ. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening, Monsieur. MME. CATHERINE. Can I be of any service? ABBÉ. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here to-day? MME. CATHERINE. Not to-day. His play has just been put on, andthat is probably keeping him busy. ABBÉ. I have--sad news to bring him. Sad in several respects. MME. CATHERINE. May I ask of what kind? ABBÉ. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that girl, Jeanne, is dead. MME. CATHERINE. Dead! ADOLPHE. Marion dead! ABBÉ. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previousillness. MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways! ABBÉ. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Mauricelook after her, so we must try to find him. But first a questionin confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond ofthe child, or was indifferent to it? MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know howhe loved her. ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that. ABBÉ. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as Iam concerned. MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it? ABBÉ. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in theneighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its mother inorder to go away with a strange woman. In a few hours this rumourhas grown into definite accusations, and at the same time thefeeling against him has risen to such a point that his life isthreatened and he is being called a murderer. MME. CATHERINE. Good God, what is _this_? What does it mean? ABBÉ. Now I'll tell you my opinion--I am convinced that the man isinnocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about itas I do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I thinkhe will find it rather hard to clear himself when the police cometo question him. ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter? ABBÉ. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him againstall those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably theCommissaire will be here soon. MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a mancannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when hetrifles with vice. God will punish! ADOLPHE. Then he is more merciless than man. ABBÉ. What do you know about that? ADOLPHE. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what happens-- ABBÉ. And you understand it also? ADOLPHE. Not yet perhaps. ABBÉ. Let us look more closely at the matter--Oh, here comes theCommissaire. COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have totrouble you for a moment with a few questions concerning MonsieurMaurice. As you have probably heard, he has become the object of ahideous rumour, which, by the by, I don't believe in. MME. CATHERINE. None of us believes in it either. COMMISSAIRE. That strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sakeI must give him a chance to defend himself. ABBÉ. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although itmay come hard. COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I haveseen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocencewas discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. Thelittle girl, Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretlyvisited by the father, who seems to have made sure of the timewhen the child was to be found alone. Fifteen minutes after hisvisit the mother returned home and found the child dead. All thismakes the position of the accused man very unpleasant--The post-mortem examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison, but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that leaveno traces behind them. To me all this is mere coincidence of thekind I frequently come across. But here's something that looksworse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge desAdrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, they were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and thescaffold were both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for apair of lovers of good breeding and good social position! But eventhis may be passed over, as we know by experience that people whohave been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to digup all the worst that lies at the bottom of their souls. Far moreserious is the evidence given by the head waiter as to theirchampagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this morning. He saysthat he heard them wish the life out of a child. The man is saidto have remarked that, "It would be better if it had neverexisted. " To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it doesexist. " And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "Thiswill kill this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word isthat?" And also: "The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, thePlace de Roquette. " All this, you see, will be hard to get out of, and so will the foreign journey planned for this evening. Theseare serious matters. ADOLPHE. He is lost! MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what tobelieve. ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on him! ADOLPHE. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it. MME. CATHERINE. He had no business to get in. ADOLPHE. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame Catherine? MME. CATHERINE. Yes and no. I have got beyond having an opinion inthis matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as youturn your hand, and then become angels again? COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have towait and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judgedunheard. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Madame Catherine. [Goes out. ] ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. ADOLPHE. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for theundoing of man. ABBÉ. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is aterrible test. JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me forasking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice? MME. CATHERINE. No, madame, but I think he may be here any minute. You haven't met him then since-- JEANNE. Not since this morning. MME. CATHERINE. Let me tell you that I share in your great sorrow. JEANNE. Thank you, madame. [To the ABBÉ] So you are here, Father. ABBÉ. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use to you. Andit was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to theCommissaire. JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he? ABBÉ. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances areagainst him in a most appalling manner. JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--itmeans nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Mauricehad had a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimesand their punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman inhis company who dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should liketo have a look into that woman's eyes. ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman mayhave done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, shehad no intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of hernature. I know her to be a good soul and one who can very wellbear being looked straight in the eye. JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value tome, and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot holdanybody but myself responsible for what has happened. It is mycarelessness that is now being punished. [She begins to cry. ] ABBÉ. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the seriousspirit in which you have regarded your motherhood. That yourassumption of this responsibility had not been sanctioned byreligion and the civil law was not your fault. No, we are herefacing something quite different. ADOLPHE. What then? ABBÉ. Who can tell? (HENRIETTE enters, dressed in travelling suit. ) ADOLPHE. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to meetHENRIETTE] You here? HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice? ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you? HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but Iwas ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. [To ADOLPHE] Who is that woman?--Oh! (HENRIETTE and JEANNE stare at each other. ) (EMILE appears in the kitchen door. ) HENRIETTE. [To JEANNE] I ought to say something, but it mattersvery little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or amockery. But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deepsorrow as much as anybody standing closer to you, then you mustnot turn away from me. You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if notyour forbearance. [Holds out her hand. ] JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the nextmoment I don't. [Takes HENRIETTE'S hand. ] HENRIETTE. [Kisses JEANNE'S hand] Thank you! JEANNE. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't deserve it! Idon't deserve it! ABBÉ. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems toprevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, shed some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surroundingthe main point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend amongfriends, to tell us what you meant with all that talk aboutkilling, and crime, and the Place de Roquette. That your words hadno connection with the death of the child, we have reason tobelieve, but it would give us added assurance to hear what youwere really talking about. Won't you tell us? HENRIETTE. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I cannot! ADOLPHE. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will relieve usall. HENRIETTE. I cannot! Don't ask me! ABBÉ. This is not the work of man! HENRIETTE. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in this manner![To JEANNE] Madame, I swear that I am not guilty of your child'sdeath. Is that enough? JEANNE. Enough for us, but not for Justice. HENRIETTE. Justice! If you knew how true your words are! ABBÉ. [To HENRIETTE] And if you knew what you were saying justnow! HENRIETTE. Do you know that better than I? ABBÉ. Yes, I do. (HENRIETTE looks fixedly at the ABBÉ. ) ABBÉ. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will notbe exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, buta great deal with divine mercy. MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't lookat the others, who are standing in the background, but goesstraight up to the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting. ] Youare not angry at me, Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. Ihave come now to apologise to you before I start for the South ateight o'clock this evening. (MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word. ) MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does allthis mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see thatit is all real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, looking like a statue and dressed in black--And Henriette lookinglike a corpse--What does it mean? (All remain silent. ) MAURICE. Nobody answers. It must mean something dreadful. [Silence] But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my friend, what isit? [Pointing to EMILE] And there is a detective! ADOLPHE. [Comes forward] You don't know then? MAURICE. Nothing at all. But I must know! ADOLPHE. Well, then--Marion is dead. MAURICE. Marion--dead? ADOLPHE. Yes, she died this morning. MAURICE. [To JEANNE] So that's why you are in mourning. Jeanne, Jeanne, who has done this to us? JEANNE. He who holds life and death in his hand. MAURICE. But I saw her looking well and happy this morning. Howdid it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyesseek HENRIETTE. ] ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none tohe found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion ina direction where none ought to exist. MAURICE. What direction is that? ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk lastnight and this morning has placed you in a light that is anythingbut favourable. MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were wesaying--I remember!--Then I am lost! ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believeyou. MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, butit doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead! And I have killed her! (General consternation. ) ADOLPHE. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your words! Do yourealise what you said just now? MAURICE. What did I say? ADOLPHE. You said that you had killed Marion. MAURICE. Is there a human being here who could believe me amurderer, and who could hold me capable of taking my own child'slife? You who know me, Madame Catherine, tell me: do you believe, can you believe-- MME. CATHERINE. I don't know any longer what to believe. What theheart thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spokenevil words. MAURICE. She doesn't believe me! ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant bysaying that "your love would kill everything that stood in itsway. " MAURICE. So they know that too--Are you willing to explain it, Henriette? HENRIETTE. No, I cannot do that. ABBÉ. There is something wrong behind all this and you have lostour sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that youwere innocent, and I wouldn't do that now. MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me thananything else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who wasit you cursed during that orgie out there? MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet Iam guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed ofmyself, and I have done more wrong than I can forgive myself. HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't dohimself any harm. ADOLPHE. Shall I--? HENRIETTE. Who else? ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! Acarriage is stopping outside. MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen oflife, I could never have believed that success and fame were suchshort-lived things. MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrolwagon! JEANNE. [Simply] And the ass--who was that? ADOLPHE. Oh, that must have been me. COMMISSAIRE. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons to PoliceHeadquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gérard--andfor Mademoiselle Henrietta Mauclerc--both here? MAURICE and HENRIETTE. Yes. MAURICE. Is this an arrest? COMMISSAIRE. Not yet. Only a summons. MAURICE. And then? COMMISSAIRE. We don't know yet. (MAURICE and HENRIETTE go toward the door. ) MAURICE. Good-bye to all! (Everybody shows emotion. The COMMISSAIRE, MAURICE, and HENRIETTEgo out. ) EMILE. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Now I'll take you home, sister. JEANNE. And what do you think of all this? EMILE. The man is innocent. ABBÉ. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, somethingdespicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonablewhen a woman and her child are involved. EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when itconcerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented fromthrowing the first stone because I have done the same thingmyself. ABBÉ. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am notthrowing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and ispunished by its consequences. JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them! ABBÉ. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinenceto want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happenedhere is, indeed, not the work of man. (Curtain. ) SECOND SCENE (The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at thesame table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the secondact. A cup of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE hasordered nothing. ) ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here? HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack ofevidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets beforeit was dark. ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to mesince yesterday. HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardlybreathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody isspying not only on my words but on my thoughts. ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't findyou? HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame whenI think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, stuff than he or I-- ADOLPHE. Sh, sh, sh! HENRIETTE. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made me stay here? Iwas lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitchedme--I cannot explain it. But if you had come, it would never havehappened. And to-day you are great, and he is small--less than theleast of all. Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-dayhe has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And publicopinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will bejudged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that seefarthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he wasresponsible for it anyhow. ADOLPHE. You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, but I should like to know that both of you are spotless. Won't youtell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be achance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt solargely with killing and the scaffold. HENRIETTE. It was no chance. It was something that had to be said, something I cannot tell you--probably because I have no right toappear spotless in your eyes, seeing that I am not spotless. ADOLPHE. All this is beyond me. HENRIETTE. Let us talk of something else--Do you believe there aremany unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may evenbe our intimate friends? ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean? HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some timeor another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fallunder the law if it were discovered? ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapesbeing punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises andunbuttons his coat] And--nobody is really good who has not erred. [Breathing heavily] For in order to know how to forgive, one musthave been in need of forgiveness--I had a friend whom we used toregard as a model man. He never spoke a hard word to anybody; heforgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with astrange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. At last, late inlife, he gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent! [Hesits down again. ] (HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise. ) ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes notmentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, forthey have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be moresevere than we are against our own selves. HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he findpeace? ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree ofcomposure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. Henever dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared tofeel himself entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise:in a word, he could never quite forgive himself. HENRIETTE. Never? What had he done then? ADOLPHE. He had wished the life out of his father. And when hisfather suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. Those imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, and he was sent to an asylum. From this he was discharged after atime as wholly recovered--as they put it. But the sense of guiltremained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for hisevil thoughts. HENRIETTE. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill? ADOLPHE. You mean in some mystic way? HENRIETTE. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my own family--Iam sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with theirhatred. You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all ourtastes and inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, hetried to root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance thataccumulated until it became like an electrical battery chargedwith hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished away, became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came towish himself dead. ADOLPHE. And your conscience never troubled you? HENRIETTE. No, and furthermore, I don't know what conscience is. ADOLPHE. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn. [Pause] How doyou believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you thinkhe will say? HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make thesame kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you. ADOLPHE. Well? HENRIETTE. We guessed entirely wrong. ADOLPHE. Can you tell me why you sent for me? HENRIETTE. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty! ADOLPHE. How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yetnot repent of them. HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible forthem. They are like the dirt left behind by things handled duringthe day and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do youreally think so highly of humanity as you profess to do? ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and alittle worse. HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer. ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me franklywhen I ask you: do you still love Maurice? HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment Ifeel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well livewithout him. ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chainedto his fate--Sh! Here he comes. HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is thesame, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting youyesterday. MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, my dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cellchanged me into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE andADOLPHE. ] ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talkthings over. MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Perhaps I am in the way? ADOLPHE. Now, don't get bitter. MAURICE. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, andsuspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And whowants to keep company with a murderer? HENRIETTE. But you have been cleared of the charge. MAURICE. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not bypublic opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gérard, once aplaywright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc-- HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters--my mother! Jesus havemercy! MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? Andthen it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't avestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of myown, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, andhe is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, Solon! Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate, Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded. HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great successin London and carried off the first prize? MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe? ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize. HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are alsoprevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend? ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes! MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us stillfarther apart. ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonelywith my success as you with your adversity. Think of it--thatpeople feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive! MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyeshad been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shapeof all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the roomI saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise bothof you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here andsearch for words because I don't know what to say to you. I oughtto defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for itprotected me, at least, against the curious glances that passright through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don'tlove me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you. To-day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive. (Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at atable in the background. ) ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That youhave been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear insome of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the wholematter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to theworst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and leteverything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind willbe exonerated yourself. MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha! ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, ifI ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner oflooking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. WhenI, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, whatmust then be the wretchedness of the rest? ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and thenwe'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a differentway. MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!--It meansthat I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myselfaway by careless talking. ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. Irecognise both of them. [Goes toward the door. ] MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette andI may come to open explanations. ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Tryto keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goesout. ] HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt orguiltlessness? MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot ofnonsense while I was drunk. But it is your crime that comes back, and that crime you have grafted on to me. HENRIETTE. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--Was it not youwho cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, andwanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was itnot I who made you visit Marion and show yourself to MadameCatherine? MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself morehuman than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But allthe same I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which Ican never free myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yetguilty! Oh, it is driving me mad--Look, now they sit over thereand listen to us--And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll goout and order a cup of tea. Do you want anything? HENRIETTE. Nothing. (MAURICE goes out. ) FIRST DETECTIVE. [Goes up to HENRIETTE] Let me look at yourpapers. HENRIETTE. How dare you speak to me? DETECTIVE. Dare? I'll show you! HENRIETTE. What do you mean? DETECTIVE. It's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. Yesterdayyou came here with one man, and today with another. That's as goodas walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anythinghere. So you'd better get out and come along with me. HENRIETTE. My escort will be back in a moment. DETECTIVE. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kindthat doesn't help a girl a bit! HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!--I am of good family, Itell you. DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too wellknown through the papers. Come along! HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean? DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nicelittle card and a license that brings you free medical care. HENRIETTE. O Lord Jesus, you don't mean it! DETECTIVE. [Grabbing HENRIETTE by the arm] Don't I mean it? HENRIETTE. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice! Help! DETECTIVE. Shut up, you fool! (MAURICE enters, followed by WAITER. ) WAITER. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here. You just payand get out! And take the girl along! MAURICE. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] Henriette, pay for me, and let us get away from this place. I haven't a souleft. WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Doyou know what that is? HENRIETTE. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful heavens!I have no money either!--Why doesn't Adolphe come back? DETECTIVE. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out of here, and put up something as security. That kind of ladies generallyhave their fingers full of rings. MAURICE. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low? HENRIETTE. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the WAITER] The Abbéwas right: this is not the work of man. MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!--But if we leave before Adolphereturns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away. HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest--But we'll gointo the river now, won't we? MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together]Into the river--yes! (Curtain. ) ACT IV FIRST SCENE (In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The windis shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, andpieces of paper from the ground. ) (MAURICE and HENRIETTE are seated on a bench. ) HENRIETTE. So you don't want to die? MAURICE. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going to be verycold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and afew shavings to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as ifthere were still some task waiting for me, but I cannot make outwhat it is. HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is. MAURICE. Tell me. HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanneand Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such arevenge on a rival none but a woman could devise. MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that mysuspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings duringthese last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, forinstance, why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the headwaiter from the Pavilion were not called to testify at thehearing? HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. Theyhad nothing to tell, because they had not been listening. MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had beensaying? HENRIETTE. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He was guessing, and he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to deal with some similarcase before. MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had beensaying. There are those who can read other people's thoughts--Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we shouldhave called him an ass. It's the rule, I understand, although it'svaried at times by the use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearerat hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages andtriumphal chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourthfact, when you have three known ones to start from. HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in socompletely. MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellowbeings. This is all you get out of it. But do you know, _I_suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, must be a full-fledged scoundrel. HENRIETTE. You mean the Abbé, who was taking the part of a privatedetective. MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds ofconfessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been atthe Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there?He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then thepriest put the questions together for the Commissaire. HENRIETTE. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe? MAURICE. I trust no human being any longer. HENRIETTE. Not even Adolphe? MAURICE. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy--a man fromwhom I have taken away his mistress? HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'llgive you some data about our friend. You heard he had returnedthat medal from London. Do you know his reason for doing so? MAURICE. No. HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken apenitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction. MAURICE. Can that he possible? But what has he done? HENRIETTE. He has committed a crime of the kind that is notpunishable under the law. That's what he gave me to understandindirectly. MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, whonever speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything. HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse thanothers. And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devilswere after us. MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered--But if hehas been capable of _one_ crime, then you may expect anything ofhim. Perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. Coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us whenhe saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insistedthat those fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you mayexpect anything from a deceived lover. HENRIETTE. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is impossible, impossible! MAURICE. Why so? If he is a scoundrel?--What were you two talkingof yesterday, before I came? HENRIETTE. He had nothing but good to say of you. MAURICE. That's a lie! HENRIETTE. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen. There is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever--for what reason, I don't know. Have you thought of MadameCatherine's wavering attitude in this matter? Didn't she sayfinally that she believed you capable of anything? MAURICE. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is. To think evil of other people without reason, you must be avillain yourself. (HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause. ) HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villainyourself. MAURICE. What do you mean? HENRIETTE. What I said. MAURICE. Do you mean that I--? HENRIETTE. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here! Did you meetanybody but Marion when you called there yesterday morning? MAURICE. Why do you ask? HENRIETTE. Guess! MAURICE. Well, as you seem to know--I met Jeanne, too. HENRIETTE. Why did you lie to me? MAURICE. I wanted to spare you. HENRIETTE. And now you want me to believe in one who has beenlying to me? No, my boy, now I believe you guilty of that murder. MAURICE. Wait a moment! We have now reached the place for which mythoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as longas possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last ofall, and what one doesn't _want_ to believe cannot be believed--Tellme something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we partedin the Bois? HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why? MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe--which you couldn't do, as hewas attending a lesson--or you went to--Marion! HENRIETTE. Now I am convinced that you are the murderer. MAURICE. And I, that you are the murderess! You alone had aninterest in getting the child out of the way--to get rid of therock on the road, as you so aptly put it. HENRIETTE. It was you who said that. MAURICE. And the one who had an interest in it must have committedthe crime. HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around inthis tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we getto the point of sheer madness. MAURICE. You have reached that point already. HENRIETTE. Don't you think it's time for us to part, before wedrive each other insane? MAURICE. Yes, I think so. HENRIETTE. [Rising] Good-bye then! (Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background. ) HENRIETTE. [Turns and comes back to MAURICE] There they are again! MAURICE. The dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden. HENRIETTE. And force us back upon each other as if we were chainedtogether. MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are wereally to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able toclose the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last? HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other todeath; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriageportion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and Igetting back at you with Jeanne--and Marion. MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you knowthat she was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps? HENRIETTE. And you are not there? What does that mean? MAURICE. It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned meagainst the rage of the people. HENRIETTE. A coward, too? MAURICE. All the vices! How could you ever have cared for me? HENRIETTE. Because two days ago you were another person, wellworthy of being loved-- MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth! HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt badqualities which are not your own. MAURICE. But yours? HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feelmyself at once a little better. MAURICE. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self-respect. HENRIETTE. And how vulgar you have become, too! MAURICE. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myselfsince that night in the cell. They put in one person and let outanother through that gate which separates us from the rest ofsociety. And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I shouldlike to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothingless than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour. HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widowof a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas ofhonour and that kind of thing. Do you want to read the letter? No, you don't!--Do you know that I am an outcast? My respectableacquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I showmyself on the streets alone the police will take me. Do yourealise now that we have to get married? MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that ishell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite ourdestinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on moreequal terms. HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got intotrouble--you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole futurewas at stake--and she died! MAURICE. That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, too. HENRIETTE. You say so now, but the next time you lose your temperyou will accuse me of it. MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken myfaith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is herlover still alive, and does he know to what extent you wereresponsible? HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I. MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him--suchthings do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: thenyou would be lost. HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has mademe rush from one dissipation to another--so that I should neverhave time to wake up to full consciousness. MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out ofyour dread. That's asking a little too much. HENRIETTE. But when I shared the shame of Maurice the murderer-- MAURICE. Oh, let's come to an end with it! HENRIETTE. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my holduntil I have put you where you belong. For you can't go aroundthinking yourself better than I am. MAURICE. So you want to fight me then? All right, as you please! HENRIETTE. A fight on life and death! (The rolling of drums is heard in the distance. ) MAURICE. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the ground for thysake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee. " HENRIETTE. "And the Lord God said unto the woman--" A GUARD. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but thegarden has to be closed. (Curtain. ) SECOND SCENE (The Crêmerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter makingentries into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated ata table. ) ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurancethat I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought youhad played me false, this ought to convince you. HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellowswere not policemen? ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wantedto reassure you. HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must alsobelieve me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you. ADOLPHE. Go on. HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk offancies and delusions. ADOLPHE. You seem to have reason to fear that I may. HENRIETTE. I fear nothing, but I know you and your scepticism--Well, and then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me! ADOLPHE. I promise. HENRIETTE. Now think of it, although I must say it's somethingterrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or atleast, I have reasonable suspicions-- ADOLPHE. You don't mean it! HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me inthe Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the motherwas out. And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet themother. So that he has been lying to me. ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may havebeen the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he isguilty of a murder? HENRIETTE. Can't you see that?--Don't you understand? ADOLPHE. Not at all. HENRIETTE. Because you don't want to!--Then there is nothing leftfor me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove analibi. ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, have reached the border line of--insanity. The demons of distrusthave got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense ofpartial guilt to wound the other with. Let me see if I can make astraight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing hischild? HENRIETTE. Yes, he's mad enough to do so. ADOLPHE. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own. HENRIETTE. You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspecthim unjustly. ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Mariondied of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannotrecall just now. HENRIETTE. Is it true? ADOLPHE. The official report is printed in today's paper. HENRIETTE. I don't take any stock in it. They can make up thatkind of thing. ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette--or you may, without knowing it, passacross that border line. Beware especially of throwing outaccusations that may put you into prison. Beware! [He places hishand on her head] You hate Maurice? HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds! ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was taintedfrom the start. HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you whoare the only one that understands me. ADOLPHE. But you don't want any sermons. HENRIETTE. Have you nothing else to offer me? ADOLPHE. Nothing else. But they have helped me. HENRIETTE. Preach away then! ADOLPHE. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put the knifeto the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that _your_ troubleroots. HENRIETTE. Explain yourself. ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurseyour qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as anartist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving forfreedom and fun--as they call it. And you have seen now how muchfun there is in it. Then go home to your mother. HENRIETTE. Never! ADOLPHE. Some other place then. HENRIETTE. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed yoursecret and why you wouldn't accept the prize? ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-toldstory. HENRIETTE. Well--what did you do to get peace? ADOLPHE. What I have suggested: I became conscious of my guilt, repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my lifelike that of a penitent. HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have noconscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faithis? ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless youseek it--Seek! (HENRIETTE remains silent. ) ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you mayharden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable. HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment? ADOLPHE. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by themisdeeds of our lower selves. HENRIETTE. Then I must have a conscience also? ADOLPHE. Of course you have, but-- HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious? ADOLPHE. Not the least bit. HENRIETTE. It's all so queer--What is religion? ADOLPHE. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't think anybodyelse can tell you. Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience. HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. Good-bye, Adolphe! ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here? HENRIETTE. Yes, I am going--to where you said. Good-bye my friend!Good-bye, Madame Catherine! MME. CATHERINE. Have you to go in such a hurry? HENRIETTE. Yes. ADOLPHE. Do you want me to go with you? HENRIETTE. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone as I camehere, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don'tbelong, and believing there was something called freedom, whichdoes not exist. Good-bye! [Goes out. ] MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish shehad never come here at all! ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fillhere? And at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity. MME. CATHERINE. I don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that. ADOLPHE. And she has even done less wrong than the rest of us. MME. CATHERINE. That's possible, but not probable. ADOLPHE. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine. Tell me: haveyou never done anything wrong? MME. CATHERINE. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful human creature. But if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right totell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severeor uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that ladyentered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in. Justlike a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he hasto have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster. ADOLPHE. Well, hasn't he had his spanking? MME. CATHERINE. Yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, ashe is still going around complaining. ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the wholeintricate question. MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise aboutyour vices, and while you are still at it the police come alongand solve the riddle. Now please leave me alone with my accounts! ADOLPHE. There's Maurice now. MME. CATHERINE. Yes, God bless him! MAURICE. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat nearADOLPHE] Good evening. (MME. CATHERINE nods and goes on figuring. ) ADOLPHE. Well, how's everything with you? MAURICE. Oh, beginning to clear up. ADOLPHE. [Hands him a newspaper, which MAURICE does not take] Soyou have read the paper? MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothingbut infamies in them. ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first-- MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies--But listen: I havefound a new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder? ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody! MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hourwhen the child was left alone?--She was _there_! And it is she whohas done it! ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man. MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and hasthreatened to report me. ADOLPHE. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used the self-same words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it has been provedby a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, the name of which I have forgotten. MAURICE. It isn't true! ADOLPHE. That's what she said also. But the official report isprinted in the paper. MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up! ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you aresuffering from the same mental trouble. But with her I got farenough to make her realise her own condition. MAURICE. Where did she go? ADOLPHE. She went far away from here to begin a new life. MAURICE. Hm, hm!--Did you go to the funeral? ADOLPHE. I did. MAURICE. Well? ADOLPHE. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard wordto say about you. MAURICE. She is a good woman. ADOLPHE. Why did you desert her then? MAURICE. Because I _was_ crazy--blown up with pride especially--andthen we had been drinking champagne-- ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drankchampagne? MAURICE. Yes, I understand now--And for that reason I have alreadywritten to her and asked her to forgive me--Do you think she willforgive me? ADOLPHE. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody. MAURICE. Do you think she will forgive me completely, so that shewill come back to me? ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about _that_. You have shown yourself sopoor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trusther fate to you any longer. MAURICE. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, and I know she will come back to me. ADOLPHE. How can you know that? How can you believe it? Didn't youeven suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sentthe police after Henriette out of revenge? MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer--that is to say, Iguess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer. MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of MonsieurEmile? Of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybodykept as straight as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot ofsense and tact. EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gérard? MAURICE. That's me. EMILE. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you in private. MAURICE. Go right on. We are all friends here. (The ABBÉ enters and sits down. ) EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBÉ] Perhaps after-- MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbé is also a friend, although he and Idiffer. EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gérard? My sister has asked meto give you this package as an answer to your letter. (MAURICE takes the package and opens it. ) EMILE. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way mysister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, Iacknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tiebetween you does not exist any longer. MAURICE. But you must have a grudge against me? EMILE. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I should liketo have a declaration from you, here in the presence of yourfriends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable ofsuch a meanness as to send the police after MademoiselleHenriette. MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you myapology, if you will accept it. EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goesout. ] EVERYBODY. Good evening! MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for theopening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into thefireplace. Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up;everything comes back!--And when she gave them to me in thecemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, sothat other people would like me also--And she herself stayed athome--This hurt her too deeply, and well it might. I have no rightto keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have I done this?Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrificeoffered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order toget--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust thatwould have belonged in the pillory--Abbé, now I come over to you. ABBÉ. Welcome! MAURICE. Give me the word that I need. ABBÉ. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations andinform you that you have done nothing wrong? MAURICE. Speak the right word! ABBÉ. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found yourbehaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself. MAURICE. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this? ABBÉ. You know as well as I do. MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever. ABBÉ. And so you are looking for a new existence in some betterworld, which you are now beginning to believe in? MAURICE. Yes, that's it. ABBÉ. You have been living in the flesh and you want now to livein the spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no moreattractions for you? MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dryleaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind yourconsecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filledtwo days and lasted two eternities. ABBÉ. All right! But this is not the place to go into the mattermore closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nineo'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach tothe inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step alongthe hard road of penitence. MAURICE. Penitence? ABBÉ. Well, didn't you wish-- MAURICE. Yes, yes! ABBÉ. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock. MAURICE. That will be splendid! ABBÉ. Give me your hand that you will not look back. MAURICE. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand, and my willgoes with it. SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call forMonsieur Maurice. MAURICE. From whom? SERVANT GIRL. From the theatre. (MAURICE tries to get away, but the ABBÉ holds on to his hand. ) ABBÉ. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is. SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going toattend the performance tonight. ABBÉ. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let yougo. MAURICE. What performance is that? ADOLPHE. Why don't you read the paper? MME. CATHERINE and the ABBÉ. He hasn't read the paper? MAURICE. It's all lies and slander. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Tellthem that I am engaged for this evening: I am going to church. (The SERVANT GIRL goes out into the kitchen. ) ADOLPHE. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall have to tellyou that your play has been put on again, now when you areexonerated. And your literary friends have planned a demonstrationfor this evening in recognition of your indisputable talent. MAURICE. It isn't true. EVERYBODY. It is true. MAURICE. [After a pause] I have not deserved it! ABBÉ. Good! ADOLPHE. And furthermore, Maurice-- MAURICE. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore! MME. CATHERINE. One hundred thousand francs! Do you see now thatthey come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everythingis coming back except Mademoiselle Henriette. ABBÉ. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little moreseriously, Madame Catherine. MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot--I just can't keep serious anylonger! [She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smotherwith her handkerchief. ] ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight. ABBÉ. But the church services are at nine. ADOLPHE. Maurice! MME. CATHERINE. Let us hear what the end is going to be, MonsieurMaurice. (MAURICE drops his head on the table, in his arms. ) ADOLPHE. Loose him, Abbé! ABBÉ. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do thathimself. MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbé. ABBÉ. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but ascolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty toyourself and to your good name. That you have got through withthis as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have sufferedyour punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. Andwhen Providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add. MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I wasinnocent? ABBÉ. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we haveto stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. And in your thought you became a murderer when your evil selfwished the life out of your child. MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I willmeet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself--but to-morrow evening I go to the theatre. MME. CATHERINE. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice. ADOLPHE. Yes, that is the solution. Whew! ABBÉ. Yes, so it is! (Curtain. ) MISS JULIA INTRODUCTION The volume containing the translation of "There Are Crimes andCrimes" had barely reached the public when word came across theocean that August Strindberg had ended his long fight with life. His family had long suspected some serious organic trouble. Earlyin the year, when lie had just recovered from an illness oftemporary character, their worst fears became confirmed. Anexamination disclosed a case of cancer in the stomach, and thedisease progressed so rapidly that soon all hope of recovery wasout of the question. On May 14, 1912, Strindberg died. With his death peace came in more senses than one. All the fear andhatred which he had incurred by what was best as well as worst inhim seemed to be laid at rest with his own worn-out body. The loveand the admiration which he had son in far greater measure weregranted unchecked expression. His burial, otherwise as simple as hehimself had prescribed, was a truly national event. At the grave ofthe arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representativeof the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous members ofthe Riksdag. Thousands of men and women representing the best ofSweden's intellectual and artistic life went to the cemetery, though the hour of the funeral was eight o'clock in the morning. Itwas an event in which the masses and the classes shared a commonsorrow, the standards of student organizations mingling with thebanners of labour unions. And not only the capital, but the wholecountry, observed the day as one of mourning. A thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on Strindberg'sdeath by the European press was that, in some mysterious manner, he, more than any other writer, appeared to be the incarnation ofthe past century, with its nervous striving after truth, its fearof being duped, and its fretting dread that evolution and progressmight prove antagonistic terms. And at that simple grave inStockholm more than one bareheaded spectator must have heard thegravel rattle on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only agreat individual, but a whole human period--great in spite of allits weaknesses--was being laid away for ever. Among more than half a hundred plays produced by Strindberg duringhis lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "MissJulia, " both on account of its masterful construction and itsgripping theme. Whether liking or disliking it, critics haverepeatedly compared it with Ibsen's "Ghosts, " and not always to theadvantage of the latter work. It represents, first of all, itsauthor's most determined and most daring endeavour to win themodern stage for Naturalism. If he failed in this effort, it mustbe recalled to his honour that he was among the first to proclaimhis own failure and to advocate the seeking of new paths. When thework was still hot from his hands, however, he believed in it withall the fervour of which his spirit was capable, and to bring homeits lesson the more forcibly, he added a preface, a sort ofdramatic creed, explaining just what he had tried to do, and why. This preface, which has become hardly less famous than the playitself, is here, as I believe, for the first time rendered intoEnglish. The acuteness and exhaustiveness of its analysis servesnot only to make it a psychological document of rare value, butalso to save me much of the comment which without it might bedeemed needful. Years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the exclusiveperformance of his own plays at Stockholm, Strindberg formulated anew dramatic creed--that of his mystical period, in which he waswont to sign himself "the author of 'Gustavus Vasa, ' 'The DreamPlay, ' 'The Last Knight, ' etc. " It took the form of a pamphletentitled "A Memorandum to the Members of the Intimate Theatre fromthe Stage Director" (Stockholm, 1908). There he gave the followingdata concerning "Miss Julia, " and the movement which that playhelped to start: "In the '80's the new time began to extend its demands for reformto the stage also. Zola declared war against the French comedy, with its Brussels carpets, its patent-leather shoes andpatent-leather themes, and its dialogue reminding one of thequestions and answers of the Catechism. In 1887 Antoine opened hisThéâtre Libre at Paris, and 'Thérèse Raquin, ' although nothing butan adapted novel, became the dominant model. It was the powerfultheme and the concentrated form that showed innovation, althoughthe unity of time was not yet observed, and curtain falls wereretained. It was then I wrote my dramas: 'Miss Julia, ' 'TheFather, ' and 'Creditors. ' "'Miss Julia, ' which was equipped with a now well-known preface, was staged by Antoine, but not until 1892 or 1893, having previouslybeen played by the Students' Association of the CopenhagenUniversity in 1888 or 1889. In the spring of 1893 'Creditors' wasput on at the Théâtre L'OEuvre, in Paris, and in the fall of thesame year 'The Father' was given at the same theatre, with PhilippeGarnier in the title part. "But as early as 1889 the Freie Bühne had been started at Berlin, and before 1893 all three of my dramas had been performed. 'MissJulia' was preceded by a lecture given by Paul Schlenther, nowdirector of the Hofburg Theater at Vienna. The principal parts wereplayed by Rosa Bertens, Emanuel Reicher, Rittner and Jarno. AndSigismund Lautenburg, director of the Residenz Theater, gave morethan one hundred performances of 'Creditors. ' "Then followed a period of comparative silence, and the drama sankback into the old ruts, until, with the beginning of the newcentury, Reinhardt opened his Kleines Theater. There I was playedfrom the start, being represented by the long one-act drama 'TheLink, ' as well as by 'Miss Julia' (with Eysoldt in the title part), and 'There Are Crimes and Crimes. '" He went on to tell how one European city after another had got its"Little, " or "Free, " or "Intimate" theatre. And had he known of it, he might have added that the promising venture started by Mr. Winthrop Ames at New York comes as near as any one of its earlierrivals in the faithful embodiment of those theories which, withPromethean rashness, he had flung at the head of a startled world in1888. For the usual thing has happened: what a quarter-century agoseemed almost ludicrous in its radicalism belongs to-day to theestablished traditions of every progressive stage. Had Strindberg been content with his position of 1888, many honoursnow withheld might have fallen to his share. But like Ibsen, he wasfirst and last--and to the very last!--an innovator, a leader ofhuman thought and human endeavour. And so it happened that when therest thought to have overtaken him, he had already hurried on to amore advanced position, heedless of the scorn poured on him bythose to whom "consistency" is the foremost of all human virtues. Three years before his death we find him writing as follows inanother pamphlet "An Open Letter to the Intimate Theatre, "Stockholm, 1909--of the position once assumed so proudly and soconfidently by himself: "As the Intimate Theatre counts its inception from the successfulperformance of 'Miss Julia' in 1900, it was quite natural that theyoung director (August Falck) should feel the influence of thePreface, which recommended a search for actuality. But that wastwenty years ago, and although I do not feel the need of attackingmyself in this connection, I cannot but regard all that potteringwith stage properties as useless. " It has been customary in this country to speak of the play nowpresented to the public as "Countess Julie. " The noble title is, ofcourse, picturesque, but incorrect and unwarranted. It is, I fear, another outcome of that tendency to exploit the most sensationalelements in Strindberg's art which has caused somebody to translatethe name of his first great novel as "The Scarlet Room, "--insteadof simply "The Red Room, "--thus hoping to connect it in the reader'smind with the scarlet woman of the Bible. In Sweden, a countess is the wife or widow of a count. His daughteris no more a countess than is the daughter of an English earl. Hertitle is that of "Fröken, " which corresponds exactly to the German"Fräulein" and the English "Miss. " Once it was reserved for theyoung women of the nobility. By an agitation which shook all Swedenwith mingled fury and mirth, it became extended to all unmarriedwomen. The French form of _Miss Julia's_ Christian name is, on the otherhand, in keeping with the author's intention, aiming at anexpression of the foreign sympathies and manners which began tocharacterize the Swedish nobility in the eighteenth century, andwhich continued to assert themselves almost to the end of thenineteenth. But in English that form would not have the samesignificance, and nothing in the play makes its use imperative. Thevalet, on the other hand, would most appropriately be named _Jean_both in England and here, and for that reason I have retained thisform of his name. Almost every one translating from the Scandinavian languagesinsists on creating a difficulty out of the fact that the threenorthern nations--like the Germans and the French--still use thesecond person singular of the personal pronoun to indicate a closerdegree of familiarity. But to translate the Swedish "du" with theEnglish "thou" is as erroneous as it is awkward. Tytler laid downhis "Principles of Translation" in 1791--and a majority oftranslators are still unaware of their existence. Yet it ought toseem self-evident to every thinking mind that idiomaticequivalence, not verbal identity, must form the basis of a good andfaithful translation. When an English mother uses "you" to herchild, she establishes thereby the only rational equivalent for the"du" used under similar circumstances by her Swedish sister. Nobody familiar with the English language as it actually springsfrom the lips of living men and women can doubt that it offers waysof expressing varying shades of intimacy no less effective than anyfound in the Swedish tongue. Let me give an illustration from theplay immediately under discussion. Returning to the stage after theballet scene, _Jean_ says to _Miss Julia_: "I love you--can youdoubt it?" And her reply, literally, is: "You?--Say thou!" I havemerely made him say: "Can you doubt it, Miss Julia?" and heranswer: "Miss?--Call me Julia!" As that is just what would happenunder similar circumstances among English-speaking people, Icontend that not a whit of the author's meaning or spirit has beenlost in this translation. If ever a play was written for the stage, it is this one. And onthe stage there is nothing to take the place of the notes andintroductory explanations that so frequently encumber the printedvolume. On the stage all explanations must lie within the playitself, and so they should in the book also, I believe. Thetranslator is either an artist or a man unfit for his work. As anartist he must have a courage that cannot even be cowed by hisreverence for the work of a great creative genius. If, mistakenly, he revere the letter of that work instead of its spirit, then hewill reduce his own task to mere literary carpentry, and from hispen will spring not a living form, like the one he has been set totransplant, but only a death mask! AUTHOR'S PREFACE Like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed to mea sort of _Biblia Pauperum_, or a Bible in pictures for those whocannot read what is written or printed. And in the same way theplaywright has seemed to me a lay preacher spreading the thoughtsof his time in a form so popular that the middle classes, fromwhich theatrical audiences are mainly drawn, can know what is beingtalked about without troubling their brains too much. For thisreason the theatre has always served as a grammar-school to youngpeople, women, and those who have acquired a little knowledge, allof whom retain the capacity for deceiving themselves and beingdeceived--which means again that they are susceptible to illusionsproduced by the suggestions of the author. And for the same reasonI have had a feeling that, in our time, when the rudimentary, incomplete thought processes operating through our fancy seem to bedeveloping into reflection, research, and analysis, the theatremight stand on the verge of being abandoned as a decaying form, forthe enjoyment of which we lack the requisite conditions. Theprolonged theatrical crisis now prevailing throughout Europe speaksin favour of such a supposition, as well as the fact that, in thecivilised countries producing the greatest thinkers of the age, namely, England and Germany, the drama is as dead as are most ofthe other fine arts. In some other countries it has, however, been thought possible tocreate a new drama by filling the old forms with the contents of anew time. But, for one thing, there has not been time for the newthoughts to become so popularized that the public might grasp thequestions raised; secondly, minds have been so inflamed by partyconflicts that pure and disinterested enjoyment has been excludedfrom places where one's innermost feelings are violated and thetyranny of an applauding or hissing majority is exercised with theopenness for which the theatre gives a chance; and, finally, therehas been no new form devised for the new contents, and the new winehas burst the old bottles. In the following drama I have not tried to do anything new--forthat cannot be done--but I have tried to modernize the form inaccordance with the demands which I thought the new men of a newtime might be likely to make on this art. And with such a purposein view, I have chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme thatmight well be said to lie outside the partisan strife of the day:for the problem of social ascendancy or decline, of higher orlower, of better or worse, of men or women, is, has been, and willbe of lasting interest. In selecting this theme from real life, asit was related to me a number of years ago, when the incidentimpressed me very deeply, I found it suited to a tragedy, becauseit can only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individualperish, and this must be the case in still higher degree when wesee an entire family die out. But perhaps a time will arrive whenwe have become so developed, so enlightened, that we can remainindifferent before the spectacle of life, which now seems sobrutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have closed up thoselower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call feelings, and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harmful bythe final growth of our reflective organs. The fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on ourweakness in not being able to resist the sense of fear that thesame fate could befall ourselves. And yet it is possible that avery sensitive spectator might fail to find satisfaction in thiskind of pity, while the man believing in the future might demandsome positive suggestion for the abolition of evil, or, in otherwords, some kind of programme. But, first of all, there is noabsolute evil. That one family perishes is the fortune of anotherfamily, which thereby gets a chance to rise. And the alternation ofascent and descent constitutes one of life's main charms, asfortune is solely determined by comparison. And to the man with aprogramme, who wants to remedy the sad circumstance that the hawkeats the dove, and the flea eats the hawk, I have this question toput: why should it be remedied? Life is not so mathematicallyidiotic that it lets only the big eat the small, but it happensjust as often that the bee kills the lion, or drives it to madnessat least. That my tragedy makes a sad impression on many is their own fault. When we grow strong as were the men of the first French revolution, then we shall receive an unconditionally good and joyful impressionfrom seeing the national forests rid of rotting and superannuatedtrees that have stood too long in the way of others with equalright to a period of free growth--an impression good in the sameway as that received from the death of one incurably diseased. Not long ago they reproached my tragedy "The Father" with being toosad--just as if they wanted merry tragedies. Everybody is clamouringarrogantly for "the joy of life, " and all theatrical managers aregiving orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in beingsilly and picturing all human beings as so many sufferers from St. Vitus' dance or idiocy. I find the joy of life in its violent andcruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in knowing something andlearning something. And for this reason I have selected an unusualbut instructive case--an exception, in a word--but a greatexception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke alllovers of the commonplace. And what also will offend simple brainsis that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, thatthe view-point is not always the same. An event in real life--andthis discovery is quite recent--springs generally from a wholeseries of more or less deep-lying motives, but of these thespectator chooses as a rule the one his reason can master mosteasily, or else the one reflecting most favourably on his power ofreasoning. A suicide is committed. Bad business, says the merchant. Unrequited love, say the ladies. Sickness, says the sick man. Crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. But now it may be that themotive lay in all or none of these directions. It is possible thatthe one who is dead may have hid the main motive by pushing forwardanother meant to place his memory in a better light. In explanation of _Miss Julia's_ sad fate I have suggested manyfactors: her mother's fundamental instincts; her father's mistakenupbringing of the girl; her own nature, and the suggestive influenceof her fiancé on a weak and degenerate brain; furthermore, and moredirectly: the festive mood of the Midsummer Eve; the absence of herfather; her physical condition; her preoccupation with the animals;the excitation of the dance; the dusk of the night; the stronglyaphrodisiacal influence of the flowers; and lastly the chanceforcing the two of them together in a secluded room, to which mustbe added the aggressiveness of the excited man. Thus I have neither been one-sidedly physiological nor one-sidedlypsychological in my procedure. Nor have I merely delivered a moralpreachment. This multiplicity of motives I regard as praiseworthybecause it is in keeping with the views of our own time. And ifothers have done the same thing before me, I may boast of not beingthe sole inventor of my paradoxes--as all discoveries are named. In regard to the character-drawing I may say that I have tried tomake my figures rather "characterless, " and I have done so forreasons I shall now state. In the course of the ages the word character has assumed manymeanings. Originally it signified probably the dominant ground-notein the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused withtemperament. Afterward it became the middle-class term for anautomaton, so that an individual whose nature had come to a standstill, or who had adapted himself to a certain part in life--whohad ceased to grow, in a word--was named a character; while oneremaining in a state of development--a skilful navigator on life'sriver, who did not sail with close-tied sheets, but knew when tofall off before the wind and when to luff again--was called lackingin character. And he was called so in a depreciatory sense, ofcourse, because he was so hard to catch, to classify, and to keeptrack of. This middle-class notion about the immobility of the soulwas transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element hasalways held sway. There a character became synonymous with agentleman fixed and finished once for all--one who invariablyappeared drunk, jolly, sad. And for the purpose of characterisationnothing more was needed than some physical deformity like aclubfoot, a wooden leg, a red nose; or the person concerned wasmade to repeat some phrase like "That's capital!" or "Barkis iswillin', " or something of that kind. This manner of regarding humanbeings as homogeneous is preserved even by the great Molière. _Harpagon_ is nothing but miserly, although _Harpagon_ might aswell have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a finefather, and a public-spirited citizen. What is worse yet, his"defect" is of distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, who are his heirs, and for that reason should not find fault withhim, even if they have to wait a little for their wedding. I do notbelieve, therefore, in simple characters on the stage. And thesummary judgments of the author upon men--this one stupid, and thatone brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy--should bechallenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of thesoul-complex, and who realise that "vice" has a reverse very muchresembling virtue. Because they are modern characters, living in a period of transitionmore hysterically hurried than its immediate predecessor at least, I have made my figures vacillating, out of joint, torn between theold and the new. And I do not think it unlikely that, throughnewspaper reading and overheard conversations, modern ideas mayhave leaked down to the strata where domestic servants belong. My souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past andpresent stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off piecesof Sunday clothing turned into rags--all patched together as is thehuman soul itself. And I have furthermore offered a touch ofevolutionary history by letting the weaker repeat words stolen fromthe stronger, and by letting different souls accept "ideas"--orsuggestions, as they are called--from each other. _Miss Julia_ is a modern character, not because the man-hatinghalf-woman may not have existed in all ages, but because now, afterher discovery, she has stepped to the front and begun to make anoise. The half-woman is a type coming more and more intoprominence, selling herself nowadays for power, decorations, distinctions, diplomas, as formerly for money, and the typeindicates degeneration. It is not a good type, for it does notlast, but unfortunately it has the power of reproducing itself andits misery through one more generation. And degenerate men seeminstinctively to make their selection from this kind of women, sothat they multiply and produce indeterminate sexes to whom life isa torture. Fortunately, however, they perish in the end, eitherfrom discord with real life, or from the irresistible revolt oftheir suppressed instincts, or from foiled hopes of possessing theman. The type is tragical, offering us the spectacle of a desperatestruggle against nature. It is also tragical as a Romanticinheritance dispersed by the prevailing Naturalism, which wantsnothing but happiness: and for happiness strong and sound races arerequired. But _Miss Julia_ is also a remnant of the old military nobilitywhich is now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain. She is a victim of the discord which a mother's "crime" produces ina family, and also a victim of the day's delusions, of thecircumstances, of her defective constitution--all of which may beheld equivalent to the old-fashioned fate or universal law. Thenaturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe outthe results of an action--punishment, prison, or fear--and for thesimple reason that they remain without regard to his verdict. Forfellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured asthose on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can bewithout cost to themselves. Even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, thefather should forego his vengeance, the daughter would takevengeance upon herself, just as she does in the play, and she wouldbe moved to it by that innate or acquired sense of honour which theupper classes inherit--whence? From the days of barbarism, from theoriginal home of the Aryans, from the chivalry of the Middle Ages?It is beautiful, but it has become disadvantageous to thepreservation of the race. It is this, the nobleman's _harakiri_--orthe law of the inner conscience compelling the Japanese to cut openhis own abdomen at the insult of another--which survives, thoughsomewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the nobility. For this reason the valet, _Jean_, continues to live, but _MissJulia_ cannot live on without honour. In so far as he lacks thislife—endangering superstition about honour, the serf takesprecedence of the earl, and in all of us Aryans there is somethingof the nobleman, or of Don Quixote, which makes us sympathise withthe man who takes his own life because he has committed adishonourable deed and thus lost his honour. And we are noblemen tothe extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with theliving corpse of one who was once great--yes, even if the one thusfallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds. _Jean_, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock--one inwhom the differentiation is clearly noticeable. He was a cotter'schild, and he has trained himself up to the point where the futuregentleman has become visible. He has found it easy to learn, havingfinely developed senses (smell, taste, vision) and an instinct forbeauty besides. He has already risen in the world, and is strongenough not to be sensitive about using other people's services. Hehas already become a stranger to his equals, despising them as somany outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing them becausethey know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise withenvy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure. From thisrelationship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillatingbetween love of distinction and hatred of those who have alreadyachieved it. He says himself that he is an aristocrat, and haslearned the secrets of good company. He is polished on the outsideand coarse within. He knows already how to wear the frock-coat withease, but the cleanliness of his body cannot be guaranteed. He feels respect for the young lady, but he is afraid of _Christine_, who has his dangerous secrets in her keeping. His emotionalcallousness is sufficient to prevent the night's happenings fromexercising a disturbing influence on his plans for the future. Having at once the slave's brutality and the master's lack ofsqueamishness, he can see blood without fainting, and he can alsobend his back under a mishap until able to throw it off. For thisreason he will emerge unharmed from the battle, and will probablyend his days as the owner of a hotel. And if he does not become aRoumanian count, his son will probably go to a university, and mayeven become a county attorney. Otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant information asto the way in which the lower classes look at life from beneath—-that is, when he speaks the truth, which is not often, as heprefers what seems favourable to himself to what is true. When_Miss Julia_ suggests that the lower classes must feel the pressurefrom above very heavily, _Jean_ agrees with her, of course, becausehe wants to gain her sympathy. But he corrects himself at once, themoment he realises the advantage of standing apart from the herd. And _Jean_ stands above _Miss Julia_ not only because his fate is inascendancy, but because he is a man. Sexually he is the aristocratbecause of his male strength, his more finely developed senses, andhis capacity for taking the initiative. His inferiority dependsmainly on the temporary social environment in which he has to live, and which he probably can shed together with the valet's livery. The mind of the slave speaks through his reverence for the count(as shown in the incident with the boots) and through his religioussuperstition. But he reveres the count principally as a possessorof that higher position toward which he himself is striving. Andthis reverence remains even when he has won the daughter of thehouse, and seen that the beautiful shell covered nothing butemptiness. I don't believe that any love relation in a "higher" sense canspring up between two souls of such different quality. And for thisreason I let _Miss Julia_ imagine her love to be protective orcommiserative in its origin. And I let _Jean_ suppose that, underdifferent social conditions, he might feel something like real lovefor her. I believe love to be like the hyacinth, which has tostrike roots in darkness _before_ it can bring forth a vigorousflower. In this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossomand seed at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon. _Christine_, finally, is a female slave, full of servility andsluggishness acquired in front of the kitchen fire, and stuffedfull of morality and religion that are meant to serve her at onceas cloak and scapegoat. Her church-going has for its purpose tobring her quick and easy riddance of all responsibility for herdomestic thieveries and to equip her with a new stock ofguiltlessness. Otherwise she is a subordinate figure, and thereforepurposely sketched in the same manner as the minister and thedoctor in "The Father, " whom I designed as ordinary human beings, like the common run of country ministers and country doctors. Andif these accessory characters have seemed mere abstractions to somepeople, it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certainextent impersonal in the exercise of their callings. This meansthat they are without individuality, showing only one side ofthemselves while at work. And as long as the spectator does notfeel the need of seeing them from other sides, my abstractpresentation of them remains on the whole correct. In regard to the dialogue, I want to point out that I have departedsomewhat from prevailing traditions by not turning my figures intocatechists who make stupid questions in order to call forth wittyanswers. I have avoided the symmetrical and mathematicalconstruction of the French dialogue, and have instead permitted theminds to work irregularly as they do in reality, where, duringconversation, the cogs of one mind seem more or less haphazardly toengage those of another one, and where no topic is fully exhausted. Naturally enough, therefore, the dialogue strays a good deal as, inthe opening scenes, it acquires a material that later on is workedover, picked up again, repeated, expounded, and built up like thetheme in a musical composition. The plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is concernedonly with two persons, I have concentrated my attention on these, introducing only one subordinate figure, the cook, and keeping theunfortunate spirit of the father hovering above and beyond theaction. I have done this because I believe I have noticed that thepsychological processes are what interest the people of our own daymore than anything else. Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannotrest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how itcomes to happen! What we want to see are just the wires, themachinery. We want to investigate the box with the false bottom, touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into thecards to discover how they are marked. In this I have taken for models the monographic novels of thebrothers de Goncourt, which have appealed more to me than any othermodern literature. Turning to the technical side of the composition, I have tried toabolish the division into acts. And I have done so because I havecome to fear that our decreasing capacity for illusion might beunfavourably affected by intermissions during which the spectatorwould have time to reflect and to get away from the suggestiveinfluence of the author-hypnotist. My play will probably last anhour and a half, and as it is possible to listen that length oftime, or longer, to a lecture, a sermon, or a debate, I haveimagined that a theatrical performance could not become fatiguingin the same time. As early as 1872, in one of my first dramaticexperiments, "The Outlaw, " I tried the same concentrated form, butwith scant success. The play was written in five acts and whollycompleted when I became aware of the restless, scattered effect itproduced. Then I burned it, and out of the ashes rose a single, well-built act, covering fifty printed pages, and taking hour forits performance. Thus the form of the present play is not new, butit seems to be my own, and changing aesthetical conventions maypossibly make it timely. My hope is still for a public educated to the point where it cansit through a whole-evening performance in a single act. But thatpoint cannot be reached without a great deal of experimentation. Inthe meantime I have resorted to three art forms that are to provideresting-places for the public and the actors, without letting thepublic escape from the illusion induced. All these forms aresubsidiary to the drama. They are the monologue, the pantomime, andthe dance, all of them belonging originally to the tragedy ofclassical antiquity. For the monologue has sprung from the monody, and the chorus has developed into the ballet. Our realists have excommunicated the monologue as improbable, butif I can lay a proper basis for it, I can also make it seemprobable, and then I can use it to good advantage. It is probable, for instance, that a speaker may walk back and forth in his roompractising his speech aloud; it is probable that an actor may readthrough his part aloud, that a servant-girl may talk to her cat, that a mother may prattle to her child, that an old spinster maychatter to her parrot, that a person may talk in his sleep. And inorder that the actor for once may have a chance to work independently, and to be free for a moment from the author's pointer, it is betterthat the monologues be not written out, but just indicated. As itmatters comparatively little what is said to the parrot or the cat, or in one's sleep--because it cannot influence the action--it ispossible that a gifted actor, carried away by the situation and themood of the occasion, may improvise such matters better than theycould be written by the author, who cannot figure out in advancehow much may be said, and how long the talk may last, withoutwaking the public out of their illusions. It is well known that, on certain stages, the Italian theatre hasreturned to improvisation and thereby produced creative actors—who, however, must follow the author's suggestions--and this may becounted a step forward, or even the beginning of a new art formthat might well be called _productive_. Where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem unreal, I haveused the pantomime, and there I have left still greater scope forthe actor's imagination--and for his desire to gain independenthonours. But in order that the public may not be tried beyondendurance, I have permitted the music--which is amply warranted bythe Midsummer Eve's dance--to exercise its illusory power while thedumb show lasts. And I ask the musical director to make carefulselection of the music used for this purpose, so that incompatiblemoods are not induced by reminiscences from the last musical comedyor topical song, or by folk-tunes of too markedly ethnographicaldistinction. The mere introduction of a scene with a lot of "people" could nothave taken the place of the dance, for such scenes are poorly actedand tempt a number of grinning idiots into displaying their ownsmartness, whereby the illusion is disturbed. As the common peopledo not improvise their gibes, but use ready-made phrases in whichstick some double meaning, I have not composed their lampooningsong, but have appropriated a little known folk-dance which Ipersonally noted down in a district near Stockholm. The words don'tquite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it, and this isintentional, for the cunning (i. E. , weakness) of the slave keepshim from any direct attack. There must, then, be no chatteringclowns in a serious action, and no coarse flouting at a situationthat puts the lid on the coffin of a whole family. As far as the scenery is concerned, I have borrowed fromimpressionistic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abruptness, and have thereby in my opinion strengthened the illusion. Becausethe whole room and all its contents are not shown, there is achance to guess at things--that is, our imagination is stirred intocomplementing our vision. I have made a further gain in getting ridof those tiresome exits by means of doors, especially as stagedoors are made of canvas and swing back and forth at the lightesttouch. They are not even capable of expressing the anger of anirate _pater familias_ who, on leaving his home after a poordinner, slams the door behind him "so that it shakes the wholehouse. " (On the stage the house sways. ) I have also contentedmyself with a single setting, and for the double purpose of makingthe figures become parts of their surroundings, and of breakingwith the tendency toward luxurious scenery. But having only asingle setting, one may demand to have it real. Yet nothing is moredifficult than to get a room that looks something like a room, although the painter can easily enough produce waterfalls andflaming volcanoes. Let it go at canvas for the walls, but we mightbe done with the painting of shelves and kitchen utensils on thecanvas. We have so much else on the stage that is conventional, andin which we are asked to believe, that we might at least be sparedthe too great effort of believing in painted pans and kettles. I have placed the rear wall and the table diagonally across thestage in order to make the actors show full face and half profileto the audience when they sit opposite each other at the table. Inthe opera "Aïda" I noticed an oblique background, which led the eyeout into unseen prospects. And it did not appear to be the resultof any reaction against the fatiguing right angle. Another novelty well needed would be the abolition of the foot-lights. The light from below is said to have for its purpose to make thefaces of the actors look fatter. But I cannot help asking: why mustall actors be fat in the face? Does not this light from below tendto wipe out the subtler lineaments in the lower part of the face, and especially around the jaws? Does it not give a false appearanceto the nose and cast shadows upward over the eyes? If this be notso, another thing is certain: namely, that the eyes of the actorssuffer from the light, so that the effective play of their glancesis precluded. Coming from below, the light strikes the retina inplaces generally protected (except in sailors, who have to see thesun reflected in the water), and for this reason one observeshardly anything but a vulgar rolling of the eyes, either sidewaysor upwards, toward the galleries, so that nothing but the white ofthe eye shows. Perhaps the same cause may account for the tediousblinking of which especially the actresses are guilty. And whenanybody on the stage wants to use his eyes to speak with, no otherway is left him but the poor one of staring straight at the public, with whom he or she then gets into direct communication outside ofthe frame provided by the setting. This vicious habit has, rightlyor wrongly, been named "to meet friends. " Would it not be possibleby means of strong side-lights (obtained by the employment ofreflectors, for instance) to add to the resources already possessedby the actor? Could not his mimicry be still further strengthenedby use of the greatest asset possessed by the face: the play of theeyes? Of course, I have no illusions about getting the actors to play_for_ the public and not _at_ it, although such a change would behighly desirable. I dare not even dream of beholding the actor'sback throughout an important scene, but I wish with all my heartthat crucial scenes might not be played in the centre of theproscenium, like duets meant to bring forth applause. Instead, Ishould like to have them laid in the place indicated by thesituation. Thus I ask for no revolutions, but only for a few minormodifications. To make a real room of the stage, with the fourthwall missing, and a part of the furniture placed back toward theaudience, would probably produce a disturbing effect at present. In wishing to speak of the facial make-up, I have no hope that theladies will listen to me, as they would rather look beautiful thanlifelike. But the actor might consider whether it be to hisadvantage to paint his face so that it shows some abstract typewhich covers it like a mask. Suppose that a man puts a markedlycholeric line between the eyes, and imagine further that someremark demands a smile of this face fixed in a state of continuouswrath. What a horrible grimace will be the result? And how can thewrathful old man produce a frown on his false forehead, which issmooth as a billiard ball? In modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest movements of thesoul are to be reflected on the face rather than by gestures andnoise, it would probably be well to experiment with strong side-lighton a small stage, and with unpainted faces, or at least with aminimum of make-up. If, in additon, we might escape the visible orchestra, with itsdisturbing lamps and its faces turned toward the public; if wecould have the seats on the main floor (the orchestra or the pit)raised so that the eyes of the spectators would be above the kneesof the actors; if we could get rid of the boxes with theirtittering parties of diners; if we could also have the auditoriumcompletely darkened during the performance; and if, first and last, we could have a small stage and a small house: then a new dramaticart might rise, and the theatre might at least become aninstitution for the entertainment of people with culture. Whilewaiting for this kind of theatre, I suppose we shall have to writefor the "ice-box, " and thus prepare the repertory that is to come. I have made an attempt. If it prove a failure, there is plenty oftime to try over again. MISS JULIAA NATURALISTIC TRAGEDY1888 PERSONS MISS JULIA, aged twenty-fiveJEAN, a valet, aged thirtyCHRISTINE, a cook, aged thirty-five The action takes place on Midsummer Eve, in the kitchen of thecount's country house. MISS JULIA SCENE (A large kitchen: the ceiling and the side walls are hidden bydraperies and hangings. The rear wall runs diagonally across thestage, from the left side and away from the spectators. On thiswall, to the left, there are two shelves full of utensils made ofcopper, iron, and tin. The shelves are trimmed with scallopedpaper. ) (A little to the right may be seen three fourths of the big archeddoorway leading to the outside. It has double glass doors, throughwhich are seen a fountain with a cupid, lilac shrubs in bloom, andthe tops of some Lombardy poplars. ) (On the left side of the stage is seen the corner of a big cookstove built of glazed bricks; also a part of the smoke-hood aboveit. ) (From the right protrudes one end of the servants' dining-tableof white pine, with a few chairs about it. ) (The stove is dressed with bundled branches of birch. Twigs ofjuniper are scattered on the floor. ) (On the table end stands a big Japanese spice pot full of lilacblossoms. ) (An icebox, a kitchen-table, and a wash-stand. ) (Above the door hangs a big old-fashioned bell on a steel spring, and the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube appears at the left of thedoor. ) (CHRISTINE is standing by the stove, frying something in a pan. Shehas on a dress of light-coloured cotton, which she has covered upwith a big kitchen apron. ) (JEAN enters, dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurredriding boots, which he places on the floor in such manner that theyremain visible to the spectators. ) JEAN. To-night Miss Julia is crazy again; absolutely crazy. CHRISTINE. So you're back again? JEAN. I took the count to the station, and when I came back by thebarn, I went in and had a dance, and there I saw the young ladyleading the dance with the gamekeeper. But when she caught sight ofme, she rushed right up to me and asked me to dance the ladies'waltz with her. And ever since she's been waltzing like--well, Inever saw the like of it. She's crazy! CHRISTINE. And has always been, but never the way it's been thislast fortnight, since her engagement was broken. JEAN. Well, what kind of a story was that anyhow? He's a finefellow, isn't he, although he isn't rich? Ugh, but they're so fullof notions. [Sits down at the end of the table] It's peculiaranyhow, that a young lady--hm!--would rather stay at home with theservants--don't you think?--than go with her father to theirrelatives! CHRISTINE. Oh, I guess she feels sort of embarrassed by that rumpuswith her fellow. JEAN. Quite likely. But there was some backbone to that man justthe same. Do you know how it happened, Christine? I saw it, although I didn't care to let on. CHRISTINE. No, did you? JEAN. Sure, I did. They were in the stable-yard one evening, andthe young lady was training him, as she called it. Do you know whatthat meant? She made him leap over her horse-whip the way you teacha dog to jump. Twice he jumped and got a cut each time. The thirdtime he took the whip out of her hand and broke it into a thousandbits. And then he got out. CHRISTINE. So that's the way it happened! You don't say! JEAN. Yes, that's how that thing happened. Well, Christine, whathave you got that's tasty? CHRISTINE. [Serves from the pan and puts the plate before Jean] Oh, just some kidney which I cut out of the veal roast. JEAN. [Smelling the food] Fine! That's my great _délice_. [Feelingthe plate] But you might have warmed the plate. CHRISTINE. Well, if you ain't harder to please than the counthimself! [Pulls his hair playfully. ] JEAN. [Irritated] Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am. CHRISTINE. Well, well, it was nothing but a love pull, you know. [JEAN eats. ] [CHRISTINE opens a bottle of beer. ] JEAN. Beer-on Midsummer Eve? No, thank you! Then I have somethingbetter myself. [Opens a table-drawer and takes out a bottle ofclaret with yellow cap] Yellow seal, mind you! Give me a glass—-andyou use those with stems when you drink it _pure_. CHRISTINE. [Returns to the stove and puts a small pan on the fire]Heaven preserve her that gets you for a husband, Mr. Finicky! JEAN. Oh, rot! You'd be glad enough to get a smart fellow like me. And I guess it hasn't hurt you that they call me your beau. [Tasting the wine] Good! Pretty good! Just a tiny bit too cold. [Hewarms the glass with his hand. ] We got this at Dijon. It cost usfour francs per litre, not counting the bottle. And there was theduty besides. What is it you're cooking--with that infernal smell? CHRISTINE. Oh, it's some deviltry the young lady is going to giveDiana. JEAN. You should choose your words with more care, Christine. Butwhy should you be cooking for a bitch on a holiday eve like this?Is she sick? CHRISTINE. Ye-es, she is sick. She's been running around with thegate-keeper's pug--and now's there's trouble--and the young ladyjust won't hear of it. JEAN. The young lady is too stuck up in some ways and not proudenough in others--just as was the countess while she lived. She wasmost at home in the kitchen and among the cows, but she would neverdrive with only one horse. She wore her cuffs till they were dirty, but she had to have cuff buttons with a coronet on them. Andspeaking of the young lady, she doesn't take proper care of herselfand her person. I might even say that she's lacking in refinement. Just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she pulled thegamekeeper away from Anna and asked him herself to come and dancewith her. We wouldn't act in that way. But that's just how it is:when upper-class people want to demean themselves, then they grow—-mean! But she's splendid! Magnificent! Oh, such shoulders! And--andso on! CHRISTINE. Oh, well, don't brag too much! I've heard Clara talking, who tends to her dressing. JEAN. Pooh, Clara! You're always jealous of each other. I, who havebeen out riding with her--And then the way she dances! CHRISTINE. Say, Jean, won't you dance with me when I'm done? JEAN. Of course I will. CHRISTINE. Do you promise? JEAN. Promise? When I say so, I'll do it. Well, here's thanks forthe good food. It tasted fine! [Puts the cork back into the bottle. ] JULIA. [Appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on theoutside] I'll be back in a minute. You go right on in the meantime. [JEAN slips the bottle into the table-drawer and risesrespectfully. ] JULIA. [Enters and goes over to CHRISTINE by the wash-stand] Well, is it done yet? [CHRISTINE signs to her that JEAN is present. ] JEAN. [Gallantly] The ladies are having secrets, I believe. JULIA. [Strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] That's foryou, Mr. Pry! JEAN. Oh, what a delicious odor that violet has! JULIA. [With coquetry] Impudent! So you know something aboutperfumes also? And know pretty well how to dance--Now don't peep!Go away! JEAN. [With polite impudence] Is it some kind of witches' broth theladies are cooking on Midsummer Eve--something to tell fortunes byand bring out the lucky star in which one's future love is seen? JULIA. [Sharply] If you can see that, you'll have good eyes, indeed! [To CHRISTINE] Put it in a pint bottle and cork it well. Come and dance a _schottische_ with me now, Jean. JEAN. [Hesitatingly] I don't want to be impolite, but I hadpromised to dance with Christine this time—- JULIA. Well, she can get somebody else--can't you, Christine? Won'tyou let me borrow Jean from you? CHRISTINE. That isn't for me to say. When Miss Julia is sogracious, it isn't for him to say no. You just go along, and bethankful for the honour, too! JEAN. Frankly speaking, but not wishing to offend in any way, Icannot help wondering if it's wise for Miss Julia to dance twice insuccession with the same partner, especially as the people here arenot slow in throwing out hints-- JULIA. [Flaring up] What is that? What kind of hints? What do youmean? JEAN. [Submissively] As you don't want to understand, I have tospeak more plainly. It don't look well to prefer one servant to allthe rest who are expecting to be honoured in the same unusual way-- JULIA. Prefer! What ideas! I'm surprised! I, the mistress of thehouse, deign to honour this dance with my presence, and when it sohappens that I actually want to dance, I want to dance with one whoknows how to lead, so that I am not made ridiculous. JEAN. As you command, Miss Julia! I am at your service! JULIA. [Softened] Don't take it as a command. To-night we shouldenjoy ourselves as a lot of happy people, and all rank should beforgotten. Now give me your arm. Don't be afraid, Christine! I'llreturn your beau to you! [JEAN offers his arm to MISS JULIA and leads her out. ] *** PANTOMIME Must be acted as if the actress were really alone in the place. When necessary she turns her back to the public. She should notlook in the direction of the spectators, and she should not hurryas if fearful that they might become impatient. CHRISTINE is alone. A _schottische_ tune played on a violin isheard faintly in the distance. While humming the tune, CHRISTINE clears o$ the table after JEAN, washes the plate at the kitchen table, wipes it, and puts it awayin a cupboard. Then she takes of her apron, pulls out a small mirror from one ofthe table-drawers and leans it against the flower jar on the table;lights a tallow candle and heats a hairpin, which she uses to curlher front hair. Then she goes to the door and stands there listening. Returns tothe table. Discovers the handkerchief which MISS JULIA has leftbehind, picks it up, and smells it, spreads it out absent-mindedlyand begins to stretch it, smooth it, fold it up, and so forth. *** JEAN. [Enters alone] Crazy, that's what she is! The way she dances!And the people stand behind the doors and grill at her. What do youthink of it, Christine? CHRISTINE. Oh, she has her time now, and then she is always alittle queer like that. But are you going to dance with me now? JEAN. You are not mad at me because I disappointed you? CHRISTINE. No!--Not for a little thing like that, you know! Andalso, I know my place-- JEAN. [Putting his arm around her waist] You are a, sensible girl, Christine, and I think you'll make a good wife-- JULIA. [Enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with forcedgayety] Yes, you are a fine partner--running away from your lady! JEAN. On the contrary, Miss Julia. I have, as you see, looked upthe one I deserted. JULIA. [Changing tone] Do you know, there is nobody that danceslike you!--But why do you wear your livery on an evening like this?Take it off at once! JEAN. Then I must ask you to step outside for a moment, as my blackcoat is hanging right here. [Points toward the right and goes inthat direction. ] JULIA. Are you bashful on my account? Just to change a coat? Whydon't you go into your own room and come back again? Or, you canstay right here, and I'll turn my back on you. JEAN. With your permission, Miss Julia. [Goes further over to theright; one of his arms can be seen as he changes his coat. ] JULIA [To CHRISTINE] Are you and Jean engaged, that he's sofamiliar with you? CHRISTINE. Engaged? Well, in a way. We call it that. JULIA. Call it? CHRISTINE. Well, Miss Julia, you have had a fellow of your own, and-- JULIA. We were really engaged-- CHRISTINE. But it didn't come to anything just the same-- [JEAN enters, dressed in black frock coat and black derby. ] JULIA. _Très gentil, Monsieur Jean! Très gentil!_ JEAN. _Vous voulez plaisanter, Madame!_ JULIA. _Et vous voulez parler français!_ Where did you learn it? JEAN. In Switzerland, while I worked as _sommelier_ in one of thebig hotels at Lucerne. JULIA. But you look like a real gentleman in your frock coat!Charming! [Sits down at the table. ] JEAN. Oh, you flatter me. JULIA. [Offended] Flatter--you! JEAN. My natural modesty does not allow me to believe that youcould be paying genuine compliments to one like me, and so I dareto assume that you are exaggerating, or, as we call it, flattering. JULIA. Where did you learn to use your words like that? You musthave been to the theatre a great deal? JEAN. That, too. I have been to a lot of places. JULIA. But you were born in this neighbourhood? JEAN. My father was a cotter on the county attorney's propertyright by here, and I can recall seeing you as a child, althoughyou, of course, didn't notice me. JULIA. No, really! JEAN. Yes, and I remember one time in particular--but of that Ican't speak. JULIA. Oh, yes, do! Why--just for once. JEAN. No, really, I cannot do it now. Another time, perhaps. JULIA. Another time is no time. Is it as bad as that? JEAN. It isn't bad, but it comes a little hard. Look at that one![Points to CHRISTINE, who has fallen asleep on a chair by the stove. ] JULIA. She'll make a pleasant wife. And perhaps she snores, too. JEAN. No, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep. JULIA. [Cynically] How do you know? JEAN. [Insolently] I have heard it. [Pause during which they study each other. ] JULIA. Why don't you sit down? JEAN. It wouldn't be proper in your presence. JULIA. But if I order you to do it? JEAN. Then I obey. JULIA. Sit down, then!--But wait a moment! Can you give mesomething to drink first? JEAN. I don't know what we have got in the icebox. I fear it isnothing but beer. JULIA. And you call that nothing? My taste is so simple that Iprefer it to wine. JEAN. [Takes a bottle of beer from the icebox and opens it; gets aglass and a plate from the cupboard, and serves the beer] Allow me! JULIA. Thank you. Don't you want some yourself? JEAN. I don't care very much for beer, but if it is a command, ofcourse-- JULIA. Command?--I should think a polite gentleman might keep hislady company. JEAN. Yes, that's the way it should be. [Opens another bottle andtakes out a glass. ] JULIA. Drink my health now! [JEAN hesitates. ] JULIA. Are you bashful--a big, grown-up man? JEAN. [Kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] To thehealth of my liege lady! JULIA. Bravo!--And now you must also kiss my shoe in order to getit just right. [JEAN hesitates a moment; then he takes hold of her foot andtouches it lightly with his lips. ] JULIA. Excellent! You should have been on the stage. JEAN. [Rising to his feet] This won't do any longer, Miss Julia. Somebody might see us. JULIA. What would that matter? JEAN. Oh, it would set the people talking--that's all! And if youonly knew how their tongues were wagging up there a while ago—- JULIA. What did they have to say? Tell me--Sit down now! JEAN. [Sits down] I don't want to hurt you, but they were usingexpressions--which cast reflections of a kind that--oh, you know ityourself! You are not a child, and when a lady is seen alone with aman, drinking--no matter if he's only a servant--and at night-—then-- JULIA. Then what? And besides, we are not alone. Isn't Christinewith us? JEAN. Yes--asleep! JULIA. Then I'll wake her. [Rising] Christine, are you asleep? CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] Blub-blub-blub-blub! JULIA. Christine!--Did you ever see such a sleeper. CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] The count's boots are polished--put onthe coffee--yes, yes, yes--my-my--pooh! JULIA. [Pinches her nose] Can't you wake up? JEAN. [Sternly] You shouldn't bother those that sleep. JULIA. [Sharply] What's that? JEAN. One who has stood by the stove all day has a right to betired at night. And sleep should be respected. JULIA. [Changing tone] It is fine to think like that, and it doesyou honour--I thank you for it. [Gives JEAN her hand] Come now andpick some lilacs for me. [During the following scene CHRISTINE wakes up. She moves as ifstill asleep and goes out to the right in order to go to bed. ] JEAN. With you, Miss Julia? JULIA. With me! JEAN. But it won't do! Absolutely not! JULIA. I can't understand what you are thinking of. You couldn'tpossibly imagine-- JEAN. No, not I, but the people. JULIA. What? That I am fond of the valet? JEAN. I am not at all conceited, but such things have happened--andto the people nothing is sacred. JULIA. You are an aristocrat, I think. JEAN. Yes, I am. JULIA. And I am stepping down-- JEAN. Take my advice, Miss Julia, don't step down. Nobody willbelieve you did it on purpose. The people will always say that youfell down. JULIA. I think better of the people than you do. Come and see if Iam not right. Come along! [She ogles him. ] JEAN. You're mighty queer, do you know! JULIA. Perhaps. But so are you. And for that matter, everything isqueer. Life, men, everything--just a mush that floats on top of thewater until it sinks, sinks down! I have a dream that comes back tome ever so often. And just now I am reminded of it. I have climbedto the top of a column and sit there without being able to tell howto get down again. I get dizzy when I look down, and I must getdown, but I haven't the courage to jump off. I cannot hold on, andI am longing to fall, and yet I don't fall. But there will be norest for me until I get down, no rest until I get down, down on theground. And if I did reach the ground, I should want to get stillfurther down, into the ground itself--Have you ever felt like that? JEAN. No, my dream is that I am lying under a tall tree in a darkwood. I want to get up, up to the top, so that I can look out overthe smiling landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that I canrob the nest in which lie the golden eggs. And I climb and climb, but the trunk is so thick and smooth, and it is so far to the firstbranch. But I know that if I could only reach that first branch, then I should go right on to the top as on a ladder. I have notreached it yet, but I am going to, if it only be in my dreams. JULIA. Here I am chattering to you about dreams! Come along! Onlyinto the park! [She offers her arm to him, and they go toward thedoor. ] JEAN. We must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night, Miss Julia—-then our dreams will come true. [They turn around in the doorway, and JEAN puts one hand up to hiseyes. ] JULIA. Let me see what you have got in your eye. JEAN. Oh, nothing--just some dirt--it will soon be gone. JULIA. It was my sleeve that rubbed against it. Sit down and let mehelp you. [Takes him by the arm and makes him sit down; takes holdof his head and bends it backwards; tries to get out the dirt witha corner of her handkerchief] Sit still now, absolutely still![Slaps him on the hand] Well, can't you do as I say? I think youare shaking—-a big, strong fellow like you! [Feels his biceps] Andwith such arms! JEAN. [Ominously] Miss Julia! JULIA. Yes, Monsieur Jean. JEAN. _Attention! Je ne suis qu'un homme. _ JULIA. Can't you sit still!--There now! Now it's gone. Kiss my handnow, and thank me. JEAN. [Rising] Miss Julia, listen to me. Christine has gone to bednow--Won't you listen to me? JULIA. Kiss my hand first. JEAN. Listen to me! JULIA. Kiss my hand first! JEAN. All right, but blame nobody but yourself! JULIA. For what? JEAN. For what? Are you still a mere child at twenty-five? Don'tyou know that it is dangerous to play with fire? JULIA. Not for me. I am insured. JEAN. [Boldly] No, you are not. And even if you were, there areinflammable surroundings to be counted with. JULIA. That's you, I suppose? JEAN. Yes. Not because I am I, but because I am a young man-- JULIA. Of handsome appearance--what an incredible conceit! A DonJuan, perhaps. Or a Joseph? On my soul, I think you are a Joseph! JEAN. Do you? JULIA. I fear it almost. [JEAN goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist in orderto kiss her. ] JULIA. [Gives him a cuff on the ear] Shame! JEAN. Was that in play or in earnest? JULIA. In earnest. JEAN. Then you were in earnest a moment ago also. Your playing istoo serious, and that's the dangerous thing about it. Now I amtired of playing, and I ask to be excused in order to resume mywork. The count wants his boots to be ready for him, and it isafter midnight already. JULIA. Put away the boots. JEAN. No, it's my work, which I am bound to do. But I have notundertaken to be your playmate. It's something I can never become—-I hold myself too good for it. JULIA. You're proud! JEAN. In some ways, and not in others. JULIA. Have you ever been in love? JEAN. We don't use that word. But I have been fond of a lot ofgirls, and once I was taken sick because I couldn't have the one Iwanted: sick, you know, like those princes in the Arabian Nightswho cannot eat or drink for sheer love. JULIA. Who was it? [JEAN remains silent. ] JULIA. Who was it? JEAN. You cannot make me tell you. JULIA. If I ask you as an equal, ask you as--a friend: who was it? JEAN. It was you. JULIA. [Sits down] How funny! JEAN. Yes, as you say--it was ludicrous. That was the story, yousee, which I didn't want to tell you a while ago. But now I amgoing to tell it. Do you know how the world looks from below--no, you don't. No more than do hawks and falcons, of whom we never seethe back because they are always floating about high up in the sky. I lived in the cotter's hovel, together with seven other children, and a pig--out there on the grey plain, where there isn't a singletree. But from our windows I could see the wall around the count'spark, and apple-trees above it. That was the Garden of Eden, andmany fierce angels were guarding it with flaming swords. Nevertheless I and some other boys found our way to the Tree ofLife--now you despise me? JULIA. Oh, stealing apples is something all boys do. JEAN. You may say so now, but you despise me nevertheless. However—-once I got into the Garden of Eden with my mother to weed the onionbeds. Near by stood a Turkish pavillion, shaded by trees andcovered with honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for, but Ihad never seen a more beautiful building. People went in and cameout again, and one day the door was left wide open. I stole up andsaw the walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and thewindows were hung with red, fringed curtains--now you know what Imean. I--[breaks off a lilac sprig and holds it under MISS JULIA'snose]--I had never been inside the manor, and I had never seenanything but the church--and this was much finer. No matter wheremy thoughts ran, they returned always--to that place. And graduallya longing arose within me to taste the full pleasure of--_enfin_! Isneaked in, looked and admired. Then I heard somebody coming. Therewas only one way out for fine people, but for me there was another, and I could do nothing else but choose it. [JULIA, who has taken the lilac sprig, lets it drop on the table. ] JEAN. Then I started to run, plunged through a hedge of raspberrybushes, chased right across a strawberry plantation, and came outon the terrace where the roses grow. There I caught sight of a pinkdress and pair of white stockings--that was you! I crawled under apile of weeds--right into it, you know--into stinging thistles andwet, ill-smelling dirt. And I saw you walking among the roses, andI thought: if it be possible for a robber to get into heaven anddwell with the angels, then it is strange that a cotter's child, here on God's own earth, cannot get into the park and play with thecount's daughter. JULIA. [Sentimentally] Do you think all poor children have the samethoughts as you had in this case? JEAN. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] If _all_ poor—-yes—-of course. Of course! JULIA. It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor. JEAN. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggeratedemphasis] Oh, Miss Julia! Oh!--A dog may lie on her ladyship'ssofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the young lady's hand, but a servant--[changing his tone]--oh well, here and there youmeet one made of different stuff, and he makes a way for himself inthe world, but how often does it happen?--However, do you know whatI did? I jumped into the mill brook with my clothes on, and waspulled out, and got a licking. But the next Sunday, when my fatherand the rest of the people were going over to my grandmother's, Ifixed it so that I could stay at home. And then I washed myselfwith soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and went tochurch, where I could see you. I did see you, and went homedetermined to die. But I wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, without any pain. And then I recalled that it was dangerous tosleep under an elder bush. We had a big one that was in full bloom. I robbed it of all its flowers, and then I put them in the big boxwhere the oats were kept and lay down in them. Did you ever noticethe smoothness of oats? Soft to the touch as the skin of the humanbody! However, I pulled down the lid and closed my eyes--fellasleep and was waked up a very sick boy. But I didn't die, as youcan see. What I wanted--that's more than I can tell. Of course, there was not the least hope of winning you—-but you symbolised thehopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which I wasborn. JULIA. You narrate splendidly, do you know! Did you ever go toschool? JEAN. A little. But I have read a lot of novels and gone to thetheatre a good deal. And besides, I have listened to the talk ofbetter-class people, and from that I have learned most of all. JULIA. Do you stand around and listen to what we are saying? JEAN. Of course! And I have heard a lot, too, when I was on the boxof the carriage, or rowing the boat. Once I heard you, Miss Julia, and one of your girl friends-- JULIA. Oh!--What was it you heard then? JEAN. Well, it wouldn't be easy to repeat. But I was rathersurprised, and I couldn't understand where you had learned allthose words. Perhaps, at bottom, there isn't quite so muchdifference as they think between one kind of people and another. JULIA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! We don't live as you dowhen we are engaged. JEAN. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain?--Well, Miss Julia, itwon't pay to make yourself out so very innocent to me—- JULIA. The man on whom I bestowed my love was a scoundrel. JEAN. That's what you always say--afterwards. JULIA. Always? JEAN. Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words usedseveral times before, on similar occasions. JULIA. What occasions? JEAN. Like the one of which we were speaking. The last time-- JULIA. [Rising] Stop! I don't want to hear any more! JEAN. Nor did _she_--curiously enough! Well, then I ask permissionto go to bed. JULIA. [Gently] Go to bed on Midsummer Eve? JEAN. Yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really noattraction for me. JULIA. Get the key to the boat and take me out on the lake--I wantto watch the sunrise. JEAN. Would that be wise? JULIA. It sounds as if you were afraid of your reputation. JEAN. Why not? I don't care to be made ridiculous, and I don't careto be discharged without a recommendation, for I am trying to geton in the world. And then I feel myself under a certain obligationto Christine. JULIA. So it's Christine now JEAN. Yes, but it's you also--Take my advice and go to bed! JULIA. Am I to obey you? JEAN. For once--and for your own sake! The night is far gone. Sleepiness makes us drunk, and the head grows hot. Go to bed! Andbesides--if I am not mistaken—-I can hear the crowd coming this wayto look for me. And if we are found together here, you are lost! CHORUS. [Is heard approaching]: Through the fields come two ladies a-walking, Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. And one has her shoes full of water, Treederee-derallah-lah. They're talking of hundreds of dollars, Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. But have not between them a dollar Treederee-derallah-lah. This wreath I give you gladly, Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. But love another madly, Treederee-derallah-lah. JULIA. I know the people, and I love them, just as they love me. Let them come, and you'll see. JEAN. No, Miss Julia, they don't love you. They take your food andspit at your back. Believe me. Listen to me--can't you hear whatthey are singing?--No, don't pay any attention to it! JULIA. [Listening] What is it they are singing? JEAN. Oh, something scurrilous. About you and me. JULIA. How infamous! They ought to be ashamed! And the treachery ofit! JEAN. The mob is always cowardly. And in such a fight as this thereis nothing to do but to run away. JULIA. Run away? Where to? We cannot get out. And we cannot go intoChristine's room. JEAN. Oh, we cannot? Well, into my room, then! Necessity knows nolaw. And you can trust me, for I am your true and frank andrespectful friend. JULIA. But think only-think if they should look for you in there! JEAN. I shall bolt the door. And if they try to break it I open, I'll shoot!--Come! [Kneeling before her] Come! JULIA. [Meaningly] And you promise me--? JEAN. I swear! [MISS JULIA goes quickly out to the right. JEAN follows hereagerly. ] *** BALLET The peasants enter. They are decked out in their best and carryflowers in their hats. A fiddler leads them. On the table theyplace a barrel of small-beer and a keg of "brännvin, " or whiteSwedish whiskey, both of them decorated with wreathes woven out ofleaves. First they drink. Then they form in ring and sing and danceto the melody heard before: "Through the fields come two ladies a-walking. " The dance finished, they leave singing. *** JULIA. [Enters alone. On seeing the disorder in the kitchen, sheclaps her hands together. Then she takes out a powder-puff andbegins to powder her face. ] JEAN. [Enters in a state of exaltation] There you see! And youheard, didn't you? Do you think it possible to stay here? JULIA. No, I don't think so. But what are we to do? JEAN. Run away, travel, far away from here. JULIA. Travel? Yes-but where? JEAN. To Switzerland, the Italian lakes--you have never been there? JULIA. No. Is the country beautiful? JEAN. Oh! Eternal summer! Orange trees! Laurels! Oh! JULIA. But then-what are we to do down there? JEAN. I'll start a hotel, everything first class, including thecustomers? JULIA. Hotel? JEAN. That's the life, I tell you! Constantly new faces and newlanguages. Never a minute free for nerves or brooding. No troubleabout what to do--for the work is calling to be done: night andday, bells that ring, trains that whistle, 'busses that come andgo; and gold pieces raining on the counter all the time. That's thelife for you! JULIA. Yes, that is life. And I? JEAN. The mistress of everything, the chief ornament of the house. With your looks--and your manners--oh, success will be assured!Enormous! You'll sit like a queen in the office and keep the slavesgoing by the touch of an electric button. The guests will pass inreview before your throne and timidly deposit their treasures onyour table. You cannot imagine how people tremble when a bill ispresented to them--I'll salt the items, and you'll sugar them withyour sweetest smiles. Oh, let us get away from here--[pulling atime-table from his pocket]--at once, with the next train! We'll bein Malmö at 6. 30; in Hamburg at 8. 40 to-morrow morning; in Frankfortand Basel a day later. And to reach Como by way of the St. Gotthardit will take us--let me see--three days. Three days! JULIA. All that is all right. But you must give me some courage—Jean. Tell me that you love me. Come and take me in your arms. JEAN. [Reluctantly] I should like to--but I don't dare. Not in thishouse again. I love you--beyond doubt--or, can you doubt it, MissJulia? JULIA. [With modesty and true womanly feeling] Miss? Call me Julia. Between us there can be no barriers here after. Call me Julia! JEAN. [Disturbed] I cannot! There will be barriers between us aslong as we stay in this house--there is the past, and there is thecount-—and I have never met another person for whom I felt suchrespect. If I only catch sight of his gloves on a chair I feelsmall. If I only hear that bell up there, I jump like a shy horse. And even now, when I see his boots standing there so stiff andperky, it is as if something made my back bend. [Kicking at theboots] It's nothing but superstition and tradition hammered into usfrom childhood--but it can be as easily forgotten again. Let usonly get to another country, where they have a republic, and you'llsee them bend their backs double before my liveried porter. Yousee, backs have to be bent, but not mine. I wasn't born to thatkind of thing. There's better stuff in me--character--and if I onlyget hold of the first branch, you'll see me do some climbing. To-day I am a valet, but next year I'll be a hotel owner. In tenyears I can live on the money I have made, and then I'll go toRoumania and get myself an order. And I may--note well that I say_may_--end my days as a count. JULIA. Splendid, splendid! JEAN. Yes, in Roumania the title of count can be had for cash, andso you'll be a countess after all. My countess! JULIA. What do I care about all I now cast behind me! Tell me thatyou love me: otherwise--yes, what am I otherwise? JEAN. I will tell you so a thousand times--later. But not here. Andabove all, no sentimentality, or everything will be lost. We mustlook at the matter in cold blood, like sensible people. [Takes outa cigar, cuts of the point, and lights it] Sit down there now, andI'll sit here, and then we'll talk as if nothing had happened. JULIA. [In despair] Good Lord! Have you then no feelings at all? JEAN. I? No one is more full of feeling than I am. But I know howto control myself. JULIA. A while ago you kissed my shoe--and now! JEAN. [Severely] Yes, that was then. Now we have other things tothink of. JULIA. Don't speak harshly to me! JEAN. No, but sensibly. One folly has been committed--don't let uscommit any more! The count may be here at any moment, and before hecomes our fate must be settled. What do you think of my plans forthe future? Do you approve of them? JULIA. They seem acceptable, on the whole. But there is onequestion: a big undertaking of that kind will require a big capitalhave you got it? JEAN. [Chewing his cigar] I? Of course! I have my expert knowledge, my vast experience, my familiarity with several languages. That'sthe very best kind of capital, I should say. JULIA. But it won't buy you a railroad ticket even. JEAN. That's true enough. And that is just why I am looking for abacker to advance the needful cash. JULIA. Where could you get one all of a sudden? JEAN. It's for you to find him if you want to become my partner. JULIA. I cannot do it, and I have nothing myself. [Pause. ] JEAN. Well, then that's off-- JULIA. And—- JEAN. Everything remains as before. JULIA. Do you think I am going to stay under this roof as yourconcubine? Do you think I'll let the people point their fingers atme? Do you think I can look my father in the face after this? No, take me away from here, from all this humiliation and disgrace!—Oh, what have I done? My God, my God! [Breaks into tears. ] JEAN. So we have got around to that tune now!--What you have done?Nothing but what many others have done before you. JULIA. [Crying hysterically] And now you're despising me!--I'mfalling, I'm falling! JEAN. Fall down to me, and I'll lift you up again afterwards. JULIA. What horrible power drew me to you? Was it the attractionwhich the strong exercises on the weak--the one who is rising onone who is falling? Or was it love? This love! Do you know whatlove is? JEAN. I? Well, I should say so! Don't you think I have been therebefore? JULIA. Oh, the language you use, and the thoughts you think! JEAN. Well, that's the way I was brought up, and that's the way Iam. Don't get nerves now and play the exquisite, for now one of usis just as good as the other. Look here, my girl, let me treat youto a glass of something superfine. [He opens the table-drawer, takes out the wine bottle and fills up two glasses that havealready been used. ] JULIA. Where did you get that wine? JEAN. In the cellar. JULIA. My father's Burgundy! JEAN. Well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law? JULIA. And I am drinking beer--I! JEAN. It shows merely that I have better taste than you. JULIA. Thief! JEAN. Do you mean to tell on me? JULIA. Oh, oh! The accomplice of a house thief! Have I been drunk, or have I been dreaming all this night? Midsummer Eve! The feast ofinnocent games—- JEAN. Innocent--hm! JULIA. [Walking back and forth] Can there be another human being onearth so unhappy as I am at this moment' JEAN. But why should you be? After such a conquest? Think ofChristine in there. Don't you think she has feelings also? JULIA. I thought so a while ago, but I don't think so any longer. No, a menial is a menial-- JEAN. And a whore a whore! JULIA. [On her knees, with folded hands] O God in heaven, make anend of this wretched life! Take me out of the filth into which I amsinking! Save me! Save me! JEAN. I cannot deny that I feel sorry for you. When I was lyingamong the onions and saw you up there among the roses--I'll tellyou now--I had the same nasty thoughts that all boys have. JULIA. And you who wanted to die for my sake! JEAN. Among the oats. That was nothing but talk. JULIA. Lies in other words! JEAN. [Beginning to feel sleepy] Just about. I think I read thestory in a paper, and it was about a chimney-sweep who crawled intoa wood-box full of lilacs because a girl had brought suit againsthim for not supporting her kid—- JULIA. So that's the sort you are-- JEAN. Well, I had to think of something--for it's the high-falutingstuff that the women bite on. JULIA. Scoundrel! JEAN. Rot! JULIA. And now you have seen the back of the hawk-- JEAN. Well, I don't know-- JULIA. And I was to be the first branch-- JEAN. But the branch was rotten-- JULIA. I was to be the sign in front of the hotel-- JEAN. And I the hotel-- JULIA. Sit at your counter, and lure your customers, and doctoryour bills-- JEAN. No, that I should have done myself-- JULIA. That a human soul can be so steeped in dirt! JEAN. Well, wash it off! JULIA. You lackey, you menial, stand up when I talk to you! JEAN. You lackey-love, you mistress of a menial--shut up and getout of here! You're the right one to come and tell me that I amvulgar. People of my kind would never in their lives act asvulgarly as you have acted to-night. Do you think any servant girlwould go for a man as you did? Did you ever see a girl of my classthrow herself at anybody in that way? I have never seen the like ofit except among beasts and prostitutes. JULIA. [Crushed] That's right: strike me, step on me--I haven'tdeserved any better! I am a wretched creature. But help me! Helpme out of this, if there be any way to do so! JEAN. [In a milder tone] I don't want to lower myself by a denialof my share in the honour of seducing. But do you think a person inmy place would have dared to raise his eyes to you, if theinvitation to do so had not come from yourself? I am still sittinghere in a state of utter surprise-- JULIA. And pride-- JEAN. Yes, why not? Although I must confess that the victory wastoo easy to bring with it any real intoxication. JULIA. Strike me some more! JEAN. [Rising] No! Forgive me instead what I have been saying. Idon't want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. On one hand I cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discoverthat what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that thehawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on thetender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polishednails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smellsof perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to have discoveredthat what I was striving to reach is neither better nor moregenuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are farbeneath your own cook--it hurts me as it hurts to see the Fallflowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud. JULIA. You speak as if you were already above me? JEAN. Well, so I am. Don't you see: I could have made a countess ofyou, but you could never make me a count. JULIA. But I am born of a count, and that's more than you can everachieve. JEAN. That's true. But I might be the father of counts—if-- JULIA. But you are a thief--and I am not. JEAN. Thief is not the worst. There are other kinds still fartherdown. And then, when I serve in a house, I regard myself in a senseas a member of the family, as a child of the house, and you don'tcall it theft when children pick a few of the berries that loaddown the vines. [His passion is aroused once more] Miss Julia, youare a magnificent woman, and far too good for one like me. You wereswept along by a spell of intoxication, and now you want to coverup your mistake by making yourself believe that you are in lovewith me. Well, you are not, unless possibly my looks might temptyou-—in which case your love is no better than mine. I could neverrest satisfied with having you care for nothing in me but the mereanimal, and your love I can never win. JULIA. Are you so sure of that? JEAN. You mean to say that it might be possible? That I might loveyou: yes, without doubt--for you are beautiful, refined, [goes upto her and takes hold of her hand] educated, charming when you wantto be so, and it is not likely that the flame will ever burn out ina man who has once been set of fire by you. [Puts his arm aroundher waist] You are like burnt wine with strong spices in it, andone of your kisses-- [He tries to lead her away, but she frees herself gently from hishold. ] JULIA. Leave me alone! In that way you cannot win me. JEAN. How then?--Not in that way! Not by caresses and sweet words!Not by thought for the future, by escape from disgrace! How then? JULIA. How? How? I don't know--Not at all! I hate you as I haterats, but I cannot escape from you! JEAN. Escape with me! JULIA. [Straightening up] Escape? Yes, we must escape!--But I am sotired. Give me a glass of wine. [JEAN pours out wine. ] JULIA. [Looks at her watch] But we must have a talk first. We havestill some time left. [Empties her glass and holds it out for more. ] JEAN. Don't drink so much. It will go to your head. JULIA. What difference would that make? JEAN. What difference would it make? It's vulgar to get drunk--Whatwas it you wanted to tell me? JULIA. We must get away. But first we must have a talk--that is, Imust talk, for so far you have done all the talking. You have toldme about your life. Now I must tell you about mine, so that we knoweach other right to the bottom before we begin the journey together. JEAN. One moment, pardon me! Think first, so that you don't regretit afterwards, when you have already given up the secrets of yourlife. JULIA. Are you not my friend? JEAN. Yes, at times--but don't rely on me. JULIA. You only talk like that--and besides, my secrets are knownto everybody. You see, my mother was not of noble birth, but cameof quite plain people. She was brought up in the ideas of her timeabout equality, and woman's independence, and that kind of thing. And she had a decided aversion to marriage. Therefore, when myfather proposed to her, she said she wouldn't marry him--and thenshe did it just the same. I came into the world--against mymother's wish, I have come to think. Then my mother wanted to bringme up in a perfectly natural state, and at the same time I was tolearn everything that a boy is taught, so that I might prove that awoman is just as good as a man. I was dressed as a boy, and wastaught how to handle a horse, but could have nothing to do with thecows. I had to groom and harness and go hunting on horseback. I waseven forced to learn something about agriculture. And all over theestate men were set to do women's work, and women to do men's--withthe result that everything went to pieces and we became thelaughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. At last my father musthave recovered from the spell cast over him, for he rebelled, andeverything was changed to suit his own ideas. My mother was takensick--what kind of sickness it was I don't know, but she fell ofteninto convulsions, and she used to hide herself in the garret or inthe garden, and sometimes she stayed out all night. Then came thebig fire, of which you have heard. The house, the stable, and thebarn were burned down, and this under circumstances which made itlook as if the fire had been set on purpose. For the disasteroccurred the day after our insurance expired, and the money sentfor renewal of the policy had been delayed by the messenger'scarelessness, so that it came too late. [She fills her glass againand drinks. ] JEAN. Don't drink any more. JULIA. Oh, what does it matter!--We were without a roof over ourheads and had to sleep in the carriages. My father didn't knowwhere to get money for the rebuilding of the house. Then my mothersuggested that he try to borrow from a childhood friend of hers, abrick manufacturer living not far from here. My father got theloan, but was not permitted to pay any interest, which astonishedhim. And so the house was built up again. [Drinks again] Do youknow who set fire to the house? JEAN. Her ladyship, your mother! JULIA. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was? JEAN. Your mother's lover? JULIA. Do you know to whom the money belonged? JEAN. Wait a minute--no, that I don't know. JULIA. To my mother. JEAN. In other words, to the count, if there was no settlement. JULIA. There was no settlement. My mother possessed a small fortuneof her own which she did not want to leave in my father's control, so she invested it with--her friend. JEAN. Who copped it. JULIA. Exactly! He kept it. All this came to my father's knowledge. He couldn't bring suit; he couldn't pay his wife's lover; hecouldn't prove that it was his wife's money. That was my mother'srevenge because he had made himself master in his own house. Atthat time he came near shooting himself--it was even rumoured thathe had tried and failed. But he took a new lease of life, and mymother had to pay for what she had done. I can tell you that thosewere five years I'll never forget! My sympathies were with myfather, but I took my mother's side because I was not aware of thetrue circumstances. From her I learned to suspect and hate men--forshe hated the whole sex, as you have probably heard--and I promisedher on my oath that I would never become a man's slave. JEAN. And so you became engaged to the County Attorney. JULIA. Yes, in order that he should be my slave. JEAN. And he didn't want to? JULIA. Oh, he wanted, but I wouldn't let him. I got tired of him. JEAN. Yes, I saw it--in the stable-yard. JULIA. What did you see? JEAN. Just that--how he broke the engagement. JULIA. That's a lie! It was I who broke it. Did he say he did it, the scoundrel? JEAN. Oh, he was no scoundrel, I guess. So you hate men, MissJulia? JULIA. Yes! Most of the time. But now and then--when the weaknesscomes over me--oh, what shame! JEAN. And you hate me too? JULIA. Beyond measure! I should like to kill you like a wild beast-- JEAN. As you make haste to shoot a mad dog. Is that right? JULIA. That's right! JEAN. But now there is nothing to shoot with--and there is no dog. What are we to do then? JULIA. Go abroad. JEAN. In order to plague each other to death? JULIA. No-in order to enjoy ourselves: a couple of days, a week, aslong as enjoyment is possible. And then--die! JEAN. Die? How silly! Then I think it's much better to start ahotel. JULIA. [Without listening to JEAN]--At Lake Como, where the sun isalways shining, and the laurels stand green at Christmas, and theoranges are glowing. JEAN. Lake Como is a rainy hole, and I could see no oranges exceptin the groceries. But it is a good place for tourists, as it has alot of villas that can be rented to loving couples, and that's aprofitable business--do you know why? Because they take a lease forsix months--and then they leave after three weeks. JULIA. [Naïvely] Why after three weeks? JEAN. Because they quarrel, of course. But the rent has to be paidjust the same. And then you can rent the house again. And that wayit goes on all the time, for there is plenty of love--even if itdoesn't last long. JULIA. You don't want to die with me? JEAN. I don't want to die at all. Both because I am fond of living, and because I regard suicide as a crime against the Providencewhich has bestowed life on us. JULIA. Do you mean to say that you believe in God? JEAN. Of course, I do. And I go to church every other Sunday. Frankly speaking, now I am tired of all this, and now I am going tobed. JULIA. So! And you think that will be enough for me? Do you knowwhat you owe a woman that you have spoiled? JEAN. [Takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table]You're welcome! I don't want to be in anybody's debt. JULIA. [Pretending not to notice the insult] Do you know what thelaw provides-- JEAN. Unfortunately the law provides no punishment for a womanwho seduces a man. JULIA. [As before] Can you think of any escape except by ourgoing abroad and getting married, and then getting a divorce? JEAN. Suppose I refuse to enter into this _mésaillance_? JULIA. _Mésaillance_-- JEAN. Yes, for me. You see, I have better ancestry than you, fornobody in my family was ever guilty of arson. JULIA. How do you know? JEAN. Well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep noPedigrees--except in the police bureau. But I have read about yourpedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. Do youknow who was your first ancestor? A miller who let his wife sleepwith the king one night during the war with Denmark. I have no suchancestry. I have none at all, but I can become an ancestor myself. JULIA. That's what I get for unburdening my heart to one not worthyof it; for sacrificing my family's honour-- JEAN. Dishonour! Well, what was it I told you? You shouldn't drink, for then you talk. And you must not talk! JULIA. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret it! If atleast you loved me! JEAN. For the last time: what do you mean? Am I to weep? Am I tojump over your whip? Am I to kiss you, and lure you down to LakeComo for three weeks, and so on? What am I to do? What do youexpect? This is getting to be rather painful! But that's what comesfrom getting mixed up with women. Miss Julia! I see that you areunhappy; I know that you are suffering; but I cannot understandyou. We never carry on like that. There is never any hatred betweenus. Love is to us a play, and we play at it when our work leaves ustime to do so. But we have not the time to do so all day and allnight, as you have. I believe you are sick--I am sure you are sick. JULIA. You should be good to me--and now you speak like a humanbeing. JEAN. All right, but be human yourself. You spit on me, and thenyou won't let me wipe myself--on you! JULIA. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do--where I amto turn? JEAN. O Lord, if I only knew that myself! JULIA. I have been exasperated, I have been mad, but there ought tobe some way of saving myself. JEAN. Stay right here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything. JULIA. Impossible! The people know, and Christine knows. JEAN. They don't know, and they would never believe it possible. JULIA. [Hesitating] But-it might happen again. JEAN. That's true. JULIA. And the results? JEAN. [Frightened] The results! Where was my head when I didn'tthink of that! Well, then there is only one thing to do--you mustleave. At once! I can't go with you, for then everything would belost, so you must go alone--abroad--anywhere! JULIA. Alone? Where?--I can't do it. JEAN. You must! And before the count gets back. If you stay, thenyou know what will happen. Once on the wrong path, one wants tokeep on, as the harm is done anyhow. Then one grows more and morereckless--and at last it all comes out. So you must get away! Thenyou can write to the count and tell him everything, except that itwas me. And he would never guess it. Nor do I think he would bevery anxious to find out. JULIA. I'll go if you come with me. JEAN. Are you stark mad, woman? Miss Julia to run away with hervalet! It would be in the papers in another day, and the countcould never survive it. JULIA. I can't leave! I can't stay! Help me! I am so tired, sofearfully tired. Give me orders! Set me going, for I can no longerthink, no longer act—- JEAN. Do you see now what good-for-nothings you are! Why do youstrut and turn up your noses as if you were the lords of creation?Well, I am going to give you orders. Go up and dress. Get sometravelling money, and then come back again. JULIA: [In an undertone] Come up with me! JEAN. To your room? Now you're crazy again! [Hesitates a moment]No, you must go at once! [Takes her by the hand and leads her out. ] JULIA. [On her way out] Can't you speak kindly to me, Jean? JEAN. An order must always sound unkind. Now you can find out howit feels! [JULIA goes out. ] [JEAN, alone, draws a sigh of relief; sits down at the table; takesout a note-book and a pencil; figures aloud from time to time; dumbplay until CHRISTINE enters dressed for church; she has a falseshirt front and a white tie in one of her hands. ] CHRISTINE. Goodness gracious, how the place looks! What have youbeen up to anyhow? JEAN. Oh, it was Miss Julia who dragged in the people. Have youbeen sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything at all? CHRISTINE. I have been sleeping like a log. JEAN. And dressed for church already? CHRISTINE. Yes, didn't you promise to come with me to communionto-day? JEAN. Oh, yes, I remember now. And there you've got the finery. Well, come on with it. [Sits down; CHRISTINE helps him to put onthe shirt front and the white tie. ] [Pause. ] JEAN. [Sleepily] What's the text to-day? CHRISTINE. Oh, about John the Baptist beheaded, I guess. JEAN. That's going to be a long story, I'm sure. My, but you chokeme! Oh, I'm so sleepy, so sleepy! CHRISTINE. Well, what has been keeping you up all night? Why, man, you're just green in the face! JEAN. I have been sitting here talking with Miss Julia. CHRISTINE. She hasn't an idea of what's proper, that creature! [Pause. ] JEAN. Say, Christine. CHRISTINE. Well? JEAN. Isn't it funny anyhow, when you come to think of it? Her! CHRISTINE. What is it that's funny? JEAN. Everything! [Pause. ] CHRISTINE. [Seeing the glasses on the table that are onlyhalf-emptied] So you've been drinking together also? JEAN. Yes. CHRISTINE. Shame on you! Look me in the eye! JEAN. Yes. CHRISTINE. Is it possible? Is it possible? JEAN. [After a moment's thought] Yes, it is! CHRISTINE. Ugh! That's worse than I could ever have believed. It'sawful! JEAN. You are not jealous of her, are you? CHRISTINE. No, not of her. Had it been Clara or Sophie, then I'dhave scratched your eyes out. Yes, that's the way I feel about it, and I can't tell why. Oh my, but that was nasty! JEAN. Are you mad at her then? CHRISTINE. No, but at you! It was wrong of you, very wrong! Poorgirl! No, I tell you, I don't want to stay in this house anylonger, with people for whom it is impossible to have any respect. JEAN. Why should you have any respect for them? CHRISTINE. And you who are such a smarty can't tell that! Youwouldn't serve people who don't act decently, would you? It's tolower oneself, I think. JEAN. Yes, but it ought to be a consolation to us that they are nota bit better than we. CHRISTINE. No, I don't think so. For if they're no better, thenit's no use trying to get up to them. And just think of the count!Think of him who has had so much sorrow in his day! No, I don'twant to stay any longer in this house--And with a fellow like you, too. If it had been the county attorney--if it had only been someone of her own sort-- JEAN. Now look here! CHRISTINE. Yes, yes! You're all right in your way, but there'safter all some difference between one kind of people and another—-No, but this is something I'll never get over!--And the young ladywho was so proud, and so tart to the men, that you couldn't believeshe would ever let one come near her--and such a one at that! Andshe who wanted to have poor Diana shot because she had been runningaround with the gate-keeper's pug!--Well, I declare!--But I won'tstay here any longer, and next October I get out of here. JEAN. And then? CHRISTINE. Well, as we've come to talk of that now, perhaps itwould be just as well if you looked for something, seeing thatwe're going to get married after all. JEAN. Well, what could I look for? As a married man I couldn't geta place like this. CHRISTINE. No, I understand that. But you could get a job as ajanitor, or maybe as a messenger in some government bureau. Ofcourse, the public loaf is always short in weight, but it comessteady, and then there is a pension for the widow and the children-- JEAN. [Making a face] That's good and well, but it isn't my styleto think of dying all at once for the sake of wife and children. Imust say that my plans have been looking toward something betterthan that kind of thing. CHRISTINE. Your plans, yes--but you've got obligations also, andthose you had better keep in mind! JEAN. Now don't you get my dander up by talking of obligations! Iknow what I've got to do anyhow. [Listening for some sound on theoutside] However, we've plenty of time to think of all this. Go innow and get ready, and then we'll go to church. CHRISTINE. Who is walking around up there? JEAN. I don't know, unless it be Clara. CHRISTINE. [Going out] It can't be the count, do you think, who'scome home without anybody hearing him? JEAN. [Scared] The count? No, that isn't possible, for then hewould have rung for me. CHRISTINE. [As she goes out] Well, God help us all! Never have Iseen the like of it! [The sun has risen and is shining on the tree tops in the park. Thelight changes gradually until it comes slantingly in through thewindows. JEAN goes to the door and gives a signal. ] JULIA. [Enters in travelling dress and carrying a small birdcagecovered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] Now I amready. JEAN. Hush! Christine is awake. JULIA. [Showing extreme nervousness during the following scene] Didshe suspect anything? JEAN. She knows nothing at all. But, my heavens, how you look! JULIA. How do I look? JEAN. You're as pale as a corpse, and--pardon me, but your face isdirty. JULIA. Let me wash it then--Now! [She goes over to the washstandand washes her face and hands] Give me a towel--Oh!--That's the sunrising! JEAN. And then the ogre bursts. JULIA. Yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night!—But listen, Jean. Come with me, for now I have the money. JEAN. [Doubtfully] Enough? JULIA. Enough to start with. Come with me, for I cannot travelalone to-day. Think of it--Midsummer Day, on a stuffy train, jammedwith people who stare at you--and standing still at stations whenyou want to fly. No, I cannot! I cannot! And then the memories willcome: childhood memories of Midsummer Days, when the inside of thechurch was turned into a green forest--birches and lilacs; thedinner at the festive table with relatives and friends; theafternoon in the park, with dancing and music, flowers and games!Oh, you may run and run, but your memories are in the baggage-car, and with them remorse and repentance! JEAN. I'll go with you-but at once, before it's too late. This verymoment! JULIA. Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage. ] JEAN. But no baggage! That would only give us away. JULIA. No, nothing at all! Only what we can take with us in thecar. JEAN. [Has taken down his hat] What have you got there? What is it? JULIA. It's only my finch. I can't leave it behind. JEAN. Did you ever! Dragging a bird-cage along with us! You must beraving mad! Drop the cage! JULIA. The only thing I take with me from my home! The only livingcreature that loves me since Diana deserted me! Don't be cruel! Letme take it along! JEAN. Drop the cage, I tell you! And don't talk so loud--Christinecan hear us. JULIA. No, I won't let it fall into strange hands. I'd rather haveyou kill it! JEAN. Well, give it to me, and I'll wring its neck. JULIA. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't--no, I cannot! JEAN. Let me--I can! JULIA. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] Oh, my littlebirdie, must it die and go away from its mistress! JEAN. Don't make a scene, please. Don't you know it's a question ofyour life, of your future? Come, quick! [Snatches the bird awayfrom her, carries it to the chopping block and picks up an axe. MISS JULIA turns away. ] JEAN. You should have learned how to kill chickens instead ofshooting with a revolver--[brings down the axe]--then you wouldn'thave fainted for a drop of blood. JULIA. [Screaming] Kill me too! Kill me! You who can take the lifeof an innocent creature without turning a hair! Oh, I hate anddespise you! There is blood between us! Cursed be the hour when Ifirst met you! Cursed be the hour when I came to life in mymother's womb! JEAN. Well, what's the use of all that cursing? Come on! JULIA. [Approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it againsther will] No, I don't want to go yet. I cannot—-I must see--Hush!There's a carriage coming up the road. [Listening without takingher eyes of the block and the axe] You think I cannot stand thesight of blood. You think I am as weak as that--oh, I should liketo see your blood, your brains, on that block there. I should liketo see your whole sex swimming in blood like that thing there. Ithink I could drink out of your skull, and bathe my feet in youropen breast, and eat your heart from the spit!--You think I amweak; you think I love you because the fruit of my womb wasyearning for your seed; you think I want to carry your offspringunder my heart and nourish it with my blood--bear your children andtake your name! Tell me, you, what are you called anyhow? I havenever heard your family name—-and maybe you haven't any. I shouldbecome Mrs. "Hovel, " or Mrs. "Backyard"--you dog there, that'swearing my collar; you lackey with my coat of arms on your buttons--and I should share with my cook, and be the rival of my ownservant. Oh! Oh! Oh!--You think I am a coward and want to run away!No, now I'll stay--and let the lightning strike! My father willcome home--will find his chiffonier opened--the money gone! Thenhe'll ring--twice for the valet--and then he'll send for thesheriff--and then I shall tell everything! Everything! Oh, but itwill be good to get an end to it--if it only be the end! And thenhis heart will break, and he dies!--So there will be an end to allof us--and all will be quiet—peace--eternal rest!--And then thecoat of arms will be shattered on the coffin--and the count's linewill be wiped out--but the lackey's line goes on in the orphanasylum--wins laurels in the gutter, and ends in jail. JEAN. There spoke the royal blood! Bravo, Miss Julia! Now you putthe miller back in his sack! [CHRISTINE enters dressed for church and carrying n hymn-book inher hand. ] JULIA. [Hurries up to her and throws herself into her arms ax ifseeking protection] Help me, Christine! Help me against this man! CHRISTINE. [Unmoved and cold] What kind of performance is this onthe Sabbath morning? [Catches sight of the chopping-block] My, whata mess you have made!--What's the meaning of all this? And the wayyou shout and carry on! JULIA. You are a woman, Christine, and you are my friend. Beware ofthat scoundrel! JEAN. [A little shy and embarrassed] While the ladies arediscussing I'll get myself a shave. [Slinks out to the right. ] JULIA. You must understand me, and you must listen to me. CHRISTINE. No, really, I don't understand this kind of trolloping. Where are you going in your travelling-dress--and he with his haton--what?--What? JULIA. Listen, Christine, listen, and I'll tell you everything-- CHRISTINE. I don't want to know anything-- JULIA. You must listen to me-- CHRISTINE. What is it about? Is it about this nonsense with Jean?Well, I don't care about it at all, for it's none of my business. But if you're planning to get him away with you, we'll put a stopto that! JULIA. [Extremely nervous] Please try to be quiet, Christine, andlisten to me. I cannot stay here, and Jean cannot stay here--and sowe must leave—- CHRISTINE. Hm, hm! JULIA. [Brightening. Up] But now I have got an idea, you know. Suppose all three of us should leave--go abroad--go to Switzerlandand start a hotel together--I have money, you know--and Jean and Icould run the whole thing--and you, I thought, could take charge ofthe kitchen--Wouldn't that be fine!--Say yes, now! And come alongwith us! Then everything is fixed!--Oh, say yes! [She puts her arms around CHRISTINE and pats her. ] CHRISTINE. [Coldly and thoughtfully] Hm, hm! JULIA. [Presto tempo] You have never travelled, Christine--you mustget out and have a look at the world. You cannot imagine what funit is to travel on a train--constantly new people--new countries—-and then we get to Hamburg and take in the Zoological Gardens inpassing--that's what you like--and then we go to the theatres andto the opera--and when we get to Munich, there, you know, we have alot of museums, where they keep Rubens and Raphael and all thosebig painters, you know--Haven't you heard of Munich, where KingLouis used to live--the king, you know, that went mad--And thenwe'll have a look at his castle--he has still some castles that arefurnished just as in a fairy tale--and from there it isn't very farto Switzerland--and the Alps, you know--just think of the Alps, with snow on top of them in the middle of the summer--and there youhave orange trees and laurels that are green all the year around-- [JEAN is seen in the right wing, sharpening his razor on a stropwhich he holds between his teeth and his left hand; he listens tothe talk with a pleased mien and nods approval now and then. ] JULIA. [Tempo prestissimo] And then we get a hotel--and I sit inthe office, while Jean is outside receiving tourists--and goes outmarketing--and writes letters--That's a life for you--Then thetrain whistles, and the 'bus drives up, and it rings upstairs, andit rings in the restaurant--and then I make out the bills--and I amgoing to salt them, too--You can never imagine how timid touristsare when they come to pay their bills! And you--you will sit like aqueen in the kitchen. Of course, you are not going to stand at thestove yourself. And you'll have to dress neatly and nicely in orderto show yourself to people--and with your looks--yes, I am notflattering you--you'll catch a husband some fine day--some richEnglishman, you know-—for those fellows are so easy [slowing down]to catch--and then we grow rich--and we build us a villa at LakeComo--of course, it is raining a little in that place now and then—-but [limply] the sun must be shining sometimes--although it looksdark--and--then--or else we can go home again--and come back--here—-or some other place-- CHRISTINE. Tell me, Miss Julia, do you believe in all thatyourself? JULIA. [Crushed] Do I believe in it myself? CHRISTINE. Yes. JULIA. [Exhausted] I don't know: I believe no longer in anything. [She sinks down on the bench and drops her head between her arms onthe table] Nothing! Nothing at all! CHRISTINE. [Turns to the right, where JEAN is standing] So you weregoing to run away! JEAN. [Abashed, puts the razor on the table] Run away? Well, that'sputting it rather strong. You have heard what the young ladyproposes, and though she is tired out now by being up all night, it's a proposition that can be put through all right. CHRISTINE. Now you tell me: did you mean me to act as cook for thatone there--? JEAN. [Sharply] Will you please use decent language in speaking toyour mistress! Do you understand? CHRISTINE. Mistress! JEAN. Yes! CHRISTINE. Well, well! Listen to him! JEAN. Yes, it would be better for you to listen a little more andtalk a little less. Miss Julia is your mistress, and what makes youdisrespectful to her now should snake you feel the same way aboutyourself. CHRISTINE. Oh, I have always had enough respect for myself-- JEAN. To have none for others! CHRISTINE. --not to go below my own station. You can't say that thecount's cook has had anything to do with the groom or theswineherd. You can't say anything of the kind! JEAN. Yes, it's your luck that you have had to do with a gentleman. CHRISTINE. Yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the count'sstable! JEAN. What's that to you who get a commission on the groceries andbribes from the butcher? CHRISTINE. What's that? JEAN. And so you can't respect your master and mistress any longer!You--you! CHRISTINE. Are you coming with me to church? I think you need agood sermon on top of such a deed. JEAN. No, I am not going to church to-day. You can go by yourselfand confess your own deeds. CHRISTINE. Yes, I'll do that, and I'll bring back enoughforgiveness to cover you also. The Saviour suffered and died on thecross for all our sins, and if we go to him with a believing heartand a repentant mind, he'll take all our guilt on himself. JULIA. Do you believe that, Christine? CHRISTINE. It is my living belief, as sure as I stand here, and thefaith of my childhood which I have kept since I was young, MissJulia. And where sin abounds, grace abounds too. JULIA. Oh, if I had your faith! Oh, if—- CHRISTINE. Yes, but you don't get it without the special grace ofGod, and that is not bestowed on everybody-- JULIA. On whom is it bestowed then? CHRISTINE. That's just the great secret of the work of grace, MissJulia, and the Lord has no regard for persons, but there those thatare last shall be the foremost-- JULIA. Yes, but that means he has regard for those that are last. CHRISTINE. [Going right on] --and it is easier for a camel to gothrough a needle's eye than for a rich man to get into heaven. That's the way it is, Miss Julia. Now I am going, however-—alone—-and as I pass by, I'll tell the stableman not to let out the horsesif anybody should like to get away before the count comes home. Good-bye! [Goes out. ] JEAN. Well, ain't she a devil!--And all this for the sake of afinch! JULIA. [Apathetically] Never mind the finch!--Can you see any wayout of this, any way to end it? JEAN. [Ponders] No! JULIA. What would you do in my place? JEAN. In your place? Let me see. As one of gentle birth, as awoman, as one who has--fallen. I don't know--yes, I do know! JULIA. [Picking up the razor with a significant gesture] Like this? JEAN. Yes!--But please observe that I myself wouldn't do it, forthere is a difference between us. JULIA. Because you are a man and I a woman? What is the difference? JEAN. It is the same--as--that between man and woman. JULIA. [With the razor in her hand] I want to, but I cannot!--Myfather couldn't either, that time he should have done it. JEAN. No, he should not have done it, for he had to get his revengefirst. JULIA. And now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself again, through me. JEAN. Have you not loved your father, Miss Julia? JULIA. Yes, immensely, but I must have hated him, too. I think Imust have been doing so without being aware of it. But he was theone who reared me in contempt for my own sex--half woman and halfman! Whose fault is it, this that has happened? My father's--mymother's--my own? My own? Why, I have nothing that is my own. Ihaven't a thought that didn't come from my father; not a passionthat didn't come from my mother; and now this last--this about allhuman creatures being equal--I got that from him, my fiancé--whom Icall a scoundrel for that reason! How can it be my own fault? Toput the blame on Jesus, as Christine does--no, I am too proud forthat, and know too much--thanks to my father's teachings--And thatabout a rich person not getting into heaven, it's just a lie, andChristine, who has money in the savings-bank, wouldn't get inanyhow. Whose is the fault?--What does it matter whose it is? Forjust the same I am the one who must bear the guilt and the results-- JEAN. Yes, but-- [Two sharp strokes are rung on the bell. MISS JULIA leaps to herfeet. JEAN changes his coat. ] JEAN. The count is back. Think if Christine-- [Goes to thespeaking-tube, knocks on it, and listens. ] JULIA. Now he has been to the chiffonier! JEAN. It is Jean, your lordship! [Listening again, the spectatorsbeing unable to hear what the count says] Yes, your lordship![Listening] Yes, your lordship! At once! [Listening] In a minute, your lordship! [Listening] Yes, yes! In half an hour! JULIA. [With intense concern] What did he say? Lord Jesus, what didhe say? JEAN. He called for his boots and wanted his coffee in half anhour. JULIA. In half an hour then! Oh, I am so tired. I can't doanything; can't repent, can't run away, can't stay, can't live—-can't die! Help me now! Command me, and I'll obey you like a dog!Do me this last favour--save my honour, and save his name! You knowwhat my will ought to do, and what it cannot do--now give me yourwill, and make me do it! JEAN. I don't know why--but now I can't either--I don't understand—-It is just as if this coat here made a--I cannot command you--andnow, since I've heard the count's voice--now--I can't quite explainit-—but--Oh, that damned menial is back in my spine again. Ibelieve if the count should come down here, and if he should tellme to cut my own throat--I'd do it on the spot! JULIA. Make believe that you are he, and that I am you! You didsome fine acting when you were on your knees before me--then youwere the nobleman--or--have you ever been to a show and seen onewho could hypnotize people? [JEAN makes a sign of assent. ] JULIA. He says to his subject: get the broom. And the man gets it. He says: sweep. And the man sweeps. JEAN. But then the other person must be asleep. JULIA. [Ecstatically] I am asleep already--there is nothing in thewhole room but a lot of smoke--and you look like a stove--thatlooks like a man in black clothes and a high hat--and your eyesglow like coals when the fire is going out--and your face is a lumpof white ashes. [The sunlight has reached the floor and is nowfalling on JEAN] How warm and nice it is! [She rubs her hands as ifwarming them before a fire. ] And so light--and so peaceful! JEAN. [Takes the razor and puts it in her hand] There's the broom!Go now, while it is light--to the barn--and-- [Whispers somethingin her ear. ] JULIA. [Awake] Thank you! Now I shall have rest! But tell me first—-that the foremost also receive the gift of grace. Say it, even ifyou don't believe it. JEAN. The foremost? No, I can't do that!--But wait--Miss Julia--Iknow! You are no longer among the foremost--now when you are amongthe--last! JULIA. That's right. I am among the last of all: I am the verylast. Oh!--But now I cannot go--Tell me once more that I must go! JEAN. No, now I can't do it either. I cannot! JULIA. And those that are foremost shall be the last. JEAN. Don't think, don't think! Why, you are taking away mystrength, too, so that I become a coward--What? I thought I saw thebell moving!--To be that scared of a bell! Yes, but it isn't onlythe bell--there is somebody behind it--a hand that makes it move—-and something else that makes the hand move-but if you cover upyour ears--just cover up your ears! Then it rings worse than ever!Rings and rings, until you answer it--and then it's too late--thencomes the sheriff--and then-- [Two quick rings from the bell. ] JEAN. [Shrinks together; then he straightens himself up] It'shorrid! But there's no other end to it!--Go! [JULIA goes firmly out through the door. ] (Curtain. ) THE STRONGER INTRODUCTION Of Strindberg's dramatic works the briefest is "The Stronger. " Hecalled it a "scene. " It is a mere incident--what is called a"sketch" on our vaudeville stage, and what the French so aptly havenamed a "quart d'heure. " And one of the two figures in the castremains silent throughout the action, thus turning the little playpractically into a monologue. Yet it has all the dramatic intensitywhich we have come to look upon as one of the main characteristicsof Strindberg's work for the stage. It is quivering with mentalconflict, and because of this conflict human destinies may be seento change while we are watching. Three life stories are laid bareduring the few minutes we are listening to the seemingly aimless, yet so ominous, chatter of _Mrs. X. _--and when she sallies forth atlast, triumphant in her sense of possession, we know as much abouther, her husband, and her rival, as if we had been reading athree-volume novel about them. Small as it is, the part of _Mrs. X. _ would befit a "star, " but anactress of genius and discernment might prefer the dumb part of_Miss Y_. One thing is certain: that the latter character has fewequals in its demand on the performer's tact and skill andimagination. This wordless opponent of _Mrs. X. _ is another ofthose vampire characters which Strindberg was so fond of drawing, and it is on her the limelight is directed with mercilesspersistency. "The Stronger" was first published in 1890, as part of thecollection of miscellaneous writings which their author named"Things Printed and Unprinted. " The present English version wasmade by me some years ago--in the summer of 1906--when I firstbegan to plan a Strindberg edition for this country. At that timeit appeared in the literary supplement of the _New York EveningPost_. THE STRONGERA SCENE1890 PERSONS MRS. X. , an actress, married. MISS Y. , an actress, unmarried. THE STRONGER SCENE [A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron, a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs. ] [MRS. X. Enters dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying apretty Japanese basket on her arm. ] [MISS Y. Has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she isreading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then she exchangesit for a new one. ] MRS. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on Christmas Eveas lonely as a poor bachelor. [MISS Y. Looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumesher reading. ] MRS. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this--alone--alone ina restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It makes me as sadas when I saw a wedding party at Paris once in a restaurant--thebride was reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiardswith the witnesses. Ugh, when it begins that way, I thought, howwill it end? Think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day!Yes, and you're going to say that she was reading a comic paper--that's a different case, my dear. [A WAITRESS brings a cup of chocolate, places it before MRS. X. , and disappears again. ] MRS. X. [Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays anumber of Christmas presents] See what I've bought for my tots. [Picks up a doll] What do you think of this? Lisa is to have it. She can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you see? Fine, is itnot? And here's a cork pistol for Carl. [Loads the pistol and popsit at Miss Y. ] [MISS Y. Starts as if frightened. ] MRS. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was going to shootyou, did you? Really, I didn't think you could believe that of me. If you were to shoot _me_--well, that wouldn't surprise me theleast. I've got in your way once, and I know you'll never forgetit--but I couldn't help it. You still think I intrigued you awayfrom the Royal Theatre, and I didn't do anything of the kind--although you think so. But it doesn't matter what I say, of course--you believe it was I just the same. [Pulls out a pair of embroideredslippers] Well, these are for my hubby-—tulips--I've embroideredthem myself. Hm, I hate tulips--and he must have them on everything. [MISS Y. Looks up from the paper with an expression of mingledsarcasm and curiosity. ] MRS. X. [Puts a hand in each slipper] Just see what small feet Bobhas. See? And you should see him walk--elegant! Of course, you'venever seen him in slippers. [MISS Y. Laughs aloud. ] MRS. X. Look here--here he comes. [Makes the slippers walk acrossthe table. ] [MISS Y. Laughs again. ] MRS. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this:"Blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee. " Or: "Theidiot--now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again. "Then there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold:"Gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even knowenough to keep the house warm. " [She rubs the sole of one slipperagainst the instep of the other. ] [MISS Y. Breaks into prolonged laughter. ] MRS. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers--Mary has pushed them under the bureau. Well, perhaps it is notright to be making fun of one's own husband. He's pretty good forall that--a real dear little hubby, that's what he is. You shouldhave such a husband--what are you laughing at? Can't you tell?Then, you see, I know he is faithful. Yes, I know, for he has toldme himself--what in the world makes you giggle like that? Thatnasty Betty tried to get him away from me while I was on the road—-can you think of anything more infamous? [Pause] But I'd havescratched the eyes out of her face, that's what I'd have done if Ihad been at home when she tried it. [Pause] I'm glad Bob told meall about it, so I didn't have to hear it first from somebody else. [Pause] And just think of it, Betty was not the only one! I don'tknow why it is, but all women seem to be crazy after my husband. Itmust be because they imagine his government position gives himsomething to say about the engagements. Perhaps you've tried ityourself--you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, I don'ttrust you very far--but I know he never cared for you--and then Ihave been thinking you rather had a grudge against him. [Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed manner. ] MRS. X. Amèlia, spend the evening with us, won't you? Just to showthat you are not angry--not with me, at least. I cannot tellexactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you--youfor an enemy. Perhaps because I got in your way that time[rallentando] or--I don't know--really, I don't know at all-- [Pause. MISS Y. Gazes searchingly at MRS. X. ] MRS. X. [Thoughtfully] It was so peculiar, the way our acquaintance--why, I was afraid of you when I first met you; so afraid that I didnot dare to let you out of sight. It didn't matter where I tried togo--I always found myself near you. I didn't have the courage to beyour enemy--and so I became your friend. But there was alwayssomething discordant in the air when you called at our home, for Isaw that my husband didn't like you--and it annoyed me just as itdoes when a dress won't fit. I tried my very best to make himappear friendly to you at least, but I couldn't move him--not untilyou were engaged. Then you two became such fast friends that italmost looked as if you had not dared to show your real feelingsbefore, when it was not safe--and later--let me see, now! I didn'tget jealous--strange, was it not? And I remember the baptism--youwere acting as godmother, and I made him kiss you--and he did, butboth of you looked terribly embarrassed--that is, I didn't think ofit then--or afterwards, even--I never thought of it—-till--_now_![Rises impulsively] Why don't you say something? You have notuttered a single word all this time. You've just let me go ontalking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, and youreyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying in melike silk in a cocoon--thoughts--bad thoughts maybe--let me think. Why did you break your engagement? Why have you never called on usafterward? Why don't you want to be with us to-night? [MISS Y. Makes a motion as if intending to speak. ] MRS. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All is clear tome now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes! Everything fitstogether now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same tablewith you. [Moves her things to another table] That's why I must putthose hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them. [Throws the slippers on the floor] That's why we have to spend thesummer in the mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell ofthe ocean; that's why my boy had to be called Eskil--because thatwas your father's name; that's why I had to wear your colour, andread your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink yourdrinks--this chocolate, for instance; that's why--great heavens!--it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! Everything was forcedon me by you—-even your passions. Your soul bored itself into mineas a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate, and burrowed andburrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a littleblack dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You werealways on hand like a snake with your black eyes to charm me--Ifelt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--I was in thewater, with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with myarms, the further down I went--down, down, till I sank to thebottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me withyour claws--and now I'm there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hateyou, hate you! But you, you just sit there, silent and calm andindifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it'sChristmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy. You are incapable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. As acat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there!--you can'tdrag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwaitit. Here you sit in this corner--do you know they've nicknamed it"the mouse-trap" on your account? Here you read the papers to seeif anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be dischargedfrom the theatre. Here you watch your victims and calculate yourchances and take your tributes. Poor Amèlia! Do you know, I pityyou all the same, for I know you are unhappy--unhappy as one whohas been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought tobe angry with you, but really I can't--you are so small after all--and as to Bob, why that does not bother me in the least. What doesit matter to me anyhow? If you or somebody else taught me to drinkchocolate--what of that? [Takes a spoonful of chocolate; thensententiously] They say chocolate is very wholesome. And if I havelearned from you how to dress--_tant mieux_!--it has only given mea stronger hold on my husband--and you have lost where I havegained. Yes, judging by several signs, I think you have lost himalready. Of course, you meant me to break with him--as you did, andas you are now regretting--but, you see, _I_ never would do that. It won't do to be narrow-minded, you know. And why should I takeonly what nobody else wants? Perhaps, after all, I am the strongernow. You never got anything from me; you merely gave--and thushappened to me what happened to the thief--I had what you missedwhen you woke up. How explain in any other way that, in your hand, everything proved worthless and useless? You were never able tokeep a man's love, in spite of your tulips and your passions--and Icould; you could never learn the art of living from the books--as Ilearned it; you bore no little Eskil, although that was yourfather's name. And why do you keep silent always and everywhere--silent, ever silent? I used to think it was because you were sostrong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had anything tosay--because you were unable to-think! [Rises and picks up theslippers] I'm going home now--I'll take the tulips with me—-yourtulips. You couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't bendand so you broke like a dry stem--and I didn't. Thank you, Amèlia, for all your instructions. I thank you that you have taught me howto love my husband. Now I'm going home--to him! [Exit. ] (Curtain. ) CREDITORS INTRODUCTION This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at the 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 "Fordringsägare. " 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 _Tekla_be 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 foundin the 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 Molière's_Harpagon_, was much too primitive and crude for Strindberg's art, as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "Miss Julia. "When he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did 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_Jean_ and a _Miss Julia_--lie more or less dormant. And if we searchour souls 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 differing temperaments, have recorded identical feelings as springing from a study of hiswork: on one side an active resentment, a keen unwillingness tobe interested; on the other, an attraction that would not be deniedin spite of resolute resistance to it! For Strindberg _does_ holdus, even when we regret his power of doing so. And no one familiarwith the conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such aparadox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelingsprovide us with something that our minds instinctively recognise astrue to life in some way, and for that reason valuable to the art ofliving. 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 as_Gustav_, 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. CREDITORSA TRAGICOMEDY1889 PERSONS TEKLAADOLPH, her husband, a painterGUSTAV, 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 of acquaintances, but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keep me to herself:worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends to herself. And soI 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 _one_whose 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 crèche 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 so philosophicalall 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 Strömstad. TEKLA. What's his name? ADOLPH. Sjöberg. TEKLA. What did he have to say? ADOLPH. He said--well--among other things he said--that I am 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 a depthof deceit! And he who has always preached about truthfulness, and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--But wait a little—howwas it now? He received me with something like hostility--didn'tmeet me at the landing--and then--and then he made some remarkabout young men on board the boat, which I pretended not to hear—-but how could he know? Wait--and then he began to philosophiseabout women--and then the spectre of you seemed to be hauntinghim--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the artof the time--exactly in accordance with your old 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 ofMalmö, 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 Malmö 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 Castrén 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_. And on 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. PARIAHAN ACT1889 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 shelfupside-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-ownerhas never included it in the valuation of his property; and so on. MR. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do this 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, had disappeared—no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I was fulfillingsome sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet] What couldit be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case of mentalsuggestion, 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 upside-down 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. )