[She falls in a faint. The doctor and Carl carry her into her room left, the women follow.]

ABEL. She is dying!

MRS. STARCK. Heaven help us, what is this! The poor little dear! Doctor Oestermark, do something, say something—and Axel stands there crestfallen.

[Axel and Willmer are alone.]

AXEL. This is your doing.

WILLMER. My doing?

[Axel takes him by the ear.]

AXEL. Yes, yours, but not altogether. But I am going to give you your share. [He leads hunt to the door, which he opens with one foot, and kicks out Willmer with the other.] Out with you!

WILLMER. I'll get even for this!

AXEL. I shall be waiting for it!

[Doctor and Carl come in.]

DR. OeSTERMARK. What's the trouble with the picture, anyway?

AXEL. Nothing—only that it seemed to represent sulphuric acid.

CARL. Now tell us, are you refused, or is she?

AXEL. I am refused on her picture. I wanted to help her a bit, as a good comrade, and that's why I changed the numbers.

DR. OeSTERMARK. Yes, but there is something else too. She says that you don't love her any more.

AXEL. She is right in that. That's how it is, and tomorrow we part.

DR. OeSTERMARK and CARL. Part?

AXEL. Yes, when there are no ties to bind things, they loosen of themselves. This wasn't a marriage; it was only living together, or something even worse.

DR. OeSTERMARK. There is bad air here. Come, let's go.

AXEL. Yes, I want to get out—out of here. [They start for the door. Abel comes in.]

ABEL. What, are you leaving?

AXEL. Does that astonish you?

ABEL. Let me have a word with you.

AXEL. Go on.

ABEL. Don't you want to go in and see Bertha?

AXEL. No!

ABEL. What have you done to her?

AXEL. I have bent her.

ABEL. I noticed that—she is black and blue around the wrists! Look at me! I didn't think that of you. Well, conqueror, triumph now!

AXEL. It's an uncertain conquest, and I don't even wish for it.

ABEL. Are you sure of that? [She leans over to Axel, in low voice.] Bertha loves you now—now that you have bent her.

AXEL. I know it. But I don't love her any longer.

ABEL. Won't you go in and see her?

AXEL. No, it's all over. [Takes doctor's arm.] Come!

ABEL. May I take a message to Bertha?

AXEL. No! Yes! Tell her, that I despise and abhor her.

ABEL. Good-bye, my friend.

AXEL. Good-bye, my enemy.

ABEL. Enemy?

AXEL. Are you my friend?

ABEL. I don't know. Both and neither. I am a bastard—

AXEL. We are all that, as we are crocheted out of man and woman! Perhaps you have loved me in your way, as you wanted to separate Bertha and me.

ABEL [Rolling a cigarette]. Loved! I wonder how it seems to love? No, I cannot love; I must be deformed—for it made me happy to see you two until the envy of deformity set me on fire. Perhaps you love me?

AXEL. No, on my honor! You have been an agreeable comrade who happened to be dressed like a woman; you have never impressed me as belonging to another sex; and love, you see, can and should exist only between individuals of opposite sexes—

ABEL. Sex love, yes!

AXEL. Is there any other, then?

ABEL. I don't know! But I am to be pitied. And this hate, this terrible hate! Perhaps that would disappear if you men were not so afraid to love us, if you were not so—how shall I express it—so moral, as it's called.

AXEL. But in heaven's name, be a little more lovable, then, and don't get yourselves up so that one is forced to think of the penal law whenever one looks at you.

ABEL. Do you think I'm such a fright, then?

AXEL. Well, you know, you must pardon me, but you are awful. [Bertha comes in.]

BERTHA [To Axel]. Are you going?

AXEL. Yes, I was just about to go, but now I'll stay.

BERTHA [Softly]. What? You—

AXEL. I shall stay in my home.

BERTHA. In our—home.

AXEL. No, in mine. In my studio with my furniture.

BERTHA. And I?

AXEL. You may do what you please, but you must know what you risk. You see in my suit I have applied for one year's separation in bed and board. Should you stay, that is to say, if you should seek me during this time, you would have to choose between imprisonment, or being considered my mistress. Do you feel like staying?

BERTHA. Oh, is that the law?

AXEL. That's the law.

BERTHA. You drive me out, then?

AXEL. No, but the law does.

BERTHA. And you think I'll be satisfied with that?

AXEL. No, I don't, for you won't be satisfied until you have taken all the life out of me.

BERTHA. Axel! How you talk! If you knew how I—love you!

AXEL. That doesn't sound irrational, but I don't love you.

BERTHA [Flaring up and pointing to Abel]. Because you love her!

AXEL. No, indeed, I don't. Have never loved her, and never will. What incredible imagining! As if there were not other women and more fascinating than you two!

BERTHA. But Abel loves you!

AXEL. That is possible. I even believe that she suggested something of the kind. Yes, she said so distinctly; let's see, how was it—

BERTHA [Changing]. You are really the most shameless creature I have ever met!

AXEL. Yes, I can well believe that.

BERTHA [Puts on her hat and wrap]. Now you expect to put me out on the street? That is final?

AXEL. On the street, or where you please.

BERTHA [Angry]. Do you think a woman will allow herself to be treated like this?

AXEL. Once you asked me to forget that you were a woman. Very well, I have forgotten it.

BERTHA. But do you know that you have liabilities to the one who has been your wife?

AXEL. You mean the pay for good comradeship? What? A life annuity!

BERTHA. Yes.

AXEL [Putting a few bills on the table]. Here is a month in advance.

BERTHA [Takes money and counts it]. You still have a little honor left!

ABEL. Good-bye, Bertha. Now I am off.

BERTHA. Wait and you can go along with me.

ABEL. No, I won't go any further with you.

BERTHA. What? Why not?

ABEL. I am ashamed to.

BERTHA [Astonished]. Ashamed?

ABEL. Yes, ashamed. Good-bye. [Abel goes out.]

BERTHA. I don't understand. Good-bye, Axel! Thanks for the money. Are we friends? [Taking his hand.]

AXEL. I am not, at least.—Let go of my hand, or I will believe that you wish to seduce me again. [Bertha goes toward door.]

AXEL [With a sigh of relief]. Pleasant comrades! Oh!

[The maid enters from the orchard.]

MAID [To Axel]. There is it lady waiting for you.

AXEL. I'll soon be free.

BERTHA. Is that the new comrade?

AXEL. No, not comrade, but sweetheart.

BERTHA. And your wife to be?

AXEL, Perhaps. Because I want to meet, my comrades at the cafe, but at home I want a wife. [Starts as if to go.] Pardon me!

BERTHA. Farewell, then! Are we never to meet again?

AXEL. Yes, of course! But at the cafe. Good-bye!

CURTAIN.

*****



FACING DEATH

CHARACTERS

MONSIEUR DURAND, a pension proprietor, formerly connected with the state railroad ADELE, his daughter, twenty-seven ANNETTE, his daughter, twenty-four THERESE, his daughter, twenty-four ANTONIO, a lieutenant in an Italian cavalry regiment in French Switzerland in the eighties PIERRE, an errand boy

[SCENE—A dining-room with a long table. Through the open door is seen, over the tops of churchyard cypress trees, Lake Leman, with the Savoy Alps and the French bathing-resort Evian. To left is a door to the kitchen. To right a door to inner rooms. Monsieur Durand stands in doorway looking over the lake with a pair of field glasses.]

ADELE [Comes in from kitchen wearing apron and turned-up sleeves. She carries a tray with coffee things]. Haven't you been for the coffee-bread, father?

DURAND. No, I sent Pierre. My chest has been bad for the last few drays, and it affects me to walk the steep hill.

ADELE. Pierre again, eh? That costs three sous. Where are they to come from, with only one tourist in the house for over two months?

DURAND. That's true enough, but it seems to me Annette might get the bread.

ADELE. That would ruin the credit of the house entirely, but you have never done anything else.

DURAND. Even you, Adele?

ADELE. Even I am tired, though I have held out longest!

DURAND. Yes, you have, and you were still human when Therese and Annette cautioned me. You and I have pulled this house through since mother died. You have had to sit in the kitchen like Cinderella; I have had to take care of the service, the fires, sweep and clean, and do the errands. You are tired; how should it be with me, then?

ADELE. But you mustn't be tired. You have three daughters who are unprovided for and whose dowry you have wasted.

DURAND [Listening without]. Doesn't it seem as if you heard the sound of clanging and rumbling down toward Cully? If fire has broken out they are lost, because the wind is going to blow soon, the lake tells me that.

ADELE. Have you paid the fire insurance on our house?

DURAND. Yes, I have. Otherwise I would never have got that last mortgage.

ADELE. How much is there left unmortgaged?

DURAND. A fifth of the fire insurance policy. But you know how property dropped in value when the railroad passed our gates and went to the east instead.

ADELE. So much the better.

DURAND [Sternly]. Adele! [Pause.] Will you put out the fire in the stove?

ADELE. Impossible. I can't till the coffee-bread comes.

DURAND. Well, here it is.

[Pierre comes in with basket. Adele looks in the basket.]

ADELE. No bread! But a bill—two, three—

PIERRE.—Well, the baker said he wouldn't send any more bread until he was paid. And then, when I was going by the butcher's and the grocer's, they shoved these bills at me. [Goes out.]

ADELE. Oh, God in heaven, this is the end for us! But what's this? [Opens a package.]

DURAND. Some candles that I bought for the mass for my dear little Rene. Today is the anniversary of his death.

ADELE. You can afford to buy such things!

DURAND. With my tips, yes. Don't you think it is humiliating to stretch out my hand whenever a traveller leaves us? Can't you grant me the only contentment I possess—let me enjoy my sorrow one time each year? To be able to live in memory of the most beautiful thing life ever gave me?

ADELE. If he had only lived until mow, you'd see how beautiful he'd be!

DURAND. It's very possible that there's truth in your irony—as I remember him, however, he was not as you all are now.

ADELE. Will you be good enough to receive Monsieur Antonio yourself? He is coming now to have his coffee without bread! Oh, if mother were only living! She always found a way when you stood helpless.

DURAND. Your mother had her good qualities.

ADELE. Although you saw only her faults.

DURAND. Monsieur Antonio is coming. If you leave me now, I'll have a talk with him.

ADELE. You would do better to go out and borrow some money, so that the scandal would be averted.

DURAND. I can't borrow a sou. After borrowing for ten years! Let everything crash at once, everything, everything, if it would only be the end!

ADELE. The end for you, yes. But you never think of us!

DURAND. No, I have never thought of you, never!

ADELE. Do you begrudge us our bringing-up?

DURAND. I am only answering an unjust reproach. Go now, and I'll meet the storm—as usual.

ADELE. As usual—h'm!

[Goes. Antonio comes in from back.]

ANTONIO. Good morning, Monsieur Durand.

DURAND. Monsieur Lieutenant has already been out for a walk?

ANTONIO. Yes, I've been down toward Cully and saw them put out a chimney fire. Now, some coffee will taste particularly good.

DURAND. It's needless to say how it pains me to have to tell you that on account of insufficient supplies our house can no longer continue to do business.

ANTONIO. How is that?

DURAND. To speak plainly, we are bankrupt.

ANTONIO. But, my good Monsieur Durand, is there no way of helping you out of what I hope is just a temporary embarrassment?

DURAND. No, there is no possible way out. The condition of the house has been so completely undermined for many years that I had rather the crash would come than live in a state of anxiety day and night, expecting what must come.

ANTONIO. Nevertheless I believe you are looking at the dark side of things.

DURAND. I can't see what makes you doubt my statement.

ANTONIO. Because I want to help you.

DURAND. I don't wish any help. Privation must come and teach my children to lead a different life from this which is all play. With the exception of Adele, who really does take care of the kitchen, what do the others do? Play, and sing, and promenade, and flirt; and as long as there is a crust of bread in the house, they'll never do anything useful.

ANTONIO. Granting that, but until the finances are straightened out we must have bread in the house. Allow me to stay a month longer and I will pay my bill in advance.

DURAND. No, thank you, we must stick to this course even if it leads us into the lake! And I don't want to continue in this business, which doesn't bring bread—nothing but humiliations. Just think how it was last spring, when the house had been empty for three months. Then at last an American family came and saved us. The morning after their arrival I ran across the son catching hold of my daughter on the stairs. It was Therese,—he was trying to kiss her. What would you have done in my case?

ANTONIO [Confused]. I don't know—

DURAND. I know what I, as a father, should have done, but—father-like—I didn't do it. But I know what to do the next time.

ANTONIO. On account of that very thing it seems to me that you should think very carefully about what you do, and not leave your daughters to chance.

DURAND. Monsieur Antonio, you are a young man who, for some inexplicable reason, has won my regard. Whether you grant it, or not, I am going to ask one thing of you. Don't form any opinions about me as an individual, or about my conduct.

ANTONIO. Monsieur Durand, I promise it if you will answer me one question; are you Swiss born, or not?

DURAND. I am a Swiss citizen.

ANTONIO. Yes, I know that, but I ask if you were born in Switzerland.

DURAND [Uncertainly]. Yes.

ANTONIO. I asked only—because it interested me. Nevertheless—as I must believe you that your pension must be closed, I want to pay what I owe. To be sure it's only ten francs, but I can't go away and leave an unpaid bill.

DURAND. I can't be sure that this is really a debt, as I don't keep the accounts, but if you have deceived me you shall hear from me. Now I'll go and get the bread. Afterward we'll find out.

[Goes out. Antonio alone. Afterward Therese comes in, carrying a rat-trap. She wears a morning negligee and her hair is down.]

THERESE. Oh, there you are, Antonio! I thought I heard the old man.

ANTONIO. Yes, he went to get the coffee-bread, he said.

THERESE. Hadn't he done that already? No, do you know, we can't stand him any longer.

ANTONIO. How beautiful you are today, Therese! But that rat-trap isn't becoming.

THERESE. And such a trap into the bargain! I have set it for a whole month, but never, never get a live one, although the bait is eaten every morning. Have you seen Mimi around?

ANTONIO. That damned cat? It's usually around early and late, but today I've been spared it.

THERESE. You must speak beautifully about the absent, and remember, he who loves me, loves my cat. [She puts rat-trap on table and picks up an empty saucer from under table.] Adele, Adele!

ADELE [In the kitchen door]. What does Her Highness demand so loudly?

THERESE. Her Highness demands milk for her cat and a piece of cheese for your rats.

ADELE. Go get them yourself.

THERESE. Is that the way to answer Her Highness?

ADELE. The answer fits such talk. And besides, you deserve it for showing yourself before a stranger with your hair not combed.

THERESE. Aren't we all old friends here, and—Antonio, go and speak nicely to Aunt Adele, and then you'll get some milk for Mimi. [Antonio hesitates.] Well, aren't you going to mind?

ANTONIO [Sharply]. No.

THERESE. What kind of a way to speak is that? Do you want a taste of my riding whip?

ANTONIO. Impudence!

THERESE. [Amazed]. What's that? What's that? Are you trying to remind me of my position, my debt, my weakness?

ANTONIO. No, I only want to remind you of my position, my debt, my weakness.

ADELE [Getting the saucer]. Now listen, good friends. What's all this foolishness for? Be friends—and then I'll give you some very nice coffee. [Goes into the kitchen.]

THERESE [Crying]. You are tired of me, Antonio, and you are thinking of giving me up.

ANTONIO. You mustn't cry, it will make your eyes so ugly.

THERESE. Oh, if they are not as beautiful as Annette's—

ANTONIO.—So, it's Annette now? But now look here; all fooling aside, isn't it about time we had our coffee?

THERESE. You'd make a charming married man—not able to wait a moment for your coffee.

ANTONIO. And what a lovable married lady you would be, who growls at her husband because she has made a blunder.

[Annette comes in fully dressed and hair done up.]

ANNETTE. You seem to be quarreling this morning.

ANTONIO. See, there's Annette, and dressed already.

THERESE. Yes, Annette is so extraordinary in every respect, and she also has the prerogative of being older than I am.

ANNETTE. If you don't hold your tongue—

ANTONIO.—Oh, now, now, be good, now, Therese!

[He puts his arm around her and kisses her. Monsieur Durand appears in the doorway as he does so.]

DURAND [Astonished]. What's this?

THERESE [Freeing herself]. What?

DURAND. Did my eyes see right?

THERESE. What did you see?

DURAND. I saw that you allowed a strange gentleman to kiss you.

THERESE. That's a lie!

DURAND. Have I lost my sight, or do you dare lie to my face?

THERESE. Is it for you to talk about lying, you who lie to us and the whole world by saying that you were born a Swiss although you are a Frenchman?

DURAND. Who said that?

THERESE. Mother said so.

DURAND [To Antonio]. Monsieur Lieutenant, as our account is settled, I'll ask you to leave this house immediately, or else—

ANTONIO. Or else?

DURAND. Choose your weapon.

ANTONIO. I wonder what sort of defense you would put up other than the hare's!

DURAND. If I didn't prefer my stick, I should take the gun that I used in the last war.

THERESE. You have surely been at war—you who deserted!

DURAND. Mother said that, too. I can't fight the dead, but I can fight the living.

[Lifts his walking-stick and goes toward Antonio. Therese and Annette throw themselves between the men.]

ANNETTE. Think what you are doing!

THERESE. This will end on the scaffold!

ANTONIO [Backing away]. Good-bye, Monsieur Durand. Keep my contempt—and my ten francs.

DURAND [Takes a gold piece from his vest pocket and throws it toward Antonio]. My curses follow your gold, scamp!

[Therese and Annette following Antonio.]

THERESE and ANNETTE. Don't go, don't leave us! Father will kill us!

DURAND [Breaks his stick in two]. He who cannot kill must die.

ANTONIO. Good-bye, and I hope you'll miss the last rat from your sinking ship. [He goes.]

THERESE [To Durand]. That's the way you treat your guests! Is it any wonder the house has gone to pieces!

DURAND. Yes—that's the way—such guests! But tell me, Therese, my child—[Takes her head between his hands] tell me, my beloved child, tell me if I saw wrong just now, or if you told a falsehood.

THERESE [Peevishly]. What?

DURAND. You know what I mean. It isn't the thing itself, which can be quite innocent—but it is a matter of whether I can trust my senses that interests me.

THERESE. Oh, talk about something else.—Tell us rather what we are going to eat and drink today. For that matter, it's a lie; he didn't kiss me.

DURAND. It isn't a lie. In Heaven's name, didn't I see it happen?

THERESE. Prove it.

DURAND. Prove it? With two witnesses or—a policeman! [To Annette.] Annette, my child, will you tell me the truth?

ANNETTE. I didn't see anything.

DURAND. That's a proper answer. For one should never accuse one's sister. How like your mother you are today, Annette!

ANNETTE. Don't you say anything about mother! She should be living such a day as this!

[Adele comes in with a glass of milk, which she puts on table.]

ADELE [To Durand]. There's your milk. What happened to the bread?

DURAND. Nothing, my children. It will continue to come as it always has up to the present.

THERESE [Grabs the glass of milk from her father]. You shall not have anything, you who throw away money, so that your children are compelled to starve.

ADELE. Did he throw away money, the wretch? He should have been put in the lunatic asylum the time mother said he was ripe for it. See, here's another bill that came by way of the kitchen.

[Durand takes the bill and starts as he looks at it. Pours a glass of water and drinks. Sits down and lights his briar pipe.]

ANNETTE. But he can afford to smoke tobacco.

DURAND [Tired and submissively]. Dear children, this tobacco didn't cost me any more than that water, for it was given to me six months ago. Don't vex yourselves needlessly.

THERESE [Takes matches away]. Well, at least you sha'n't waste the matches.

DURAND. If you knew, Therese, how many matches I have wasted on you when I used to get up nights to see if you had thrown off the bedclothes! If you knew, Annette, how many times I have secretly given you water when you cried from thirst, because your mother believed that it was harmful for children to drink!

THERESE. Well, all that was so long ago that I can't bother about it. For that matter, it was only your duty, as you have said yourself.

DURAND. It was, and I fulfilled my duty and a little more too.

ADELE. Well, continue to do so, or no one knows what will become of us. Three young girls left homeless and friendless, without anything to live on! Do you know what want can drive one to?

DURAND. That's what I said ten years ago, but no one would heed me; and twenty years ago I predicted that this moment would come, and I haven't been able to prevent its coming. I have been sitting like a lone brakeman on an express train, seeing it go toward an abyss, but I haven't, been able to get to the engine valves to stop it.

THERESE. And now you want thanks for landing in the abyss with us.

DURAND. No, my child, I only ask that you be a little less unkind to me. You have cream fur the cat, but you begrudge milk to your father, who has not eaten for—so long.

THERESE. Oh, it's you, then, who has begrudged milk for my cat!

DURAND. Yes, it's I.

ANNETTE. And perhaps it is he who has eaten the rats' bait, too.

DURAND. It is he.

ADELE. Such a pig!

THERESE [Laughing]. Think if it had been poisoned!

DURAND. Alas, if only it had been, you mean!

THERESE. Yes, you surely wouldn't have minded that, you who have so often talked about shooting yourself—but have never done it!

DURAND. Why didn't you shoot me? That's a direct reproach. Do you know why I haven't done it? To keep you from going into the lake, my dear children.—Say something else unkind now. It's like hearing music—tunes that I recognize—from the good old times—

ADELE. Stop such useless talk now and do something. Do something.

THERESE. Do you know what the consequences may be if you leave us in this shape?

DURAND. You will go and prostitute yourselves. That's what your mother always said she'd do when she had spent the housekeeping money on lottery tickets.

ADELE. Silence! Not a word about our dear, beloved mother!

DURAND [Half humming to himself].

In this house a candle burns, When it burns out the goal he earns, The goal once won, the storm will come With a great crash. Yes! No!

[It has begun to blow outside and grown cloudy. Durand rises quickly and says to Adele] Put out the fire in the stove. The wind storm is coming.

ADELE [Looking Durand in the eyes]. No, the wind is not coming.

DURAND. Put out the fire. If it catches fire here, we'll get nothing from the insurance. Put out the fire, I say, put it out.

ADELE. I don't understand you.

DURAND [Looks in her eyes, taking her hand]. Just obey me, do as I say. [Adele goes into kitchen, leaving the door open. To Therese and Annette.] Go up and shut the windows, children, and look after the draughts. But come and give me a kiss first, for I am going away to get money for you.

THERESE. Can you get money?

DURAND. I have a life insurance that I think I am going to realize on.

THERESE. How much can you get for it?

DURAND. Six hundred francs if I sell it, and five thousand if I die. [Therese concerned.] Now, tell me, my child,—we mustn't be needlessly cruel,—tell me, Therese, are you so attached to Antonio that you would be quite unhappy if you didn't get him?

THERESE. Oh, yes!

DURAND. Then you must marry him if he really loves you. But you mustn't be unkind to him, for then you'll be unhappy. Good-bye, my dear beloved child. [Takes her in his arms and kisses her cheeks.]

THERESE. But you mustn't die, father, you mustn't.

DURAND. Would you grudge me going to my peace?

THERESE. No, not if you wish it yourself. Forgive me, father, the many, many times I've been unkind to you.

DURAND. Nonsense, my child.

THERESE. But no one was so unkind to you as I.

DURAND. I felt it less because I loved you most. Why, I don't know. But run and shut the windows.

THERESE. Here are your matches, papa—and there's your milk.

DURAND [Smiling]. Ah, you child!

THERESE. Well, what can I do? I haven't anything else to give you.

DURAND. You gave me so much joy as a child that you owe me nothing. Go now, and just give me a loving look as you used to do. [Therese turns and throws herself into his arms.] So, so, my child, now all is well. [Therese runs out.] Farewell, Annette.

ANNETTE. Are you going away? I don't understand all this.

DURAND. Yes, I'm going.

ANNETTE. But of course you're coming back, papa.

DURAND. Who knows whether he will live through the morrow? Anyway, we'll say farewell.

ANNETTE. Adieu, then, father—and a good journey to you. And you won't forget to bring something home to us just as you used to do, will you?

DURAND. And you remember that, though it's so long since I've bought anything for you children? Adieu, Annette. [Annette goes. Durand hums to himself.]

Through good and evil, great and small, Where you have sown, others gather all.

[Adele comes in.] Adele, come, now you shall hear and understand. If I speak in veiled terms, it is only to spare your conscience in having you know too much. Be quiet. I've got the children up in their rooms. First you are to ask me this question, "Have you a life insurance policy?" Well?

ADELE [Questioningly and uncertain]. "Have you a life insurance policy?"

DURAND. No, I had one, but I sold it long ago, because I thought I noticed that some one became irritable when it was due. But I have a fire insurance. Here are the papers. Hide them well. Now, I'm going to ask you something; do you know how many candles there are in a pound, mass candles at seventy-five centimes?

ADELE. There are six.

DURAND [Indicating the package of candles]. How many candles are there there?

ADELE. Only five.

DURAND. Because the sixth is placed very high up and very near—

ADELE.—Good Lord!

DURAND [Looking at his watch]. In five minutes or so, it will be burned out.

ADELE. No!

DURAND. Yes! Can you see dawn any other way in this darkness?

ADELE. No.

DURAND. Well, then. That takes care of the business. Now about another matter. If Monsieur Durand passes out of the world as an [Whispers] incendiary, it doesn't matter much, but his children shall know that he lived as a man of honor up to that time. Well, then, I was born in France, but I didn't have to admit that to the first scamp that came along. Just before I reached the age of conscription I fell in love with the one who later became my wife. To be able to marry, we came here and were naturalized. When the last war broke out, and it looked as if I was going to carry a weapon against my own country, I went out as a sharpshooter against the Germans. I never deserted, as you have heard that I did—your mother invented that story.

ADELE. Mother never lied—

DURAND.—So, so. Now the ghost has risen and stands between us again. I cannot enter an action against the dead, but I swear I am speaking the truth. Do you hear? And as far as your dowry is concerned, that is to say your maternal inheritance, these are the facts: first, your mother through carelessness and foolish speculations ruined your paternal inheritance so completely that I had to give up my business and start this pension. After that, part of her inheritance had to be used in the bringing-up of you children, which of course cannot be looked upon as thrown away. So it was also untrue that—

ADELE. No, that's not what mother said on her death-bed—

DURAND.—Then your mother lied on her death-bed, just as she had done all through her life. And that's the curse that has been following me like a spook. Think how you have innocently tortured me with these two lies for so many years! I didn't want to put disquiet into your young lives which would result in your doubting your mother's goodness. That's why I kept silent. I was the bearer of her cross throughout our married life; carried all her faults on my back, took all the consequences of her mistakes on myself until at last I believed that I was the guilty one. And she was not slow, first to believe herself to be blameless, and then later the victim. "Blame it on me," I used to say, when she had become terribly involved in some tangle. And she blamed and I bore! But the more she became indebted to me, the more she hated me, with the limitless hatred of her indebtedness. And in the end she despised me, trying to strengthen herself by imagining she had deceived me. And last of all she taught you children to despise me, because she wanted support in her weakness. I hoped and believed that this evil but weak spirit would die when she died; but evil lives and grows like disease, while soundness stops at a certain point and then retrogrades. And when I wanted to change what was wrong in the habits of this household, I was always met with "But mother said," and therefore it was true; "Mother used to do this way," and therefore it was right. And to you I became a good-for-nothing when I was kind, a miserable creature when I was sensitive, and a scamp when I let you all have your way and ruin the house.

ADELE. It's honorable to accuse the dead who can't defend themselves!

DURAND [Fast and exalted]. I am not dead yet, but I will be soon. Will you defend me then? No, you need not. But defend your sisters. Think only of my children, Adele. Take a motherly care of Therese; she is the youngest and liveliest, quick for good and bad, thoughtless but weak. See to it that she marries soon, if it can be arranged. Now, I can smell burning straw.

ADELE. Lord protect us!

DURAND [Drinks from glass]. He will. And for Annette you must try to find a place as teacher, so that she can get up in the world and into good company. You must manage the money when it falls due. Don't be close, but fix up your sisters so that they will be presentable to the right kind of people. Don't save anything but the family papers, which are in the top drawer of my chiffonier in the middle room. Here is the key. The fire insurance papers you have. [Smoke is seen forcing its way through the ceiling.] It will soon be accomplished now. In a moment you will hear the clanging from St. Francois. Promise me one thing. Never divulge this to your sisters. It would only disturb their peace for the rest of their lives. [He sits by table.] And one thing more, never a hard word against their mother. Her portrait is also in the chiffonier; none of you knew that, because I found it was enough that her spirit walked unseen in the home. Greet Therese, and ask her to forgive me. Don't forget that she must have the best when you buy her clothes; you know her weakness for such things and to what her weakness can bring her. Tell Annette—

[A distant clanging of bells is heard; the smoke increases. Monsieur Durand drops his head in his hands on the table.]

ADELE. It's burning, it's burning! Father, what's the matter with you? You'll be burned up! [Durand lifts his head, takes the water glass up and puts it down with a meaningful gesture.] You have—taken—poison!

DURAND [Nods affirmatively]. Have you the insurance papers? Tell Therese—and Annette—

[His head falls. The bell in distance strikes again. Rumbling and murmur of voices outside.]

CURTAIN.

*****



PARIAH, OR THE OUTCAST

One-Act Play

CHARACTERS

MR. X., an archeologist MR. Y., a traveller from America

Both middle-aged

[SCENE—Simple room in a country house; door and window at back, through which one sees a country landscape. In the middle of the room a large dining table; on one side of it books and writing materials and on the other side some antiques, a microscope, insect boxes, alcohol jars. To the left of scene a book-shelf, and all the other furnishings are those of a country gentleman. Mr. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying an insect net and a botanical tin box. He goes directly to the book-shelf, takes down a book and reads stealthily from it. The after-service bell of a country church rings. The landscape and room are flooded with sunshine. Now and then one hears the clucking of hens outside. Mr. X. comes in also in shirt-sleeves. Mr. Y. starts nervously, returns the book to its place, and pretends to look for another book on the shelf.]

MR. X. What oppressive heat! We'll surely have a thunder-shower.

MR. Y. Yes? What makes you think so?

MR. X. The bells sound like it, the flies bite so, and the hens are cackling. I wanted to go fishing, but I couldn't find a single worm. Don't you feel rather nervous?

MR. Y. [Reflectively]. I? Well, yes.

MR. X. But you always look as if you expected a thunder-shower.

MR. Y. Do I?

MR. X. Well, as you are to start off on your travels again tomorrow, it's not to be wondered at if you have the knapsack fever. What's the news? Here's the post. [Takes up letters from the table.] Oh, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a letter. Nothing but debts, debts! Did you ever have any debts?

MR. Y. [Reflecting]. No-o-o.

MR. X. Well, then, of course you can't understand how it feels to have unpaid bills come in. [He reads a letter.] The rent owing—the landlord clamoring—and my wife in despair. And I, I sitting up to my elbows in gold. [Opens an iron-mounted case, which stands on the table. They both sit down, one on each side of the case.] Here is six thousand crowns' worth of gold that I've dug up in two weeks. This bracelet alone would bring the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I should be able to make a brilliant career for myself. The first thing I should do would be to have drawings made and cuts of the figures for my treatises. After that I would print—and then clear out. Why do you suppose I don't do this?

MR. Y. It must be because you are afraid of being found out.

MR. X. Perhaps that, too. But don't you think that a man of my intelligence should be able to manage it so that it wouldn't be found out? I always go alone to dig out there on the hills—without witnesses. Would it be remarkable to put a little something in one's pockets?

MR. Y. Yes, but disposing of it, they say, is the dangerous part.

MR. X. Humph, I should of course have the whole thing smelted, and then I should have it cast into ducats—full weight, of course—

MR. Y. Of course!

MR. X. That goes without saying. If I wanted to make counterfeit money—well, it wouldn't be necessary to dig the gold first. [Pause.] It's remarkable, nevertheless, that if some one were to do what I can't bring myself to do, I should acquit him. But I should not be able to acquit myself. I should be able to put up a brilliant defense for the thief; prove that this gold was res nullius, or no one's, and that it got into the earth before there were any land rights; that even now it belongs to no one but the first comer, as the owner had never accounted it part of his property, and so on.

MR. Y. And you would not be able to do this if—h'm!—the thief had stolen through need, but rather as an instance of a collector's mania, of scientific interest, of the ambition to make a discovery,—isn't that so?

MR. X. You mean that I wouldn't be able to acquit him if he had stolen through need? No, that is the only instance the law does not pardon. That is simple theft, that is!

MR. Y. And that you would not pardon?

MR. X. H'm! Pardon! No, I could hardly pardon what the law does not, and I must confess that it would be hard for me to accuse a collector for taking an antique that he did not have in his collection, which he had dug up on some one else's property.

MR. Y. That is to say, vanity, ambition, could gain pardon where need could not?

MR. X. Yes, that's the way it is. And nevertheless need should be the strongest motive, the only one to be pardoned. But I can change that as little as I can change my will not to steal under any condition.

MR. Y. And you count it a great virtue that you cannot—h'm—steal?

MR. X. With me not to steal is just as irresistible as stealing is to some, and, therefore, no virtue. I cannot do it and they cannot help doing it. You understand, of course, that the idea of wanting to possess this gold is not lacking in me. Why don't I take it then? I cannot; it's an inability, and a lack is not a virtue. And there you are!

[Closes the case with a bang. At times stray clouds have dimmed the light in the room and now it darkens with the approaching storm.]

MR. X. How close it is! I think we'll have some thunder.

[Mr. Y. rises and shuts the door and window.]

MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder?

MR. Y. One should be careful.

[They sit again at table.]

MR. X. You are a queer fellow. You struck here like a bomb two weeks ago, and you introduced yourself as a Swedish-American who travels, collecting insects for a little museum.

MR. Y. Oh, don't bother about me.

MR. X. That's what you always say when I get tired of talking about myself and want to devote a little attention to you. Perhaps it was because you let me talk so much about myself that you won my sympathy. We were soon old acquaintances; there were no corners about you for me to knock against, no needles or pins to prick. There was something so mellow about your whole personality; you were so considerate, a characteristic which only the most cultivated can display; you were never noisy when you came home late, never made any disturbance when you got up in the morning; you overlooked trifles, drew aside when ideas became conflicting; in a word, you were the perfect companion; but you were altogether too submissive, too negative, too quiet, not to have me reflect about it in the course of time. And you are fearful and timid; you look as if you led a double life. Do you know, as you sit there before the mirror and I see your back, it's as if I were looking at another person. [Mr. Y. turns and looks in the mirror.] Oh, you can't see your back in the mirror. Front view, you look like a frank, fearless man who goes to meet his fate with open heart, but back view,—well, I don't wish to be discourteous, but you look as if you carried a burden, as if you were shrinking from a lash; and when I see your red suspenders across your white shirt—it looks like—like a big brand, a trade mark on a packing box.

MR. Y. [Rising]. I believe I will suffocate—if the shower doesn't break and come soon.

MR. X. It will come soon. Just be quiet. And the back of your neck, too, it looks as if there were another head on it, with the face of another type than you. You are so terribly narrow between the ears that I sometimes wonder if you don't belong to another race. [There is flash of lightning.] That one looked as if it struck at the sheriff's.

MR. Y. [Worried]. At the—sh-sheriff's!

MR. X. Yes, but it only looked so. But this thunder won't amount to anything. Sit down now and let's have a talk, as you are off again tomorrow.—It's queer that, although I became intimate with you so soon, you are one of those people whose likeness I cannot recall when they are out of my sight. When you are out in the fields and I try to recall your face, another acquaintance always comes to mind—some one who doesn't really look like you, but whom you resemble nevertheless.

MR. Y. Who is that?

MR. X. I won't mention the name. However, I used to have dinner at the same place for many years, and there at the lunch counter I met a little blond man with pale, worried eyes. He had an extraordinary faculty of getting about in a crowded room without shoving or being shoved. Standing at the door, he could reach a slice of bread two yards away; he always looked as if he was happy to be among people, and whenever he ran into an acquaintance he would fall into rapturous laughter, embrace him, and do the figure eight around him, and carry on as if he hadn't met a human being for years; if any one stepped on his toes he would smile as if he were asking pardon for being in the way. For two years I used to see him, and I used to amuse myself trying to figure out his business and character, but I never asked any one who he was,—I didn't want to know, as that would have put an end to my amusement. That man had the same indefinable characteristics as you; sometimes I would make him out an undergraduate teacher, an under officer, a druggist, a government clerk, or a detective, and like you, he seemed to be made up of two different pieces and the front didn't fit the back. One day I happened to read in the paper about a big forgery by a well-known civil official. After that I found out that my indefinable acquaintance had been the companion of the forger's brother, and that his name was Straman; and then I was informed that the afore-mentioned Straman had been connected with a free library, but that he was then a police reporter on a big newspaper. How could I then get any connection between the forgery, the police, and the indefinable man's appearance? I don't know, but when I asked a man if Straman had ever been convicted, he answered neither yes nor no—he didn't know. [Pause.]

MR. Y. Well, was he ever—convicted?

MR. X. No, he had not been convicted.

[Pause.]

MR. Y. You mean that was why keeping close to the police had such attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of bumping into people?

MR. X. Yes.

MR. Y. Did you get to know him afterward?

MR. X. No, I didn't want to.

MR. Y. Would you have allowed yourself to know him if he had been convicted?

MR. X. Yes, indeed.

[Mr. Y. rises and walks up and down.]

MR. X. Sit still. Why can't you sit quietly.

MR. Y. How did you get such a liberal attitude towards people's conduct? Are you a Christian?

MR. X. No,—of course I couldn't be,—as you've just heard. The Christians demand forgiveness, but I demand punishment for the restoration of balance, or whatever you like to call it, and you, who have served time, ought to understand that.

MR. Y. [Stops as if transfixed. Regards Mr. X. at first with wild hatred, them with surprise and wonderment.] How—do—you—know—that?

MR. X. It's plain to be seen.

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

MR. X. I have taught myself. That's an art, too. But we won't talk about that matter. [Looks at his watch. Takes out a paper for signing. Dips a pen and offers it to Mr. Y.] I must think about my muddled affairs. Now be so kind as to witness my signature on this note, which I must leave at the bank at Malmoe when I go there with you tomorrow morning.

MR. Y. I don't intend to go by way of Malmoe.

MR. X. No?

MR. Y. No.

MR. X. But you can witness my signature nevertheless.

MR. Y. No-o. I never sign my name to papers—

MR. X.—Any more! That's the fifth time that you have refused to write your name. The first time was on a postal receipt,—and it was then that I began to observe you; and now, I see that you have a horror of touching pen and ink. You haven't sent a letter since you've been here. Just one postal-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. Do you see now how I have figured out your mis-step? Furthermore, this is the seventh time that you have refused to go to Malmoe, where you have not gone since you have been here. Nevertheless you came here from America just to see Malmoe; and every morning you have walked southward three miles and a half to the windmill hill just to see the roofs of Malmoe; also, when you stand at the right-hand window, through the third window-pane to the left, counting from the bottom up, you can see the turrets of the castle, and the chimneys on the state prison. Do you see now that it is not that I am so clever but that you are so stupid?

MR. Y. Now you hate me.

MR. X. No.

MR. Y. Yes, you do, you must.

MR. X. No—see, here's my hand.

MR. Y. [Kisses the proffered hand].

MR. X. [Drawing back his hand]. What dog's trick is that?

MR. Y. Pardon! But thou art the first to offer me his hand after knowing—

MR. X.—And now you are "thou-ing" me! It alarms me that, after serving your time, you do not feel your honor retrieved, that you do not feel on equal footing,—in fact, just as good as any one. Will you tell me how it happened? Will you?

MR. Y. [Dubiously]. Yes, but you won't believe what I say. I'm going to tell you, though, and you shall see that I was not a common criminal. You shall be convinced that mis-steps are made, as one might say, involuntarily—[Shakily] as if they came of their own accord, spontaneously, without intention, blamelessly!—Let me open the window a little. I think the thunder shower-has passed over.

MR. X. Go ahead.

MR. Y. [Goes and opens the window, then comes and sits by the table again and tells the following with great enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and false accents]. Well, you see I was a student at Lund, and once I needed a loan. I had no dangerously big debts, my father had some means—not very much, to be sure; however, I had sent away a note of hand to a man whom I wanted to have sign it as second security, and contrary to all expectations, it was returned to me with a refusal. I sat for a while benumbed by the blow, because it was a disagreeable surprise, very disagreeable. The note lay before me on the table, and beside it the letter of refusal. My eyes glanced hopelessly over the fatal lines which contained my sentence. To be sure it wasn't a death-sentence, as I could easily have got some other man to stand as security; as many as I wanted, for that matter—but, as I've said, it was very unpleasant; and as I sat there in my innocence, my glance rested gradually on the signature, which, had it been in the right place, would have made my future. That signature was most unusual calligraphy—you know how, as one sits thinking, one can scribble a whole blotter full of meaningless words. I had the pen in my hand—[He takes up the pen] like this, and before I knew what I was doing it started to write,—of course I don't want to imply that there was anything mystical spiritualistic, behind it—because I don't believe in such things!—it was purely a thoughtless, mechanical action—when I sat and copied the beautiful autograph time after time—without, of course, any prospect of gain. When the letter was scribbled all over, I had acquired skill enough to reproduce the signature remarkably well [Throws the pen down with violence] and then I forgot the whole thing. That night my sleep was deep and heavy, and when I awakened I felt that I had been dreaming, but I could not recall the dream; however, it seemed as though the door to my dream opened a little when I saw the writing table and the note in memory—and when I got up I was driven to the table absolutely, as if, after ripe consideration, I had made the irrevocable resolution to write that name on the fateful paper. All thought of risk, of consequence, had disappeared—there was no wavering—it was almost as if I were fulfilling a precious duty—and I wrote. [Springs to his feet.] What can such a thing be? Is it inspiration, hypnotic suggestion, as it is called? But from whom? I slept alone in my room. Could it have been my uncivilized ego, the barbarian that does not recognize conventions, but who emerged with his criminal will and his inability to calculate the consequences of his deed? Tell me, what do you think about such a case?

MR. X. [Bored]. To be honest, your story does not quite convince me. There are holes in it,—but that may be clue to your not being able to remember all the details,—and I have read a few things about criminal inspirations—and I recall—h'm—but never mind. You have had your punishment, you have had character enough to admit your error, and we won't discuss it further.

MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we will discuss it; we must talk, so that I can have complete consciousness of my unswerving honesty.

MR. X. But haven't you that?

MR. Y. No, I haven't.

MR. X. Well, you see, that's what bothers me, that's what bothers me. Don't you suppose that each one of us has a skeleton in his closet? Yes, indeed! Well, there are people who continue to be children all their lives, so that they cannot control their lawless desires. Whenever the opportunity comes, the criminal is ready. But I cannot understand why you do not feel innocent. As the child is considered irresponsible, the criminal should be considered so too. It's strange—well, it doesn't matter; I'll regret it later. [Pause.] I killed a man once, and I never had any scruples.

MR. Y. [Very interested]. You—did?

MR. X. Yes—I did. Perhaps you wouldn't like to take a murderer's hand?

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

MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished for it.

MR. Y. [Intimate, superior]. So much the better for you. How did you get out of it?

MR. X. There were no accusers, no suspicions, no witnesses. It happened this way: one Christmas a friend of mine had invited me for a few days' hunting just outside of Upsala; he sent an old drunken servant to meet me, who fell asleep on the coach-box and drove into a gate-post, which landed us in the ditch. It was not because my life had been in danger, but in a fit of anger I struck him a blow to wake him, with the result that he never awakened again—he died on the spot.

MR. Y. [Cunningly]. And you didn't give yourself up?

MR. X. No, and for the following reasons. The man had no relatives or other connections who were dependent on him. He had lived out his period of vegetation and his place could soon be filled by some one who was needed more, while I, on the other hand, was indispensable to the happiness of my parents, my own happiness, and perhaps to science. Through the outcome of the affair I was cured of the desire to strike any more blows, and to satisfy an abstract justice I did not care to ruin the lives of my parents as well as my own life.

MR. Y. So? That's the way you value human life?

MR. X. In that instance, yes.

MR. Y. But the feeling of guilt, the "restoration of balance?"

MR. X. I had no guilty feeling, its I had committed no crime. I had received and given blows as a boy, and it was only ignorance of the effect of blows on old people that caused the fatality.

MR. Y. Yes, but it is two years' hard labor for homicide—just as much as for—forgery.

MR. X. You may believe I have thought of that too, and many a night have I dreamed that I was in prison. Ugh! is it as terrible as it's said to be behind bolts and bars?

MR. Y. Yes, it is terrible. First they disfigure your exterior by cutting off your hair, so if you did not look like a criminal before, you do afterward, and when you look at yourself in the mirror, you become convinced that you are a desperado.

MR. X. It's the mask that they pull off; that's not a bad idea.

MR. Y. You jest! Then they cut down your rations, so that every day, every hour you feel a distinct difference between life and death; all life's functions are repressed; you feel yourself grovelling, and your soul, which should be bettered and uplifted there, is put on a starvation cure, driven back a thousand years in time; you are only allowed to read what was written for the barbarians of the migratory period; you are allowed to hear about nothing but that which can never come to pass in heaven, but what happens on earth remains a secret; you are torn from your own environment, moved down out of your class; you come under those who come under you; you have visions of living in the bronze age, feel as if you went about in an animal's skin, lived in a cave, and ate out of a trough! Ugh!

MR. X. That's quite rational. Any one who behaves as if he belonged to the bronze age ought to live in the historic costume.

MR. Y. [Spitefully]. You scoff, you, you who have behaved like a man of the stone age! And you are allowed to live in the gold age!

MR. X. [Searchingly and sharp]. What do you mean by that last expression—the gold age?

MR. Y. [Insidiously]. Nothing at all.

MR. X. That's a lie; you are too cowardly to state your whole meaning.

MR. Y. Am I cowardly? Do you think that? I wasn't cowardly when I dared to show myself in this neighborhood, where I have suffered what I have.—Do you know what one suffers from most when one sits in there? It is from the fact that the others are not sitting in there too.

MR. X. What others?

MR. Y. The unpunished.

MR. X. Do you allude to me?

MR. Y. Yes.

MR. X. I haven't committed any crime.

MR. Y. No? Haven't you?

MR. X. No. An accident is not a crime.

MR. Y. So, it's an accident to commit murder?

MR. X. I haven't committal any murder.

MR. Y. So? Isn't it murder to slay a man?

MR. X. No, not always. There is manslaughter, homicide, assault resulting in death, with the subdivisions, with or without intent. However, now I am really afraid of you, for you belong in the most dangerous category of human beings, the stupid.

MR. Y. So you think that I am stupid? Now listen! Do you want me to prove that I am very shrewd?

MR. X. Let me hear.

MR. Y. Will you admit that I reason shrewdly and logically when I say this? You met with an accident which might have brought you two years of hard labor. You have escaped the ignominious penalty altogether. Here sits a man who also has been the victim of an accident, an unconscious suggestion, and forced to suffer two years of hard labor. This man can wipe out the stain he has unwittingly brought upon himself only through scientific achievement; but for the attainment of this he must have money—much money, and that immediately. Doesn't it seem to you that the other man, the unpunished one, would restore the balance of human relations if he were sentenced to a tolerable fine? Don't you think so?

MR. X. [Quietly]. Yes.

MR. Y. Well, we understand each other.—H'm! How much do you consider legitimate?

MR. X. Legitimate? The law decrees that a man's life is worth at the minimum fifty crowns. But as the deceased had no relatives, there's nothing to be said on that score.

MR. Y. Humph, you will not understand? Then I must speak more plainly. It is to me that you are to pay the fine.

MR. X. I've never heard that a homicide should pay a fine to a forger, and there is also no accuser.

MR. Y. No? Yes, you have me.

MR. X. Ah, now things are beginning to clear up. How much do you ask to become accomplice to the homicide?

MR. Y. Six thousand crowns.

Mr. X. That's too much. Where am I to get it? [Mr. Y. points to the case.] I don't want to do that, I don't want to become a thief.

MR. Y. Don't pretend. Do you want me to believe that you haven't dipped into that case before now?

MR. X. [As to himself]. To think that I could make such a big mistake! But that's the way it always is with bland people. One is fond of gentle people, and then one believes so easily that he is liked; and just on account of that I have been a little watchful of those of whom I've been fond. So you are fully convinced that I have helped myself from that case?

MR. Y. Yes, I'm sure of it.

MR. X. And you will accuse me if you do not receive the six thousand crowns?

MR. Y. Absolutely. You can't get out of it, so it's not worth while trying to do so.

MR. X. Do you think I would give my father a thief for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, and my confreres a thief for comrade? That shall never happen. Now I'll go to the sheriff and give myself up.

MR. Y. [Springs up and gets his things together]. Wait a moment.

MR. X. What for?

M$. Y. [Stammering]. I only thought—that as I'm not needed—I wouldn't need to be present—and could go.

MR. X. You cannot. Sit down at your place at the table, where you've been sitting, and we will talk a little.

MR. Y. [Sits, after putting on a dark coat]. What's going to happen now?

MR. X. [Looking into mirror]. Now everything is clear to me! Ah!

MR. Y. [Worried]. What do you see now that's so remarkable?

MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief, a simple, common thief. Just now, when you sat there in your shirt-sleeves, I noticed that something was wrong about my book-shelf, but I couldn't make out what it was, as I wanted to listen to you and observe you. Now, since you have become my antagonist, my sight is keener, and since you have put on that black coat, that acts as a color contrast against the red backs of the books, which were not noticeable before against your red suspenders, I see that you have been there and read your forgery story in Bernheim's essay on hypnotic suggestion, and returned the book upside down. So you stole that story too! In consequence of all this I consider that I have the right to conclude that you committed your crime through need, or because you were addicted to pleasures.

MR. Y. Through need. If you knew—

MR. X. If you knew in what need I have lived, and lived, and still live! But this is no time for that. To continue, that you have served time is almost certain, but that was in America, for it was American prison life that you described; another thing is almost as certain—that you have not served out your sentence here.

MR. Y. How can you say that?

MR. X. Wait until the sheriff comes and you will know. [Mr. Y. rises.] Do you see? The first time I mentioned the sheriff in connection with the thunderbolt, you wanted to run then, too; and when a man has been in that prison he never wants to go to the windmill hill every day to look at it, or put himself behind a window-pane to—to conclude, you have served one sentence, but not another. That's why you were so difficult to get at. [Pause.]

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

MR. X. Yes, you may go now.

MR. Y. [Getting his things together]. Are you angry with me?

MR. X. Yes. Would you like it better if I pitied you?

MR. Y. [Wrathfully]. Pity! Do you consider yourself better than I am?

MR. X. Of course I do, as I am better. I am more intelligent than you are, and of more worth to the common weal.

MR. Y. You are pretty crafty, but not so crafty as I am. I stand in check myself, but, nevertheless, the next move you can be checkmated.

MR. X. [Fixing Mr. Y. with his eye]. Shall we have another bout? What evil do you intend to do now?

MR. Y. That is my secret.

MR. X. May I look at you?—You think of writing an anonymous letter to my wife, disclosing my secret.

MR. Y. Yes, and you cannot prevent it. You dare not have me imprisoned, so you must let me go; and when I have gone I can do what I please.

MR. X. Ah, you devil! You've struck my Achilles heel—will you force me to become a murderer?

MR. Y. You couldn't become one! You timid creature!

MR. X. You see, then, there is a difference in people after all, and you feel within you that I cannot commit such deeds as you, and that is your advantage. But think if you forced me to deal with you as I did with the coachman!

[Lifts his hand as if to strike. Mr. Y. looks hard at Mr. X.]

MR. Y. You can't do it. He who dared not take his salvation out of the case couldn't do that.

MR. X. Then you don't believe that I ever took from the case?

MR. Y. You were too cowardly, just as you were too cowardly to tell your wife that she is married to a murderer.

MR. X. You are a different kind of being from me—whether stronger or weaker I do not know—more criminal or not—that doesn't concern me. But you are the stupider, that's proven. Because you were stupid when you forged a man's name instead of begging as I have had to do; you were stupid when you stole out of my book—didn't you realize that I read my books? You were stupid when you thought that you were more intelligent than I am and that you could fool me into becoming a thief; you were stupid when you thought, that the restoration of balance would be accomplished by the world's having two thieves instead of one, and you were most stupid when you believed that I have built my life's happiness without having laid the cornerstone securely. Go and write your anonymous letter to my wife about her husband being a homicide—that she knew as my fiancee. Do you give up now?

MR. Y. Can I go?

MR. X. Now you shall go—immediately. Your things will follow you.

CURTAIN.

*****



EASTER

CHARACTERS

MRS. HEYST ELIS, her son. Instructor in a preparatory school ELEONORA, her daughter CHRISTINE, Elis' fiancee BENJAMIN, a freshman LINDKVIST

[Scene for the entire play.—The interior of a glass-enclosed piazza, furnished like a living-room. A large door at the middle back leading out into the garden with fence and garden gate visible. Beyond one sees the tops of trees (indicating that the house is situated on a height), and in the distance the cathedral and another high building loom against the sky. The glass windows which extend across the entire back of scene are hung with flowered yellow cretonne, which can be drawn open. A mirror hangs on the panel between door and window on the left. Below the mirror is a calendar. To the right of door a writing table covered with books and writing materials. A telephone is also on it. To L. of door is a dining table, stove and bureau. At R. in foreground it small sewing table with lamp on it. Near it are two arm-chairs. A hanging lamp at center. Outside in the street an electric light. At L. there is a door leading from piazza to the house, at R. a door leading to the kitchen. Time, the present.]



ACT I.

[Thursday before Easter. The music before curtain is: Haydn: Sieben Worte des Erloesers. Introduction: Maestoso Adagio.]

[A ray of sunlight falls across the room and strikes one of the chairs near the sewing table. In the other chair, untouched by the sunshine, sits Christine, running strings thro' muslin sash-curtains. Elis enters wearing a winter overcoat, unbuttoned. He carries a bundle of legal documents which he puts on the writing table. After that he takes off his overcoat and hangs it at L.]

ELIS. Hello, sweetheart.

CHRISTINE. Hello, Elis.

ELIS [Looks around]. The double windows are off, the floor scoured, fresh curtains at the windows—yes, it is spring again! The ice has gone out of the river, and the willows are beginning to bud on the banks—yes, spring has come and I can put away my winter overcoat. [Weighs his overcoat in his hand and hangs it up.] You know, it's so heavy—just as tho' it had absorbed the weight of the whole winter's worries, the sweat and dust of the school-room.

CHRISTINE. But you have a vacation now.

ELIS. Yes, Easter. Five days to enjoy, to breathe, to forget. [Takes Christine's hand a minute, and then seats himself in arm-chair.] Yes, the sun has come again. It left us in November. How well I remember the day it disappeared behind the brewery across the street. Oh, this winter, this long winter.

CHRISTINE [With a gesture toward kitchen]. Sh! Sh!

ELIS. I'll be quiet—But I'm so happy that it's over with. Oh, the warm sun! [Rubs his hands as tho' bathing them in the sunshine.] I want to bathe in the sunshine and light after all the winter gloom—

CHRISTINE. Sh! Sh!

ELIS. Do you know, I believe that good luck is coming our way—that hard luck is tired of us.

CHRISTINE. What makes you think so?

ELIS. Why, as I was going by the cathedral just now a white dove flew down and alighted in front of me, and dropped a little branch it was carrying right at my feet.

CHRISTINE. Did you notice what kind of branch it was?

ELIS. Of course it couldn't have been an olive branch, but I believe it was a sign of peace—and I felt the life-giving joy of spring. Where's mother?

CHRISTINE [Points toward kitchen]. In the kitchen.

ELIS [Quietly and closing his eyes]. I hear the spring! I can tell that the double windows are off, I hear the wheel hubs so plainly. And what's that?—a robin chirping out in the orchard, and they are hammering down at the docks and I can smell the fresh paint on the steamers.

CHRISTINE. Can you feel all that—here in town?

ELIS. Here? It's true we are here, but I was up there, in the North, where our home lies. Oh, how did we ever get into this dreadful city where the people all hate each other and where one is always alone? Yes, it was our daily bread that led the way, but with the bread came the misfortunes: father's criminal act and little sister's illness. Tell me, do you know whether mother has ever been to see father since he's been in prison?

CHRISTINE. Why, I think she's been there this very day.

ELIS. What did she have to say about it?

CHRISTINE. Nothing—she wouldn't talk about it.

ELIS. Well, one thing at least has been gained, and that is the quiet that followed the verdict after the newspapers had gorged themselves with the details. One year is over: and then we can make a fresh start.

CHRISTINE. I admire your patience in this suffering.

ELIS. Don't. Don't admire anything about me. I am full of faults—you know it.

CHRISTINE. If you were only suffering for your own faults—but to be suffering for another!

ELIS. What are you sewing on?

CHRISTINE. Curtains for the kitchen, you dear.

ELIS. It looks like a bridal veil. This fall you will be my bride, won't you, Christine?

CHRISTINE. Yes—but—let's think of summer first.

ELIS. Yes, summer! [Takes out the check book.] You see the money is already in the bank, and when school is over we will start for the North, for our home land among the lakes. The cottage stands there just as it did when we were children, and the linden trees. Oh, that it were summer already and I could go swimming in the lake! I feel as if this family dishonor has besmirched me so that I long to bathe, body and soul, in the clear lake waters.

CHRISTINE. Have you heard anything from Eleonora?

ELIS. Yes—poor little sister! She writes me letters that tear my heart to pieces. She wants to get out of the asylum—and home, of course. But the doctor daren't let her go. She would do things that might lead to prison, he says. Do you know, I feel terribly conscience-stricken sometimes—

CHRISTINE [Starting]. Why?

ELIS. Because I agreed with all the rest of them that it was best to put her there.

CHRISTINE. My dear, you are always accusing yourself. It was fortunate she could be taken care of like that—poor little thing!

ELIS. Well, perhaps you're right. It is best so. She is as well off there as she could be anywhere. When I think of how she used to go about here casting gloom over every attempt at happiness, how her fate weighed us down like a nightmare, then I am tempted to feel almost glad about it. I believe the greatest misfortune that could happen would be to see her cross this threshold. Selfish brute that I am!

CHRISTINE. Human being that you are!

ELIS. And yet—I suffer—suffer at the thought of her misery and my father's.

CHRISTINE. It seems as tho' some were born to suffer.

ELIS. You poor Christine—to be drawn into this family, which was cursed from the beginning! Yes, doomed!

CHRISTINE. You don't know whether it's all trial or punishment, Elis. Perhaps I can help you through the struggles.

ELIS. Do you think mother has a clean dress tie for me?

CHRISTINE [Anxiously]. Are you going out?

ELIS. I'm going out to dinner. Peter won the debate last night, you know, and he's giving a dinner tonight.

CHRISTINE. And you're going to that dinner?

ELIS. You mean that perhaps I shouldn't because he has proven such an unfaithful friend and pupil?

CHRISTINE. I can't deny that I was shocked by his unfaithfulness, when he promised to quote from your theories and he simply plundered them without giving you any credit.

ELIS. Ah, that's the way things go, but I am happy in the consciousness that "this have I done."

CHRISTINE. Has he invited you to the dinner?

ELIS. Why, that's true—come to think of it, he didn't invite me. That's very strange. Why didn't I think of that before! Why, he's been talking for years as though I were to be the guest of honor at that dinner, and he has told others that. But if I am not invited—then of course it's pretty plain that I'm snubbed, insulted, in fact. Well, it doesn't matter. It isn't the first time—nor the last. [Pause.]

CHRISTINE. Benjamin is late. Do you think he will pass his examinations?

ELIS. I certainly do—in Latin particularly.

CHRISTINE. Benjamin is a good boy!

ELIS. Yes, but he's somewhat of a grumbler. You know of course why he is living here with us?

CHRISTINE. IS it because—

ELIS. Because—my father was the boy's guardian and spent his fortune for him, as he did—for so many others. Can you fancy, Christine, what agony it is for me as their instructor to see those fatherless boys, who have been robbed of their inheritance, suffering the humiliations of free scholars? I have to think constantly of their misery to be able to forgive them their cruel glances.

CHRISTINE. I believe that your father is truly better off than you.

ELIS. Truly!

CHRISTINE. But Elis, we should think of summer, and not of the past.

ELIS. Yes, of summer! Do you know, I was awakened last night by some students singing that old song, "Yes, I am coming, glad winds, take this greeting to the country, to the birds—Say that I love them, tell birch and linden, lake and mountain, that I am coming back to them—to behold them again as in my childhood hours—" [He rises—moved.] Shall I ever go back to them, shall I ever go out from this dreadful city, from Ebal, accursed mountain, and behold Gerizim again? [Seats himself near the door.]

CHRISTINE. Aye, aye—that you shall!

ELIS. But do you think my birches and lindens will look as they used to—don't you think the same dark veil will shroud them that has been lying over all nature and life for us ever since the day when father—[Points to the empty arm-chair which is in the shadow.] Look, the sun has gone.

CHRISTINE. It will come again and stay longer.

ELIS. That's true. As the days lengthen the shadows shorten.

CHRISTINE. Yes, Elis, we are going toward the light, believe me.

ELIS. Sometimes I believe that, and when I think of all that has happened, all the misery, and compare it with the present—then I am happy. Last year you were not sitting there, for you had gone away from me and broken off our betrothal. Do you know, that was the darkest time of all. I was dying literally bit by bit; but then you came back to me—and I lived. Why did you go away from me?

CHRISTINE. Oh; I don't know—it seems to me now as if there was no reason. I had an impulse to go—and I went, as tho' I were walking in my sleep. When I saw you again I awoke—and was happy.

ELIS. And now we shall go on together forevermore. If you left me now I should die in earnest.—Here comes mother. Say nothing, let her live in her imaginary world in which she believes that father is a martyr and that all those he sacrificed are rascals.

MRS. HEYST [Comes from kitchen. She is paring an apple. She is simply dressed and speaks in an innocent voice]. Good afternoon, children. Will you have your apple dumpling hot or cold?

ELIS. Cold, mother dear.

MRS. HEYST. That's right, my boy, you always know what you want and say so. But you aren't like that, Christine. Elis gets that from his father; he always knew what he wanted and said so frankly, and people don't like that—so things went badly with him. But his day will come, and he'll get his rights and the others will get their just deserts. Wait now, what was it I had to tell you? Oh, yes, what do you think? Lindkvist has come here to live! Lindkvist, the biggest rascal of them all!

ELIS [Rises, disturbed]. Has he come here?

MRS. HEYST. Yes, indeed, he's come to live right across the street from us.

ELIS. So now we must see him coming and going day in and day out. That too!

MRS. HEYST. Just let me have a talk with him, and he'll never show his face again! For I happen to know a few things about him! Well, Elis, how did Peter come out?

ELIS. Oh, finely!

MRS. HEYST. I can well believe that! When do you think you will join the debating club?

ELIS. When I can afford it!

MRS. HEYST. "When I can afford it." Humph, that isn't a very good answer! And Benjamin—did he get through his examinations all right?

ELIS. We don't know yet; but he'll soon be here.

MRS. HEYST. Well, I don't quite like the way Benjamin goes around looking so conscious of his privileges in this house—but we shall take him down soon enough. But he's a good boy just the same. Oh, yes, there's a package for you, Elis. [Goes out to kitchen and comes back directly with a package.]

ELIS. Mother does keep track of everything, doesn't she? I sometimes believe that she is not so simple minded as she seems to be.

MRS. HEYST. See, here's the package. Lina received it. Perhaps it is an Easter present!

ELIS. I'm afraid of presents since the time I received a box of cobblestones. [Puts the package on the table.]

MRS. HEYST. Now I must go back to my duties in the kitchen. Don't you think it is too cold with the door open?

ELIS. Not at all, mother.

MRS. HEYST. Elis, you shouldn't hang your overcoat there. It looks so disorderly. Now, Christine, will my curtains be ready soon?

CHRISTINE. In just a few minutes, mother.

MRS. HEYST [To Elis]. Yes, I like Peter; he is my favorite among your friends. But aren't you going to his dinner this evening, Elis?

ELIS. Yes, I suppose so.

MRS. HEYST. Now, why did you go and say that you wanted your apple dumpling cold when you are going out to dinner? You're so undecided, Elis. But Peter isn't like that.—Shut the door when it gets chilly, so that you won't get sniffles.[Goes out R.]

ELIS. The good old soul—and always Peter. Does she like to tease you about Peter?

CHRISTINE [Surprised and hurt]. Me?

ELIS [Disconcerted]. Old ladies have such queer notions, you know.

CHRISTINE. What have you received for a present?

ELIS [Opening package]. A birch rod!

CHRISTINE. From whom?

ELIS. It's anonymous. It's just an innocent joke on the schoolmaster. I shall put it in water—and it will blossom like Aaron's staff. "Rod of birch, which in my childhood's hour"—And so Lindkvist has come here to live!

CHRISTINE. Well, what about him?

ELIS. We owe him our biggest debt.

CHRISTINE. You don't owe him anything.

ELIS. Yes, one for all and all for one; the family's name is disgraced as long as we owe a farthing.

CHRISTINE. Change your name!

ELIS. Christine!

CHRISTINE [Puts down work, which is finished]. Thanks, Elis, I was only testing you.

ELIS. But you must not tempt me. Lindkvist is not a rich man, and needs what is due him.—When my father got through with it all it was like a battle-field of dead and wounded—and mother believes father is a martyr! Shall we go out and take a walk?

CHRISTINE. And try to find the sunshine? Gladly!

ELIS. I can't understand how it can be that our Saviour suffered for us and yet we must continue to suffer.

CHRISTINE. Here comes Benjamin.

ELIS. Can you see whether he looks happy or not?

CHRISTINE [Looks out door]. He walks so slowly, he's stopped at the fountain—and bathing his eyes.

ELIS. And this too!

CHRISTINE. Walt until—

ELIS. Tears! Tears!

CHRISTINE. Patience.

[Enter Benjamin. He has a kind face and seems very downcast. He carries several books and a portfolio.]

ELIS. Well, how did you get along in Latin?

BENJAMIN. Badly!

ELIS. Let me see your examination paper. What did you do?

BENJAMIN. I used "ut" with the indicative, altbo' I knew it should be the subjunctive.

ELIS. Then you are lost! But how could you do that?

BENJAMIN [Submissively]. I can't, explain it—I knew how it should be. I meant to do it right, but some way I wrote it wrong. [Seats himself dejectedly near dining table.]

ELIS [Sinks dozen near writing desk and opens Benjamin's portfolio]. Yes, here it is—the indicative, oh!

CHRISTINE [Faintly, with effort]. Well, better luck next time—life is long.

ELIS. Terribly long.

BENJAMIN. Yes, it is.

ELIS [Sadly but without bitterness]. But that everything should come at the same time! You were my best pupil, so what can I expect of the others? My reputation as a teacher is lost. I shall not be allowed to teach any longer and so—complete ruin! [To Benjamin.] Don't take it to heart so—it is not your fault.

CHRISTINE [With great effort]. Elis, courage, courage, for God's sake.

ELIS. What shall I get it from?

CHRISTINE. What you got it from before.

ELIS. But things are not as they were. I seem to be in complete disgrace now.

CHRISTINE. There is no disgrace in undeserved suffering. Don't be impatient. Be equal to the test, for it is just another test. I feel sure of that.

ELIS. Can a year for Benjamin become less than three hundred and sixty-five days?

CHRISTINE. Yes, a cheerful spirit makes the days shorter.

ELIS [Smiling]. Blow upon the burn; that heals it, children are told.

CHRISTINE. Be a child then, and let me tell you that. Think of your mother, how she bears everything.

ELIS. Give me your hand; I am sinking. [Christine reaches out her hand to him.] Your hand trembles.—

CHRISTINE. No, not that I know of—

ELIS. You are not so strong as you seem to be—

CHRISTINE. I do not feel any weakness—

ELIS. Why can't you give me some strength then?

CHRISTINE. I have none to spare!

ELIS [Looking out of the window]. Do you see who that is coming?

[Christine goes and looks out of window, then falls upon her knees, crushed.]

CHRISTINE. This is too much!

ELIS. Our creditor, he who can take our home and all our belongings away from us. He, Lindkvist, who has come here and ensconced himself in the middle of his web like a spider, to watch the flies—

CHRISTINE. Let us run away!

ELIS [At window]. No—no running away! Now when you grow weak I become strong—now he is coming up the street—and he casts his evil eye over toward his prey.

CHRISTINE. Stand aside, at least.

ELIS [Straightening himself]. No, he amuses me. His face lights up with pleasure, as tho' he could already see his victims in his trap. Come on! He is counting the steps up to our gate and he sees by the open door that we are at home.—But he has met some one and stands there talking.—He is talking about us, for he's pointing over here.

CHRISTINE. If only he doesn't meet mother, so that she can't make him harsh with her angry words!—Oh, prevent that, Elis!

ELIS. Now he is shaking his stick, as if he were protesting that in our case mercy shall not pass for justice. He buttons his overcoat to show that at least he hasn't yet had the very clothes on his back taken from him. I can tell by his mouth what he is saying. What shall I reply to him? "My dear sir, you are in the right. Take everything, it belongs to you."

CHRISTINE. There is nothing else you could say.

ELIS. Now he laughs. But it is a kind laugh, not a malicious one! Perhaps he isn't so mean after all, but he'll see that he gets every penny coming to him, nevertheless! If he would only come, and stop his blessed prating.—Now, he is swinging his stick again.—They always carry a stick, men who have debtors, and they always wear galoshes that say "Swish, swish," like lashes through the air—[Christine puts hand against his heart.] Do you hear how my heart beats? It sounds like an ocean steamer. Now, thank Heaven, he's taking his leave with his squeaking galoshes! "Swish, swish," like a switch! Oh, but he wears a watch charm! So he can't be utterly poverty-stricken. They always have watch charms of carnelian, like dried flesh that they have cut out of their neighbors' backs. Listen to the galoshes. "Angry, angrier, angriest, swish, swish." Watch him! The old wolf! He sees me! He sees me! He bows! He smiles! He waves his hand—and [Sinks down near the writing table, weeping] he has gone by!

CHRISTINE. Praise be to God!

ELIS [Rising]. He has gone by—but he will come again. Let's go out in the sunshine.

CHRISTINE. And what about dining with Peter?

ELIS. As I am not invited, I cannot go. For that matter, what should I do there in the festivity! Just go and meet an unfaithful friend! I should only make a pretense of not being hurt by what he has done.

CHRISTINE. I'm glad, for then you will stay here with us.

ELIS. I'd rather do that, as you know. Shall we go?

CHRISTINE. Yes, this way.

[Goes towards left. As Elis passes Benjamin he puts his hand on Benjamin's shoulder.]

ELIS. Courage, boy!

[Benjamin hides his face in his hands.]

ELIS [Takes the birch rod from the dining table and puts it behind the looking-glass]. It wasn't an olive branch that the dove was carrying—it was a birch rod!

[They go out.]

[Eleonora comes in from back: she is sixteen, with braids down her back. She carries an Easter lily in a pot. Without seeing, or pretending not to see Benjamin, she puts the lily on the dining table and then goes and gets a water-bottle from the sideboard and waters the plant. Then seats herself near dining table right opposite Benjamin and contemplates him and then imitates his gestures and movements.]

[Benjamin stares at her in astonishment.]

ELEONORA [Points to lily]. Do you know what that is?

BENJAMIN [Boyishly, simply]. It's an Easter lily—that's easy enough; but who are you?

ELEONORA [Sweetly, sadly]. Well, who are you?

BENJAMIN. My name is Benjamin and I live here with Mrs. Heyst.

ELEONORA. Indeed! My name is Eleonora and I am the daughter of Mrs. Heyst.

BENJAMIN. How strange no one ever said anything about you!

ELEONORA. People do not talk about the dead!

BENJAMIN. The dead?

ELEONORA. I am dead civilly, for I have committed a very bad deed.

BENJAMIN. You!

ELEONORA. Yes, I spent a trust fund; but that wasn't so much, for it was money as ill-gotten as ill-spent—but that my poor old father should be blamed for it and be put in prison—you see, that can never be forgiven.

BENJAMIN. So strangely and beautifully you talk! And I never thought of that—that my inheritance might have been ill-gotten.

ELEONORA. One should not confine human beings, one should free them.

BENJAMIN. You have freed me from a delusion.

ELEONORA. You are a charity pupil?

BENJAMIN. Yes, it is my sorrowful lot to have to live upon the charity of this poor family.

ELEONORA. You must not use harsh words or I shall have to go away. I am so sensitive I cannot bear anything harsh. Nevertheless it's my fault that you are unhappy.

BENJAMIN. Your father's fault, you mean.

ELEONORA. That is the same thing, for he and I are one and the same person. [Pause.] Why are you so dejected?

BENJAMIN. I have had a disappointment!

ELEONORA. Should you be downcast on that account? "Rod and punishment bring wisdom, and he who hates punishment must perish—" What disappointment have you had?

BENJAMIN. I have failed in my Latin examination—altho' I was so sure I would pass.

ELEONORA. Just so; you were so sure, so sure, that you would even have laid a wager that you would get thro' it.

BENJAMIN. I did have a bet on it.

ELEONORA. I thought so. You see that's why it happened—because you were so sure.

BENJAMIN. Do you think that was the reason?

ELEONORA. Certainly it was! Pride goeth before a fall!

BENJAMIN. I shall remember that the next time.

ELEONORA. That is a worthy thought; those who are pleasing to God are of humble spirit.

BENJAMIN. Do you read the Bible?

ELEONORA. Yes, I read it!

BENJAMIN. I mean, are you a believer?

ELEONORA. Yes, I mean that I am. So much so that if you should speak wickedly about God, my benefactor, I would not sit at the same table with you.

BENJAMIN. How old are you?

ELEONORA. For me there is no time nor space. I am everywhere and whensoever. I am in my father's prison, and in my brother's school-room. I am in my mother's kitchen and in my sister's little shop far away. When all goes well with my sister and she makes good sales I feel her gladness, and when things go badly with her I suffer—but I suffer most when she does anything dishonest. Benjamin, your name is Benjamin, because you are the youngest of my friends; yes, all human beings are my friends, and if you will let me adopt you, I will suffer for you too.

BENJAMIN. I don't quite understand the words you use, but I think I catch the meaning of your thoughts. And I will do whatever you want me to.

ELEONORA. Will you begin then by ceasing to judge human beings, even when they are convicted criminals—

BENJAMIN. Yes, but I want to have a reason for it. I have read philosophy, you see.

ELEONORA. Oh, have you! Then you shall help me explain this from a great philosopher. He said, "Those that hate the righteous, they shall be sinners."

BENJAMIN. Of course all logic answers that in the same way, that one can be doomed to commit crime—.

ELEONORA. And that the crime itself is a punishment.

BENJAMIN. That is pretty deep! One would think that that was Kant or Schopenhauer.

ELEONORA. I don't know them.

BENJAMIN. What book did you read that in?

ELEONORA. In the Holy Scripture.

BENJAMIN. Truly? Are there such things in it?

ELEONORA. What an ignorant, neglected child you are! If I could bring you up!

BENJAMIN. Little you!

ELEONORA. I don't believe there is anything very wicked about you. You seem to me more good than bad.

BENJAMIN. Thank you.

ELEONORA [Rising]. You must never thank me for anything. Remember that.—Oh, now my father is suffering. They are unkind to him. [Stands as tho' listening.] Do you hear what the telephone wires are humming?—those are harsh words, which the soft red copper does not like—when people slander each other thro' the telephone the copper moans and laments—[Severely] and every word is written in the book—and at the end of time comes the reckoning!

BENJAMIN. You are so severe!

ELEONORA. I? Not I! How should I dare to be? I, I? [She goes to the stove, opens it, and takes out several torn pieces of white letter paper and puts them on the dining table.]

BENJAMIN. [Rises and looks at the pieces of paper which Eleonora is putting together.]

ELEONORA [To herself]. That people should be so thoughtless as to leave their secrets in the stove! Whenever I come I always go right to the stove! But I don't do it maliciously—I wouldn't do anything like that, for then I should feel remorse.

BENJAMIN. It is from Peter, who writes and asks Christine to meet him. I have been expecting that for a long time.

ELEONORA [Putting her hands over the bits o f paper]. Oh, you, what have you been expecting? Tell me, you evil minded being, who believes nothing but bad of people. This letter could not mean anything wrong to me, for I know Christine, who is going to be my sister sometime. And that meeting will avert misfortune for brother Elis. Will you promise me to say nothing of this, Benjamin?

BENJAMIN. I don't exactly think I should like to talk much about it!

ELEONORA. People who are suspicious become so unjust. They think they are so wise, and they are so foolish!—But what is all this to me!

BENJAMIN. Yes, why are you so inquisitive?

ELEONORA. You see that is my illness—that I must know all about everything or else I become restless—

BENJAMIN. Know about everything?

ELEONORA. That is a fault which I cannot overcome. And I even know what the birds say.

BENJAMIN. But they can't talk?

ELEONORA. Haven't you heard birds that people have taught to talk?

BENJAMIN. Oh, yes—that people have taught to talk!

ELEONORA. That is to say they can talk. And we find those that have taught themselves or are like that instinctively—they sit and listen without our knowing it and then they repeat these things afterward. Just now as I was coming along I heard two magpies in the walnut tree, who sat there gossiping.

BENJAMIN. How funny you are! But what were they saying?

ELEONORA. "Peter," said one of them, "Judas," said the other. "The same thing," said the first one. "Fie, Fie, Fie," said the other. But have you noticed that the nightingales only sing in the grounds of the deaf and dumb asylum here?

BENJAMIN. Yes, they do say that's so. Why do they do that?

ELEONORA. Because those who have hearing do not hear what the nightingales say: but the deaf and dumb hear it!

BENJAMIN. Tell me some more stories.

ELEONORA. Yes, if you are good.

BENJAMIN. How good?

ELEONORA. If you will never be exacting about words with me, never say that I said so and so, or so and so. Shall I tell you more about birds? There is a wicked bird that is called a rat-hawk: as you may know by its name, it lives on rats. But as it is an evil bird it has hard work to catch the rats. Because it can say only one single word, and that a noise such as a cat makes when it says "miau." Now when the rat-hawk says "miau" the rats run and hide themselves—for the rat-hawk doesn't understand what it is saying so it is often without food, for it is a wicked bird! Would you like to hear more? Or shall I tell you something about flowers? Do you know when I was ill I was made to take henbane, which is a drug that has the power to make one's eyes magnify like a microscope. Well, now I see farther than others, and I can see the stars in the daylight!

BENJAMIN. But the stars are not up there then, are they?

ELEONORA. How funny you are! The stars are always up there—and now, as I sit facing the west, I can see Cassiopea like a W up there in the middle of the Milky Way. Can you see it?

BENJAMIN. No, indeed I can't see it.

ELEONORA. Let me call your attention to this, that some can see that which others do not do not be too sure of your own eyes therefore! Now I'm going to tell you about that flower standing on the table: it is an Easter lily whose home is in Switzerland; it has a calyx which drinks sunlight, therefore it is yellow and can soothe pain. When I was passing a florist's, just now, I saw it and wanted to make a present of it to brother Elis. When I tried to go into the shop I found the door was locked—because it is confirmation day. But I must have the flower—I took out my keys and tried them—can you believe it, my door key worked! I went in. You know that flowers speak silently! Every fragrance uttered a multitude of thoughts, and those thoughts reached me: and with my magnifying eyes I looked into the flowers' workrooms, which no one else has ever seen. And they told me about their sorrows which the careless florist causes them—mark you, I did not say cruel, for he is only thoughtless. Then I put a coin on the desk with my card, took the Easter lily and went out.

BENJAMIN. How thoughtless! Think if the flower is missed and the money isn't found?

ELEONORA. That's true! You are right.

BENJAMIN. A coin can easily disappear, and if they find your card it's all up with you.

ELEONORA. But no one would believe that I wanted to take anything.

BENJAMIN [Looking hard at her]. They wouldn't?

ELEONORA [Rising]. Ah! I know what you mean! Like father, like child! How thoughtless I have been! Ah! That which must be, must be! [Sits.] It must be so.

BENJAMIN. Couldn't we say that—

ELEONORA. Hush! Let's talk of other things! Poor Elis! Poor all of us! But it is Easter, and we ought to suffer. Isn't there a recital tomorrow? [Benjamin nods his head.] And they give Haydn's Seven Words on the Cross! "Mother, behold thy son!" [She weeps with face in hands.]

BENJAMIN. What kind of illness have you had?

ELEONORA. An illness that is not mortal unless it is God's will! I expected good, and evil came; I expected light, and darkness came. How was your childhood, Benjamin?

BENJAMIN. Oh, I don't know. Kind of tiresome! And yours?

ELEONORA. I never had any. I was born old. I knew everything when I was born, and when I was taught anything it was only like remembering. I knew human weaknesses when I was four years old, and that's why people were horrid to me.

BENJAMIN. Do you know, I, too, seem to have thought everything that you say.

ELEONORA. I am sure you have. What made you think that the coin I left at the florist's would be lost?

BENJAMIN. Because what shouldn't happen always does happen.

ELEONORA. Have you noticed that too? Hush, some one is coming. [Looks toward back.] I hear—Elis, oh, how good! My only friend on earth! [She darkens.] But—he didn't expect me! And he will not be glad to see me—no, he won't be, I am sure he won't be. Benjamin, have a pleasant face and be cheerful when my poor brother comes in. I am going in here while you prepare him for my being here. But no matter what he says, don't you say anything that would hurt him, for that would make me unhappy. Do you promise? [Benjamin nods.] Give me your hand.

BENJAMIN [Reaches out his hand].

ELEONORA [Kisses him on the top of his head]. So! Now you are my little brother. God bless and keep you! [Goes toward the left and as she passes Elis' overcoat she pats it lovingly on the sleeve.] Poor Elis! [She goes out L.]

ELIS [In from back, troubled].

MRS. HEYST [In from kitchen].

ELIS. Oh, so there you are, mother.

MRS. HEYST. Was it you? I thought I heard a strange voice!

ELIS. I have some news. I met our lawyer in the street.

MRS. HEYST. Well?

ELIS. The case is going to the superior court—and to gain time I've got to read all the minutes of the case.

MRS. HEYST. Well, that won't take you long.

ELIS [Pointing to the legal documents on the writing desk]. Oh, I thought that was all over with, and now I must weary myself by going through all that torture again—all the accusations, all the testimony and all the evidence, all over again!

MRS. HEYST. Yes, but the superior court will free him!

ELIS. No, mother, he has confessed.

MRS. HEYST. But there may be some mistakes in the trial which count. When I talked with our lawyer he said there might be some technical errors—I think that's what he called them.

ELIS. He said that to console you.

MRS. HEYST [Coldly]. Are you going out to dinner?

ELIS. No.

MRS. HEYST. Oh, so you've changed your mind again.

ELIS. Yes.

MRS. HEYST. Oh, you are so changeable!

ELIS. I know it, but I am tossed about like a chip in a high sea.

MRS. HEYST. I surely thought I heard a strange voice that I half recognized. But I must have been mistaken.[Points to Elis' overcoat.] That coat ought not to hang there, I said. [Goes out R.]

ELIS [Goes to L. Sees the lily on table]. Where did that plant come from?

BENJAMIN. There was a young lady here with it.

ELIS. Young lady! What's that? Who was it?

BENJAMIN. It was—

ELIS. Was it—my sister?

BENJAMIN. Yes.

ELIS [Sinks down near table]. [Pause.] Did you talk with her?

BENJAMIN. Yes, indeed!

ELIS. Oh, God, is there more to be endured? Was she angry with me?

BENJAMIN. She? No, she was so sweet, so gentle.

ELIS. How wonderful! Did she talk about me? Was she very vexed with me?

BENJAMIN. No, on the contrary she said you were her best, her only friend on earth.

ELIS. What a strange change!

BENJAMIN. And when she went, she patted your coat on the sleeve—

ELIS. Went? Where has she gone?

BENJAMIN [Pointing to the window door]. In there!

ELIS. She is in there then?

BENJAMIN. Yes.

ELIS. You look so happy and cheerful, Benjamin.

BENJAMIN. She talked so beautifully to me.

ELIS. What did she talk about?

BENJAMIN. She told me some of her own stories—and a lot about religion.

ELIS [Rising]. Which made you happy?

BENJAMIN. Yes, indeed!

ELIS. Poor Eleonora, who is so unfortunate herself and yet can make others happy! [Goes to door left, hesitating.] God help us!



ACT II.

[Good Friday evening. The music before and thro' the act, Haydn's Sieben Worte. Largo No. 1. "Pater dimitte illis." Same scene. Curtains are drawn, lighted up by electric light in the street. The hanging lamp is lighted. On dining table a small lamp, also lighted. There is a glimmer from the lighted stove. Elis and Christine are sitting at the sewing table. Benjamin and Eleonora are seated at dining table reading, opposite each other, with the small lamp between them—Eleonora has a shawl over her shoulders.]

[They are all dressed in black. The papers that Elis brought in the First Act are on the writing table in a disorderly condition, the Easter lily stands on sewing table. An old clock stands on the dining table. Now and then one sees shadows of people passing by in the street.]

[The cathedral organ is heard faintly.—The following scene must be played softly.]

ELIS [Softly to Christine]. Yes—it's Good Friday—Long Friday they call it in some countries. Ah—yes—it is long. And the snow has softened the noises in the street like straw spread before the house of the dying. Not a sound to be heard—[Music louder] only the cathedral organ—[A long pause.]

CHRISTINE. Mother must have gone to vespers.

ELIS. Yes.—She never goes to high mass any more. The cold glances people give her hurt her too much.

CHRISTINE. It's queer about these people they sort of demand that we should keep out of the way, and they even see fit to—

ELIS. Yes—and perhaps they are right.—

CHRISTINE. On account of the wrong-doing of one, the whole family is excommunicated—

ELIS. Yes—that is the way things go.

[Eleonora pushes the lamp over to Benjamin that he may see better.]

ELIS [Noticing them]. Look at them!

CHRISTINE. Isn't it beautiful? How well they get along together.

ELIS. How fortunate it is that Eleonora has grown so calm and contented. Oh, that it might only last!