LOTH

So you, too, are making money here?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Naturally and as much as possible. What else is there to do here?

LOTH

You might have let some one hear from you!

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I beg your pardon. But if I had been heard from, I would have heard from you fellows—and I absolutely didn't want to hear. Nothingnothing. That would simply have kept me from exploiting my diggings here.

The two men walk slowly up and down the room.

LOTH

I see. But then you mustn't be surprised to hear that ... well, they all, without an exception, really gave you up as hopeless.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

That's like them—the scamps! They'll be made to take notice.

LOTH

Schimmel—otherwise the "rough husk"!

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I wish you had had to live here among the farmers for six years. Hellhounds—every one of them.

LOTH

I can imagine that.—But how in the world did you get to Witzdorf?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

The way such things do happen! You remember I had to skin out from Jena that time.

LOTH

Was that before my crash?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Yes, a short time after we'd given up living together. So I took up medicine at Zuerich, first simply so as to have something against a time of need. But then the thing began to interest me, and now I'm a doctor, heart and soul.

LOTH

And about this place. How did you get here?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Very simply. When I got through I said to myself: first of all you've got to have a sufficient pile. I thought of America, South and North America, of Africa, Australia and the isles of the sea ... In the end it occurred to me, however, that my escapade had become outlawed; and so I made up my mind to creep back into the old trap.

LOTH

And how about your Swiss examinations?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Why, I simply had to go through the whole rigmarole once more.

LOTH

Man! You passed the state medical examination twice over?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Yes, luckily I then discovered this fat pasture here.

LOTH

Your toughness is certainly enviable.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

All very well, unless one collapses suddenly.—Well, it wouldn't matter so greatly after all.

LOTH

Have you a very large practice?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Oh, yes. Occasionally I don't get to bed till five o'clock in the morning. And at seven my consultation hour begins again.

EDWARD comes in, bringing coffee.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[Sitting down at the table, to EDWARD.] Thank you, Edward.—[To LOTH.]—The way I swill coffee is—uncanny.

LOTH

You'd better give that up.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

What is one to do? [He takes small swallows.] As I told you awhile ago—another year; then—all this stops. At least, I hope so.

LOTH

Don't you intend to practice after that at all?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Don't think so. No—no more. [He pushes back the tray with the dishes and wipes his mouth.] By the way, let's see your hand. [LOTH holds up both his hands for inspection.] I see. You've taken no wife to your bosom yet. Haven't found one, I suppose. I remember you always wanted primaeval vigour in the woman of your choice on account of the soundness of the strain. And you're quite right, too. If one takes a risk, it ought to be a good one. Or maybe you've become less stringent in that respect.

LOTH

Not a bit! You may take your oath.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I wish the farmers around here had such notions. But they're in a wretched condition—degeneration along the whole line ... [He has half taken his cigar case from his inner pocket but lets it slip back and arises as a sound penetrates through the door which is only ajar.] Wait a moment! [He goes on tiptoe to the door leading to the hall and listens. A door is heard to open and close, and for several moments the moans of the woman in labour are audible. The DOCTOR, turning to LOTH, says softly.] Excuse me!

[And goes out.

For several seconds, while the slamming of doors is heard and the sound of people running up and down the stairs, LOTH paces the room. Then he sits down in the arm-chair in the foreground, right. HELEN slips in and throws her arms about LOTH, who has not observed her coming from, behind.

LOTH

[Looking around and embracing her in turn.] Nellie! [He drams her down upon his knee in spite of her gentle resistance. HELEN weeps under his kisses.] Don't cry, Nellie! Why are you crying so?

HELEN

Why? Oh, if I knew!... I keep thinking that I won't find you here. Just now I had such a fright ...

LOTH

But why?

HELEN

Because I heard you go out of your room—Oh, and my sister—we poor, poor women!—oh, she's suffering too much!

LOTH

The pain is soon forgotten and there is no danger of death.

HELEN

Oh, but she is praying so to die. She wails and wails: Do let me die!... The doctor!

[She jumps up and slips into the conservatory.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[On entering.] I do really wish now that that little woman upstairs would hurry a bit! [He sits down beside the table, takes out his cigar case again, extracts a cigar from it and lays the latter down on the table.] You'll come over to my house afterward, won't you? I have a necessary evil with two horses standing out there in which we can drive straight over. [He taps his cigar against the edge of the table.] Oh, the holy state of matrimony! O Lord! [Striking a match.] So you're still pure, free, pious and merry?

LOTH

You might better have waited a few more days with that question.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[His cigar is lit now.] Oho! I see!—[laughing]—so you've caught on to my tricks at last!

LOTH

Are you still so frightfully pessimistic in regard to women?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Frightfully! [Watching the drifting smoke of his cigar.] In other years I was a pessimist, so to speak, by presentiment....

LOTH

Have you had very special experiences in the meantime?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

That's just it. My shingle reads: Specialist for Diseases of Women.—The practice of medicine, I assure you, makes a man terribly wise ... terribly ... sane ...; it's a specific against all kinds of delusions.

LOTH

[Laughing.] Well, then we can fall back into our old tone at once. I want you to know ... I haven't caught on to your tricks at all. Less than ever now ... But I am to understand, I suppose, that you've exchanged your old hobby?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Hobby?

LOTH

The question of woman was in those days in a certain way your pet subject.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I see! And why should I have exchanged it?

LOTH

If you think even worse of women than ...

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[Somewhat aroused. He gets up and walks to and fro while he is speaking.] I don't think evil of women.—Not a bit!—I think evil only of marrying ... of marriage ... of marriage and—at most, of men ... The woman question, you think, has ceased to interest me? What do you suppose I've worked here for, during six years, like a cart horse? Surely in order to devote at last all the power that is in me to the solution of that question. Didn't you know that from the beginning?

LOTH

How do you suppose I could have known it?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Well, as I said ... and I've already gathered a lot of very significant material that will be of some service to me! Sh! I've got the bad habit of raising my voice. [He falls silent, listens, goes to the door and comes back.] But what took you among these gold farmers?

LOTH

I would like to study the local conditions.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[In a repressed tone.] What a notion! [Still more softly.] I can give you plenty of material there too.

LOTH

To be sure. You must be thoroughly informed as to the conditions here. How do things look among the families around here?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Miserable! There's nothing but drunkenness, gluttony, inbreeding and, in consequence,—degeneration along the whole line.

LOTH

With exceptions, surely?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Hardly.

LOTH

[Disquieted.] Didn't the temptation ever come to you to ... to marry a daughter of one of these Witzdorf gold farmers?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

The devil! Man, what do you take me for? You might as well ask whether I ...

LOTH

[Very pale.] But why ... why?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Because ... Anything wrong with you?

[He regards LOTH steadily for several moments.

LOTH

Certainly not. What should be wrong?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[Has suddenly become very thoughtful. He stops in his walking suddenly and whistles softly, glances at LOTH and then mutters to himself.] That's bad!

LOTH

You act very strangely all of a sudden.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Sh!

[He listens carefully and then leaves, the room quickly by the middle door.

HELEN

[Comes at the end of several seconds from the middle door. She cries out.] Alfred!—Alfred!... You're here. Oh, thank God!

LOTH

Well, dear, did you suppose I had run away?

[They embrace each other.

HELEN

[Bends back. With unmistakable terror in her face.] Alfred!

LOTH

What is it, dearest?

HELEN

Nothing, nothing ...

LOTH

But there must be something.

HELEN

You seemed so cold ... Oh, I have such foolish fancies....

LOTH

How are things going upstairs?

HELEN

The doctor is quarreling with the midwife.

LOTH

Isn't it going to end soon?

HELEN

How do I know? But when it ends, when it ends—then....

LOTH

What then?... Tell me, please, what were you going to say?

HELEN

Then we ought soon to go away from here. At once! Oh, right away!

LOTH

If you think that would really be best, Nellie—

HELEN

It is! it is! We mustn't wait! It's the best thing—for you and for me. If you don't take me soon, you'll just leave me quite, and then, and then ... It would just be all over with me.

LOTH

How distrustful you are, Nellie.

HELEN

Don't say that, dearest. Anybody would trust you, would just have to trust you!... When I am your own, oh, then ... then, you surely wouldn't leave me. [As if beside herself.] I beseech you! Don't go away! Only don't leave me! Don't—go, Alfred! If you go away without me, I would just have to die, just have to die!

LOTH

But you are strange!... And you say you're not distrustful! Or perhaps they're worrying you, torturing you terribly here—more than ever ... At all events we'll leave this very night. I am ready. And so, as soon as you are—we can go.

HELEN

[Falling around his neck with a cry of joyous gratitude.] Dear—dearest!

[She kisses him madly and hurries out.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG comes in through the middle door and catches a glimpse of HELEN disappearing into the conservatory.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Who was that?—Ah, yes! [To himself.] Poor thing!

[He sits down beside the table with a sigh, finds his old cigar, throws it aside, takes a new cigar from the case and starts to knock it gently against the edge of the table. Thoughtfully he looks away across it.

LOTH

[Watching him.] That's just the way you used to loosen every cigar before smoking it eight years ago.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

It's possible—[When he has lit and begun to smoke the cigar.] Listen to me!

LOTH

Yes; what is it?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I take it that, so soon as the affair is over, you'll come along with me.

LOTH

Can't be done. I'm sorry.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Once in a while, you know, one does feel like talking oneself out thoroughly.

LOTH

I feel that need quite as much, as you do. But you can see from just that how utterly out of my power it is to go ...

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

But suppose I give you my emphatic and, in a way, solemn assurance that there is a specific, an extremely important matter that I'd like—no, that I must discuss with you to-night, Loth!

LOTH

Queer! You don't expect me to take that in deadly earnest. Surely not!—You've waited to discuss that matter so many years and now it can't wait one more day? You know me—I'm not pretending.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

So I am right! Well, well ...

[He gets up and walks about.

LOTH

What are you right about?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[_Standing still before LOTH _and looking straight into his eyes._] So there is really something between you and Helen Krause?

LOTH

Who said—?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

How in the world did you fall in with this family?

LOTH

How do you know that, Schimmel?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

It wasn't so hard to guess.

LOTH

Well then, for heaven's sake, don't say a word, because ...

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

So you're quite regularly betrothed?

LOTH

Call it that. At all events, we're agreed.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

But what I want to know is: how did you fall in with this particular family?

LOTH

Hoffmann's an old college friend of mine. Then, too, he was a member—though only a corresponding one—of my colonisation society.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I heard about that business at Zuerich.—So he was associated with you. That explains the wretched half-and-half creature that he is.

LOTH

That describes him, no doubt.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

He isn't even that, really.—But, look here, Loth! Is that your honest intention? I mean this thing with the Krause girl.

LOTH

Of course it is! Can you doubt it? You don't think me such a scoundrel—?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Very well! Don't exert yourself! You've probably changed in all this long time. And why not? It needn't be entirely a disadvantage. A little bit of humour couldn't harm you. I don't see why one must look at all things in that damnably serious way.

LOTH

I take things more seriously than ever. [He gets up and walks up and down with SCHIMMELPFENNIG, always keeping slightly behind the latter.] You can't possibly know, and I can't possibly explain to you, what this thing means to me.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Hm!

LOTH

Man, you have no notion of the condition I'm in. One doesn't know it by simply longing for it. If one did, one would simply go mad with yearning.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Let the devil try to understand how you fellows come by this senseless yearning.

LOTH

You're not safe against an attack yourself yet.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I'd like to see that!

LOTH

You talk as a blind man would of colour.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I wouldn't give a farthing for that bit of intoxication. Ridiculous! And to build a life-long union on such a foundation. I'd rather trust a heap of shifting sand.

LOTH

Intoxication! Pshaw! To call it that is simply to show your utter blindness to it. Intoxication is fleeting. I've had such spells, I admit. This happens to be something different.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Hm!

LOTH

I'm perfectly sober all through it. Do you imagine that I surround my darling with a kind of a—well, how shall I put it—a kind of an aureole? Not In the least. She lias her faults; she isn't remarkably beautiful, at least—well, she's certainly not exactly homely either. Judging her quite objectively—of course it's entirely a matter of taste—I haven't seen such a sweet girl before in my life. So when you talk of mere intoxication—nonsense! I am as sober as possible. But, my friend, this is the remarkable thing: I simply can't imagine myself without her any longer. It seems to me like an amalgam, as when two metals are so intimately welded together that you can't say any longer, here's the one, there's the other. And it all seems so utterly inevitable. In short—maybe I'm talking rot—or what I say may seem rot to you, but so much is certain: a man who doesn't know that is a kind of cool-blooded fishy creature. That's the kind of creature I was up till now, and that's the kind of wretched thing you are still.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

That's a very complete set of symptoms. Queer how you fellows always slide up to the very ears into the particular things that you've long ago rejected theoretically—like yourself into marriage. As long as I've known you, you've struggled with this unhappy mania for marriage.

LOTH

It's instinct with me, sheer instinct. God knows, I can wriggle all I please—there it is.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

When all's said and done one can fight down even an instinct.

LOTH

Certainly, if there's a good reason, why not?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Is there any good reason for marrying?

LOTH

I should say there is. It has a purpose; it has for me! You don't know how I've succeeded in struggling along hitherto. I don't want to grow sentimental. Perhaps I didn't feel it quite so keenly either; perhaps I wasn't so clearly conscious of it as I am now, that in all my endeavour I had taken on something desolate, something machine-like. No spirit, no fire, no life! Heaven knows whether I had any faith left! And all that has come back to me to-day—with such strange fullness, such primal energy, such joy ... Pshaw, what's the use ... You don't understand.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

The various things you fellows need to keep you going—faith, love, hope. I consider all that trash. The thing is simply this: humanity lies in its death throes and we're merely trying to make the agony as bearable as we can by administering narcotics.

LOTH

Is that your latest point of view?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

It's five or six years old by this time and I see no reason to change it.

LOTH

I congratulate you on it.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Thank you.

A long pause ensues.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

[After several disquieted and unsuccessful beginnings.] The trouble is just this. I feel that I'm responsible ... I absolutely owe you an elucidation. I don't believe that you will be able to marry Helen Krause.

LOTH

[Frigidly.] Oh, is that what you think?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Yes, that's my opinion. There are obstacles present which just you would ...

LOTH

Look here! Don't for heaven's sake have any scruples on that account. The conditions, as a matter of fact, aren't so complicated as all that. At bottom they're really terribly simple.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Simply terrible, you'd better say.

LOTH

I was referring simply to the obstacles.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

So was I, very largely. But take it all in all, I can't imagine that you really know the conditions as they are.

LOTH

Please, Schimmel, express yourself more clearly.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

You must absolutely have dropped the chief demand which you used to make in regard to marriage, although you did give me to understand that you laid as much weight as ever on the propagation of a race sound in mind and body.

LOTH

Dropped my demand...? Dropped it? But why should I?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I see. Then there's nothing else left me but to ... Then you don't know the conditions here. You do not know, for instance, that Hoffmann had a son who perished through alcoholism at the age of three.

LOTH

Wha ... what d'you say?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I'm sorry, Loth, but I've got to tell you. You can do afterward as you please. But the thing was no joke. They were visiting here just as they are now. They sent for me—half an hour too late. The little fellow had bled to death long before I arrived.

_LOTH drinks in the DOCTOR'S _words with every evidence of profound and terrible emotion._

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

The silly little chap grabbed for the vinegar bottle, thinking his beloved rum was in it. The bottle fell and the child tumbled on the broken glass. Down here, you see, the vena saphena, was completely severed.

LOTH

Whose, whose child was that?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

The child of Hoffmann and of the same woman who again, up there ... And she drinks too, drinks to the point of unconsciousness, drinks whatever she can get hold of!

LOTH

So it's not, it's not inherited from Hoffmann?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Not at all. That's the tragic aspect of the man! He suffers under it as much as he is capable of suffering. To be sure, he knew that he was marrying into a family of dipsomaniacs. The old farmer simply spends his life in the tavern.

LOTH

Then, to be sure—I understand many things—No, everything, rather ... everything! [After a heavy silence.] Then her life here, Helen's life, is a ... how shall I express it? I have no words for it; it's ...

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Utterly horrible. I can judge of that. And I understood from the beginning how you should cling to her. But, as I said ...

LOTH

It's enough. I understand ... But doesn't...? Couldn't one perhaps persuade Hoffmann to do something? She ought to be removed from all this foulness.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Hoffmann?

LOTH

Yes, Hoffmann.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

You don't know him. I don't believe that he has ruined her already, but he has ruined her reputation even now.

LOTH

[Flaring up.] If that's true, I'll murder...! D'you really believe that? Do you think Hoffmann capable...?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

Of anything! I think him capable of anything that might contribute to his own pleasure.

LOTH

Then she is—the purest creature that ever breathed ...

LOTH slowly takes up his hat and cane and hangs his mallet over his shoulder.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

What do you think of doing, Loth?

LOTH

... I mustn't meet her ...

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

So you're determined?

LOTH

Determined to what?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

To break the connection.

LOTH

How is it possible for me to be other than determined?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I may add, as a physician, that cases are known in which such inherited evils have been suppressed. And of course you would give your children a rational up-bringing.

LOTH

Such cases may be known.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

And the chances are not so small but that ...

LOTH

That kind of thing can't help me, Schimmel. There are just three possibilities in this affair: Either I marry her and then ... no, that way out simply doesn't exist. Or—the traditional bullet. Of course, that would mean rest, at least. But we haven't reached that point yet awhile; can't indulge in that luxury just yet. And so: live! fight!—Farther, farther! [His glance falls on the table and he observes the writing-materials that have been placed there by EDWARD. He sits down, hesitates and says:] And yet...?

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I promise you that I'll represent the situation to her as clearly as possible.

LOTH

Yes, yes! You see—I can't do differently. [He writes, places his paper in an envelope and addresses it. Then he arises and shakes hands with SCHIMMELPFENNIG.] For the rest—I depend on you.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

You're coming over to my house, aren't, you? Let my coachman drive you right over.

LOTH

Look here! Oughtn't one to try, at least, to get her out of the power of this ... this person? ... As things are she is sure to become his victim.

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

My dear, good fellow! I'm sorry for you. But shall I give you a bit of advice? Don't rob her of the—little that you still leave her.

LOTH

[With a deep sigh.] Maybe you're right—perhaps certainly.

Hasty steps are heard descending the stairs. In the next moment HOFFMANN rushes in.

HOFFMANN

Doctor, I beg you, for heaven's sake ... she is fainting ... the pains have stopped ... won't you at last ...

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

I'm coming up. [To LOTH significantly.] We'll see each other later. Mr. Hoffmann, I must request you ... any interference or disturbance might prove fatal ... I would much prefer to have you stay here.

HOFFMANN

You ask a great deal, but ... well!

DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG

No more than is right.

[He goes.

HOFFMANN remains behind.

HOFFMANN

[Observing LOTH.] I'm just trembling in every limb from the excitement. Tell me, are you leaving?

LOTH

Yes.

HOFFMANN

Now in the middle of the night?

LOTH

I'm only going as far as Schimmelpfennig's.

HOFFMANN

Ah, yes. Well ... as things have shaped themselves, it's of course no pleasure staying with us any longer ... So, good luck!

LOTH

I thank you for your hospitality.

HOFFMANN

And how about that plan of yours?

LOTH

What plan?

HOFFMANN

I mean that essay of yours, that economic description of our district. I ought to say ... in fact, as a friend, I would beg of you as insistently as possible ...

LOTH

Don't worry about that any more. I'll be far away from here by to-morrow.

HOFFMANN

That is really—

[He interrupts himself.

LOTH

Kind of you, you were going to say.

HOFFMANN

Oh, I don't know. Well, in a certain respect, yes! And anyhow you must forgive me; I'm so frightfully upset. Just count on me. Old friends are always the best! Good-bye, good-bye.

[He leaves through the middle door.

LOTH

[Before going to the door, turns around once more with a long glance as if to imprint the whole room on his memory. Then to himself:] I suppose I can go now ...

[After a last glance he leaves.

The room remains empty for some seconds. The sound of muffled voices and the noise of footfalls is heard. Then HOFFMANN appears. As soon as he has closed the door behind him, he takes out his note-book and runs over some account with exaggerated calm. He interrupts himself, listens, becomes restless again, advances to the door and listens there. Suddenly some one runs down the stair and HELEN bursts in.

HELEN

[Still without.] Brother! [At the door.] Brother!

HOFFMANN

What's the matter?

HELEN

Be brave: still-born!

HOFFMANN

O my God!

[He rushes out.

HELEN alone.

She looks about her and calls softly: Alfred! Alfred! As she receives no answer, she calls out again more quickly: Alfred! Alfred! She has hurried to the door of the conservatory through which she gazes anxiously. She goes into the conservatory, but reappears shortly. Alfred! Her disquiet increases. She peers out of the window. Alfred! She opens the window and mounts a chair that stands before it. At this moment there resounds clearly from the yard the shouting of the drunken farmer, her father, who is coming home from the inn, Hay-hee! Ain' I a han'some feller? Ain' I got a fine-lookin' wife? Ain' I got a couple o' han'some gals? Hay-hee! HELEN utters a short cry and runs, like a hunted creature, toward the middle door. From there she discovers the letter which LOTH has left lying on thee table. She runs to it, tears it open, feverishly takes in the contents, of which she audibly utters separate words. "Insuperable!" ... "Never again." ... She lets the letter fall and sways. It's over! She steadies herself, holds her head with both hands and cries out in brief and piercing despair. It's over! She rushes out through the—middle door. The farmer's voice without, drawing nearer. Hay-hee! Ain' the farm mine? Ain' I got a han'some wife? Ain' I a han'some feller? HELEN, still seeking LOTH half-madly, comes from the conservatory and meets EDWARD, who has come to fetch something from HOFFMANN'S room. She addresses him: Edward! He answers: Yes, Miss Krause. She continues: I'd like to ... like to ... Dr. Loth ... EDWARD answers: Dr. Loth drove away in Dr. Schimmelpfennig's carriage. He disappears into HOFFMANN'S room. True! HELEN cries out and holds herself erect with difficulty. In the next moment a desperate energy takes hold of her. She runs to the foreground and seizes the hunting knife with its belt which is fastened to the stag's antlers above the sofa. She hides the weapon and stays quietly in the dark foreground until EDWARD, coming from HOFFMANN'S room, has disappeared through the middle door. The farmer's voice resounds more clearly from moment to moment. Hay-hee! Ain' I a han'some feller? At this sound, as at a signal, HELEN starts and runs, in her turn, into HOFFMANN'S room. The main room is empty but one continues to hear the farmer's voice: Ain' I got the finest teeth? Ain' I got a fine farm? MIELE comes through the middle door and looks searchingly about. She calls: Miss Helen! Miss Helen! Meanwhile the farmer's voice: The money 'sh mi-ine! Without further hesitation MIELE has disappeared into HOFFMANN'S room, the door of which she leaves open. In the next moment she rushes out with every sign of insane terror. Screaming she spins around twice—thrice—screaming she flies through the middle door. Her uninterrupted screaming, softening as it recedes, is audible for several seconds. Last there is heard the opening and resonant slamming of the heavy house door, the tread of the farmer stumbling about in the hall, and his coarse, nasal, thick-tongued drunkard's voice echoes through the room: Hay-hee! Ain' I got a couple o' han'some gals?

CURTAIN



THE WEAVERS



_I DEDICATE THIS DRAMA TO MY FATHER

ROBERT HAUPTMANN.

You, dear father, know what feelings lead me to dedicate this work to you, and I am not called upon to analyse them here.

Your stories of my grandfather, who in his young days sat at the loom, a poor weaver like those here depicted, contained the germ of my drama. Whether it possesses the vigour of life or is rotten at the core, it is the best, "so poor a man as Hamlet is" can offer.

Your

GERHART_



COMPLETE LIST OF CHARACTERS

DREISSIGER, fustian manufacturer.

MRS. DREISSIGER.

PFEIFER, manager in DREISSIGER'S employment.

NEUMANN, cashier in DREISSIGER'S employment.

AN APPRENTICE in DREISSIGER'S employment.

JOHN, coachman in DREISSIGER'S employment.

A MAID in DREISSIGER'S employment.

WEINHOLD, tutor to DREISSIGER'S sons.

PASTOR KITTELHAUS.

MRS. KITTELHAUS.

HEIDE, Police Superintendent.

KUTSCHE, policeman.

WELZEL, publican.

MRS. WELZEL.

ANNA WELZEL.

WIEGAND, joiner.

A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER.

A PEASANT.

A FORESTER.

SCHMIDT, surgeon.

HORNIG, rag dealer.

WITTIG, smith.

WEAVERS.

BECKER.

MORITZ JAEGER.

OLD BAUMERT.

MOTHER BAUMERT.

BERTHA BAUMERT

EMMA BAUMERT

FRITZ, EMMA'S son (four years old).

AUGUST BAUMERT.

OLD ANSORGE.

MRS. HEINRICH.

OLD HILSE.

MOTHER HILSE.

GOTTLIEB HILSE.

LUISE, GOTTLIEB'S wife.

MIELCHEN, their daughter (six years old).

REIMANN, weaver.

HELEN, weaver.

A WEAVER'S WIFE.

A number of weavers, young and old, of both sexes.

The action passes in the Forties, at Kaschbach, Peterswaldau and Langenbielau, in the Eulengebirge.



THE FIRST ACT

A large whitewashed room on the ground floor of DREISSIGER'S house at Peterswaldau, where the weavers deliver their finished webs and the fustian is stored. To the left are uncurtained windows, in the back mall there is a glass door, and to the right another glass door, through which weavers, male and female, and children, are passing in and out. All three walls are lined with shelves for the storing of the fustian. Against the right wall stands a long bench, on which a number of weavers have already spread out their cloth. In the order of arrival each presents his piece to be examined by PFEIFER, DREISSIGER'S manager, who stands, with compass and magnifying-glass, behind a large table, on which the web to be inspected is laid. When PFEIFER has satisfied himself, the weaver lays the fustian on the scale, and an office apprentice tests its weight. The same boy stores the accepted pieces on the shelves. PFEIFER calls out the payment due in each case to NEUMANN, the cashier, who is seated at a small table.

It is a sultry day towards the end of May. The clock is on the stroke of twelve. Most of the waiting work-people have the air of standing before the bar of justice, in torturing expectation of a decision that means life or death to them. They are marked too by the anxious timidity characteristic of the receiver of charity, who has suffered many humiliations, and, conscious that he is barely tolerated, has acquired the habit of self-effacement. Add to this a rigid expression on every face that tells of constant, fruitless brooding. There is a general resemblance among the men. They have something about them of the dwarf, something of the schoolmaster. The majority are flat-breasted, short-minded, sallow, and poor looking—creatures of the loom, their knees bent with much silting. At a, first glance the women show fewer typical traits. They look over-driven, worried, reckless, whereas the men still make some show of a pitiful self-respect; and their clothes are ragged, while the men's are patched and mended. Some of the young girls are not without a certain charm, consisting in a wax-like pallor, a slender figure, and large, projecting, melancholy eyes.

NEUMANN

[Counting out money.] Comes to one and seven-pence halfpenny.

WEAVER'S WIFE

[About thirty, emaciated, takes up the money with trembling fingers.] Thank you, sir.

NEUMANN

[Seeing that she does not move on.] Well, something wrong this time, too?

WEAVER'S WIFE

[Agitated, imploringly.] Do you think I might have a few pence in advance, sir? I need it that bad.

NEUMANN

And I need a few pounds. If it was only a question of needing it—! [Already occupied in counting out another weaver's money, gruffly.] It's Mr. Dreissiger who settles about pay in advance.

WEAVER'S WIFE

Couldn't I speak to Mr. Dreissiger himself, then, sir?

PFEIFER

[Now manager, formerly weaver. The type is unmistakable, only he is well fed, well dressed, clean shaven; also takes snuff copiously. He calls out roughly.] Mr. Dreissiger would have enough to do if he had to attend to every trifle himself. That's what we are here for. [He measures, and then examines through the magnifying-glass.] Mercy on us! what a draught! [Puts a thick muffler round his neck.] Shut the door, whoever comes in.

APPRENTICE

[Loudly to PFEIFER.] You might as well talk to stocks and stones.

PFEIFER

That's done!—Weigh! [The weaver places his web on the scales.] If you only understood your business a little better! Full of lumps again.... I hardly need to look at the cloth to see them. Call yourself a weaver, and "draw as long a bow" as you've done there!

BECKER has entered. A young, exceptionally powerfully-built weaver; offhand, almost bold in manner. PFEIFER, NEUMANN, and the APPRENTICE exchange looks of mutual understanding as he comes in.

BECKER

Devil take it! This is a sweatin' job, and no mistake.

FIRST WEAVER

[In a low voice.] This blazin' heat means rain.

[OLD BAUMERT forces his way in at the glass door on the right, through which the crowd of weavers can be seen, standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting their turn. The old man stumbles forward and lays his bundle on the bench, beside BECKER'S. He sits down by it, and wipes the sweat from his face.

OLD BAUMERT

A man has a right to a rest after that.

BECKER

Rest's better than money.

OLD BAUMERT

Yes, but we needs the money too. Good mornin' to you, Becker!

BECKER

Mornin', father Baumert! Goodness knows how long we'll have to stand here again.

FIRST WEAVER

That don't matter. What's to hinder a weaver waitin' for an hour, or for a day? What else is he there for?

PFEIFER

Silence there! We can't hear our own voices.

BECKER

[In a low voice.] This is one of his bad days.

PFEIFER

[To the weaver standing before him.] How often have I told you that you must bring cleaner cloth? What sort of mess is this? Knots, and straw, and all kinds of dirt.

REIMANN

It's for want of a new picker, sir.

APPRENTICE

[Has weighed the piece.] Short weight, too.

PFEIFER

I never saw such weavers. I hate to give out the yarn to them. It was another story in my day! I'd have caught it finely from my master for work like that. The business was carried on in different style then. A man had to know his trade—that's the last thing that's thought of nowadays. Reimann, one shilling.

REIMANN

But there's always a pound allowed for waste.

PFEIFER

I've no time. Next man!—What have you to show?

HEIBER

[Lays his web on the table. While PFEIFER is examining it, he goes close up to him; eagerly in a low tone.] Beg pardon, Mr. Pfeifer, but I wanted to ask you, sir, if you would perhaps be so very kind an' do me the favour an' not take my advance money off this week's pay.

PFEIFER

[Measuring and examining the texture; jeeringly.] Well! What next, I wonder? This looks very much as if half the weft had stuck to the bobbins again.

HEIBER

[Continues.] I'll be sure to make it all right next week, sir. But this last week I've had to put in two days' work on the estate. And my missus is ill in bed....

PFEIFER

[Giving the web to be weighed.] Another piece of real slop-work. [Already examining a new web.] What a selvage! Here it's broad, there it's narrow; here it's drawn in by the wefts goodness knows how tight, and there it's torn out again by the temples. And hardly seventy threads weft to the inch. What's come of the rest? Do you call this honest work? I never saw anything like it.

[HEIBER, repressing tears, stands humiliated and helpless.

BECKER

[In a low voice to BAUMERT.] To please that brute you'd have to pay for extra yarn out o' your own pocket.

WEAVER'S WIFE

[Who has remained standing near the cashier's table, from time to time looking round appealingly, takes courage and once more turns imploringly to the cashier.] I don't know what's to come o' me, sir, if you won't give me a little advance this time ... O Lord, O Lord!

PFEIFER

[Calls across.] It's no good whining, or dragging the Lord's name into the matter. You're not so anxious about Him at other times. You look after your husband and see that he's not to be found so often lounging in the public-house. We can give no pay in advance. We have to account for every penny. It's not our money. People that are industrious, and understand their work, and do it in the fear of God, never need their pay in advance. So now you know.

NEUMANN

If a Bielau weaver got four times as much pay, he would squander it four times over and be in debt into the bargain.

WEAVER'S WIFE

[In a loud voice, as if appealing to the general sense of justice.] No one can't call me idle, but I'm not fit now for what I once was. I've twice had a miscarriage. And as to John, he's but a poor creature. He's been to the shepherd at Zerlau, but he couldn't do him no good, and ... you can't do more than you've strength for.... We works as hard as ever we can. This many a week I've been at it till far on into the night. An' we'll keep our heads above water right enough if I can just get a bit o' strength into me. But you must have pity on us, Mr. Pfeifer, sir. [Eagerly, coaxingly.] You'll please be so very kind as to let me have a few pence on the next job, sir?

PFEIFER

[Paying no attention.] Fiedler, one and twopence.

WEAVER'S WIFE

Only a few pence, to buy bread with. We can't get no more credit. We've a lot o' little ones.

NEUMANN

[Half aside to the APPRENTICE, in a serio-comic-tone.] "Every year brings a child to the linen-weaver's wife, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh."

APPRENTICE

[Takes up the rhyme, half singing.] "And the little brat it's blind the first weeks of its life, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh."

REIMANN

[Not touching the money which the cashier has counted out to him.] We've always got one and fourpence for the web.

PFEIFER

[Calls across.] If our terms don't suit you, Reimann, you have only to say so. There's no scarcity of weavers—especially of your sort. For full weight we give full pay.

REIMANN

How anything can be wrong with the weight o' this...!

PFEIFER

You bring a piece of fustian with no faults in it, and there will be no fault in the pay.

REIMANN

It's clean impossible that there's too many knots in this web.

PFEIFER

[Examining.] If you want to live well, then be sure you weave well.

HEIBER

[Has remained standing near PFEIFER, so as to seize on any favourable opportunity. He laughs at PFEIFER'S little witticism, then steps forward and again addresses him.] I wanted to ask you, sir, if you would perhaps have the great kindness not to take my advance of sixpence off to-day's pay? My missus has been bedridden since February, She can't do a hand's turn for me, an' I've to pay a bobbin girl. An' so ...

PFEIFER

[Takes a pinch of snuff.] Heiber do you think I have no one to attend to but you? The others must have their turn.

REIMANN

As the warp was given me I took it home and fastened it to the beam. I can't bring back no better yarn than I gets.

PFEIFER

If you're not satisfied, you need come for no more. There are plenty ready to tramp the soles off their shoes to get it.

NEUMANN

[To REIMANN.] Don't you want your money?

REIMANN

I can't bring myself to take such pay.

NEUMANN

[Paying no further attention to REIMANN.] Heiber, one shilling. Deduct sixpence for pay it advance. Leaves sixpence.

HEIBER

[Goes up to the table, looks at the money, stands shaking his head as if unable to believe his eyes, then slowly takes it up.] Well, I never!— [Sighing.] Oh dear, oh dear!

OLD BAUMERT

[Looking into HEIBER'S face.] Yes, Franz, that's so! There's matter enough for sighing.

HEIBER

[Speaking with difficulty.] I've a girl lyin' sick at home too, an' she needs a bottle of medicine.

OLD BAUMERT

What's wrong with her?

HEIBER

Well, you see, she's always been a sickly bit of a thing. I don't know ... I needn't mind tellin' you—she brought her trouble with her. It's in her blood, and it breaks out here, there, and everywhere.

OLD BAUMERT

It's always the way. Let folks be poor, and one trouble comes to them on the top of another. There's no help for it and there's no end to it.

HEIBER

What are you carryin' in that cloth, fatter. Baumert?

OLD BAUMERT

We haven't so much as a bite in the house, and so I've had the little dog killed. There's not much on him, for the poor beast was half starved. A nice little dog he was! I couldn't kill him myself. I hadn't the heart to do it.

PFEIFER

[Has inspected BECKER'S web and calls.] Becker, one and threepence.

BECKER

That's what you might give to a beggar; it's not pay.

PFEIFER

Every one who has been attended to must clear out. We haven't room to turn round in.

BECKER

[To those standing near, without lowering his voice.] It's a beggarly pittance, nothing else. A man works his treadle from early morning till late at night, an' when he's bent over his loom for days an' days, tired to death every evening, sick with the dust and the heat, he finds he's made a beggarly one and threepence!

PFEIFER

No impudence allowed here.

BECKER

If you think I'll hold my tongue for your tellin', you're much mistaken.

PFEIFER

[Exclaims.] We'll see about that! [Rushes to the glass door and calls into the office.] Mr. Dreissiger, Mr. Dreissiger, will you be good enough to come here?

Enter DREISSIGER. About forty, full-bodied, asthmatic. Looks severe.

DREISSIGER

What is it, Pfeifer?

PFEIFER

[Spitefully.] Becker says he won't be told to hold his tongue.

DREISSIGER

[_Draws himself up, throws back his head, stares at BECKER; his nostrils tremble._] Oh, indeed!—Becker. [_To PFEIFER.] Is he the man?...

[The clerks nod.

BECKER

[Insolently.] Yes, Mr. Dreissiger, yes! [Pointing to himself.] This is the man. [Pointing to DREISSIGER.] And that's a man too!

DREISSIGER

[Angrily.] Fellow, how dare you?

PFEIFER

He's too well off. He'll go dancing on the ice once too often, though.

BECKER

[Recklessly.] You shut up, you Jack-in-the-box. Your mother must have gone dancing once too often with Satan to have got such a devil for a son.

DREISSIGER

[Now in a violent passion, roars.] Hold your tongue this moment, sir, or ...

[He trembles and takes a fere steps forward.

BECKER

[Holding his ground steadily.] I'm not deaf. My hearing's quite good yet.

DREISSIGER

[Controls himself, asks in an apparently cool business tone.] Was this fellow not one of the pack...?

PFEIFER

He's a Bielau weaver. When there's any mischief going, they're sure to be in it.

DREISSIGER

[Trembling.] Well, I give you all warning: if the same thing happens again as last night—a troop of half-drunken cubs marching past my windows singing that low song ...

BECKER

Is it "Bloody Justice" you mean?

DREISSIGER

You know well enough what I mean. I tell you that if I hear it again I'll get hold of one of you, and—mind, I'm not joking—before the justice he shall go. And if I can find out who it was that made up that vile doggerel ...

BECKER

It's a grand song, that's what it is!

DREISSIGER

Another word and I send for the police on the spot, without more ado. I'll make short work with you young fellows. I've got the better of very different men before now.

BECKER

I believe you there. A real thoroughbred manufacturer will get the better of two or three hundred weavers in the time it takes you to turn round—swallow 'em up, and not leave as much as a bone. He's got four stomachs like a cow, and teeth like a wolf. That's nothing to him at all!

DREISSIGER

[To his clerks.] That man gets no more work from us.

BECKER

It's all the same to me whether I starve at my loom or by the roadside.

DREISSIGER

Out you go, then, this moment!

BECKER

[Determinedly.] Not without my pay.

DREISSIGER

How much is owing to the fellow, Neumann?

NEUMANN

One and threepence.

DREISSIGER

[Takes the money hurriedly ont of the cashier's hand, and flings it on the table, so that some of the coins roll off on to the floor.] There you are, then; and now, out of my sight with you!

BECKER

Not without my pay.

DREISSIGER

Don't you see it lying there? If you don't take it and go ... It's exactly twelve now ... The dyers are coming out for their dinner ...

BECKER

I gets my pay into my hand—here—that's where!

[Points with the fingers of his right hand at the palm of his left.

DREISSIGER

[To the APPRENTICE.] Pick up the money, Tilgner.

[The APPRENTICE lifts the money and puts it into BECKER'S hand.

BECKER

Everything in proper order.

[Deliberately takes an old purse out of his pocket and puts the money into it.

DREISSIGER

[As BECKER still does not move away.] Well? Do you want me to come and help you?

[Signs of agitation are observable among the crowd of weavers. A long, loud sigh is heard, and then a fall. General interest is at once diverted to this new event.

DREISSIGER

What's the matter there?

CHORUS OF WEAVERS AND WOMEN

"Some one's fainted."—"It's a little sickly boy."—"Is it a fit, or what?"

DREISSIGER

What do you say? Fainted?

[He goes nearer.

OLD WEAVER

There he lies, any way.

[They make room. A boy of about eight is seen lying on the floor as if dead.

DREISSIGER

Does any one know the boy?

OLD WEAVER

He's not from our village.

OLD BAUMERT

He's like one of weaver Heinrich's boys. [Looks at him more closely.] Yes, that's Heinrich's little Philip.

DREISSIGER

Where do they live?

OLD BAUMERT

Up near us in Kaschbach, sir. He goes round playin' music in the evenings, and all day he's at the loom. They've nine children an' a tenth a coming.

CHORUS OF WEAVERS AND WOMEN

"They're terrible put to it."—"The rain comes through their roof."—"The woman hasn't two shirts among the nine."

OLD BAUMERT

[Taking the boy by the arm.] Now then, lad, what's wrong with you? Wake up, lad.

DREISSIGER

Some of you help me, and we'll get him up. It's disgraceful to send a sickly child this distance. Bring some water, Pfeifer.

WOMAN

[Helping to lift the boy.] Sure you're not goin' to be foolish and die, lad!

DREISSIGER

Brandy, Pfeifer, brandy will be better.

BECKER

[Forgotten by all, has stood looking on. With his hand on the door-latch, he now calls loudly and tauntingly.] Give him something to eat, an' he'll soon be all right.

[Goes out.

DREISSIGER

That fellow will come to a bad end.—Take him under the arm, Neumann. Easy now, easy; we'll get him into my room. What?

NEUMANN

He said something, Mr. Dreissiger. His lips are moving.

DREISSIGER

What—what is it, boy?

BOY

[Whispers.] I'm h-hungry.

WOMAN

I think he says—

DREISSIGER

We'll find out. Don't stop. Let us get him into my room. He can lie on the sofa there, We'll hear what the doctor says.

DREISSIGER, NEUMANN, and the woman lead the boy into the office. The weavers begin to behave like school-children when their master has left the classroom. They stretch themselves, whisper, move from one foot to the other, and in the course of a few moments are conversing loudly.

OLD BAUMERT

I believe as how Becker was right.

CHORUS OF WEAVERS AND WOMEN

"He did say something like that."—"It's nothin' new here to fall down from hunger."—"God knows what's to come of 'em in winter if this cuttin' down o' wages goes on."—"An' this year the potatoes aren't no good at all."—"Things'll get worse and worse till we're all done for together."

OLD BAUMERT

The best thing a man could do would be to put a rope round his neck and hang hisself on his own loom, like weaver Nentwich. [To another old weaver.] Here, take a pinch. I was at Neurode yesterday. My brother-in-law, he works in the snuff factory there, and he give me a grain or two. Have you anything good in your kerchief?

OLD WEAVER

Only a little pearl barley. I was coming along behind Ulbrich the miller's cart, and there was a slit in one of the sacks. I can tell you we'll be glad of it.

OLD BAUMERT

There's twenty-two mills in Peterswaldau, but of all they grind, there's never nothin' comes our way.

OLD WEAVER

We must keep up heart. There's always somethin' comes to help us on again.

HEIBER

Yes, when we're hungry, we can pray to all the saints to help us, and if that don't fill our bellies we can put a pebble in our mouths and suck it. Eh, Baumert?

Re-enter DREISSIGER, PFEIFER, AND NEUMANN.

DREISSIGER

It was nothing serious. The boy is all right again. [Walks about excitedly, panting.] But all the same it's a disgrace. The child's so weak that a puff of wind would blow him over. How people, how any parents can be so thoughtless is what passes my comprehension. Loading him with two heavy pieces of fustian to carry six good miles! No one would believe it that hadn't seen it. It simply means that I shall have to make a rule that no goods brought by children will be taken over. [He walks up and down silently for a few moments.] I sincerely trust such a thing will not occur again.—Who gets all the blame for it? Why, of course the manufacturer. It's entirely our fault. If some poor little fellow sticks in the snow in winter and goes to sleep, a special correspondent arrives post-haste, and in two days we have a blood-curdling story served up in all the papers. Is any blame laid on the father, the parents, that send such a child?—Not a bit of it. How should they be to blame? It's all the manufacturer's fault—he's made the scapegoat. They flatter the weaver, and give the manufacturer nothing but abuse—he's a cruel man, with a heart like a stone, a dangerous fellow, at whose calves every cur of a journalist may take a bite. He lives on the fat of the land, and pays the poor weavers starvation wages. In the flow of his eloquence the writer forgets to mention that such a man has his cares too and his sleepless nights; that he runs risks of which the workman never dreams; that he is often driven distracted by all the calculations he has to make, and all the different things he has to take into account; that he has to struggle for his very life against competition; and that no day passes without some annoyance or some loss. And think of the manufacturer's responsibilities, think of the numbers that depend on him, that look to him for their daily bread. No, No! none of you need wish yourselves in my shoes—you would soon have enough of it. [After a moment's reflection.] You all saw how that fellow, that scoundrel Becker, behaved. Now he'll go and spread about all sorts of tales of my hard-heartedness, of how my weavers are turned off for a mere trifle, without a moment's notice. Is that true? Am I so very unmerciful?

CHORUS OF VOICES

No, sir.

DREISSIGER

It doesn't seem to me that I am. And yet these ne'er-do-wells come round singing low songs about us manufacturers—prating about hunger, with enough in their pockets to pay for quarts of bad brandy. If they would like to know what want is, let them go and ask the linen-weavers: they can tell something about it. But you here, you fustian-weavers, have every reason to thank God that things are no worse than they are. And I put it to all the old, industrious weavers present: Is a good workman able to gain a living in my employment, or is he not?

MANY VOICES

Yes, sir; he is, sir.

DREISSIGER

There now! You see! Of course such a fellow as that Becker can't. I advise you to keep these young lads in check. If there's much more of this sort of thing, I'll shut up shop—give up the business altogether, and then you can shift for yourselves, get work where you like—perhaps Mr. Becker will provide it.

FIRST WEAVER'S WIFE

[Has come close to DREISSIGER, and removes a little dust from his coat with creeping servility.] You've been an' rubbed agin something, sir.

DREISSIGER

Business is as bad as it can be just now, you know that yourselves. Instead of making money, I am losing it every day. If, in spite of this, I take care that my weavers are kept in work, I look for some little gratitude from them. I have thousands of pieces of cloth in stock, and don't know if I'll ever be able to sell them. Well, now, I've heard how many weavers hereabouts are out of work, and—I'll leave Pfeifer to give the particulars—but this much I'll tell you, just to show you my good will.... I can't deal out charity all round; I'm not rich enough for that; but I can give the people who are out of work the chance of earning at any rate a little. It's a great business risk I run by doing it, but that's my affair. I say to myself: Better that a man should work for a bite of bread than that, he should starve altogether, Am I not right?

CHORUS OF VOICES

Yes, yes, sir.

DREISSIGER

And therefore I am ready to give employment to two hundred more weavers. Pfeifer will tell you on what conditions.

[He turns to go.

FIRST WEAVER'S WIFE

[Comes between him and the door, speaks hurriedly, eagerly, imploringly.] Oh, if you please, sir, will you let me ask you if you'll be so good ... I've been twice laid up for ...

DREISSIGER

[Hastily.] Speak to Pfeifer, good woman. I'm too late as it is.

[Passes on, leaving her standing.

REIMANN

[Stops him again. In an injured, complaining tone.] I have a complaint to make, if you please, sir. Mr. Pfeifer refuses to ... I've always got one and two-pence for a web ...

DREISSIGER

[Interrupts him.] Mr. Pfeifer's my manager. There he is. Apply to him.

HEIBER

[Detaining DREISSIGER; hurriedly and confusedly.] O sir, I wanted to ask if you would p'r'aps, if I might p'r'aps ... if Mr. Pfeifer might ... might ...

DREISSIGER

What is it you want?

HEIBER

That advance pay I had last time, sir; I thought p'r'aps you would kindly ...

DREISSIGER

I have no idea what you are talking about.

HEIBER

I'm awful hard up, sir, because ...

DREISSIGER

These are things Pfeifer must look into—I really have not the time. Arrange the matter with Pfeifer.

[He escapes into the office.

[The supplicants look helplessly at one another, sigh, and take their places again among the others.

PFEIFER

[Resuming his task of inspection.] Well, Annie, let as see what yours is like.

OLD BAUMERT

How much is we to get for the web, then, Mr. Pfeifer?

PFEIFER

One shilling a web.

OLD BAUMERT

Has it come to that!

[Excited whispering and murmuring among the weavers.

END OF THE FIRST ACT



THE SECOND ACT

A small room in the house of WILHELM ANSORGE, weaver and cottager in the village of Kaschbach, in the Eulengebirge.

In this room, which does not measure six feet from the dilapidated wooden floor to the smoke-blackened rafters, sit four people. Two young girls, EMMA and BERTHA BAUMERT, are working at their looms; MOTHER BAUMERT, a decrepit old woman, sits on a stool beside the bed, with a winding-wheel in front of her; her idiot son AUGUST sits on a foot-stool, also winding. He is twenty, has a small body and head, and long, spider-like legs and arms.

Faint, rosy evening light makes its way through two small windows in the right wall, which have their broken panes pasted over with paper or stuffed with straw. It lights up the flaxen hair of the girls, which falls loose on their slender white necks and thin bare shoulders, and their coarse chemises. These, with a short petticoat of the roughest linen, form their whole attire. The warm glow falls on the old woman's face, neck, and breast—a face worn away to a skeleton, with shrivelled skin and sunken eyes, red and watery with smoke, dust, and working by lamplight—a long goitre neck, wrinkled and sinewy—a hollow breast covered with faded, ragged shawls.

Part of the right wall is also lighted up, with stove, stove-bench, bedstead, and one or two gaudily coloured sacred prints. On the stove rail rags are hanging to dry, and behind the stove is a collection of worthless lumber. On the bench stand some old pots and cooking utensils, and potato parings are laid out on it, on paper, to dry. Hanks of yarn and reels hang from the rafters; baskets of bobbins stand beside the looms. In the back wall there is a low door without fastening. Beside it a bundle of willow wands is set up against the wall, and beyond them lie some damaged quarter-bushel baskets.

The room is full of sound—the rhythmic thud of the looms, shaking floor and walls, the click and rattle of the shuttles passing back and forward, and the steady whirr of the winding-wheels, like the hum of gigantic bees.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[In a querulous, feeble voice, as the girls stop weaving and bend over their webs.] Got to make knots again already, have you?

EMMA

[The elder of the two girls, about twenty-two, tying a broken thread] It's the plagueyest web, this!

BERTHA

[Fifteen.] Yes, it's real bad yarn they've given us this time.

EMMA

What can have happened to father? He's been away since nine.

MOTHER BAUMERT

That he has! yes. Where in the wide world c'n he be?

BERTHA

Don't you worry yourself, mother.

MOTHER BAUMERT

I can't help it, Bertha lass.

[EMMA begins to weave again.

BERTHA

Stop a minute, Emma!

EMMA

What is it!

BERTHA

I thought I heard some one.

EMMA

It'll be Ansorge comin' home.

Enter FRITZ, a little, barefooted, ragged boy of four.

FRITZ

[Whimpering.] I'm hungry, mother.

EMMA

Wait, Fritzel, wait a bit! Gran'father'll be here very soon, an' he's bringin' bread along with him, an' coffee too.

FRITZ

But I'm awful hungry, mother.

EMMA

Be a good boy now, Fritz. Listen to what I'm tellin' you. He'll be here this minute. He's bringin' nice bread an' nice corn-coffee; an' when we stops workin' mother'll take the tater peelin's and carry them to the farmer, and the farmer'll give her a drop o' good buttermilk for her little boy.

FRITZ

Where's grandfather gone?

EMMA

To the manufacturer, Fritz, with a web.

FRITZ

To the manufacturer?

EMMA

Yes, yes, Fritz, down to Dreissiger's at Peterswaldau.

FRITZ

Is it there he gets the bread?

EMMA

Yes; Dreissiger gives him money, and then he buys the bread.

FRITZ

Does he give him a heap of money?

EMMA

[Impatiently.] Oh, stop that chatter, boy.

[She and BERTHA go on weaving for a time, and then both stop again.

BERTHA

August, go and ask Ansorge if he'll give us a light.

[AUGUST goes out accompanied by FRITZ.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[Overcome by her childish apprehension, whimpers.] Emma! Bertha! where c'n the man be stay-in'?

BERTHA

Maybe he looked in to see Hauffe.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[Crying.] What if he's sittin' drinkin' in the public-house?

EMMA

Don't cry, mother! You know well enough father's not the man to do that.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[Half distracted by a multitude of gloomy forebodings.] What ... what ... what's to become of us if he don't come home? if he drinks the money, an' don't bring us nothin' at all? There's not so much as a handful o' salt in the house—not a bite o' bread, nor a bit o' wood for the fire.

BERTHA

Wait a bit, mother! It's moonlight just now. We'll take August with us and go into the wood and get some sticks.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Yes, an' be caught by the forester.

ANSORGE, an old weaver of gigantic stature, who has to bend down to get into the room, puts his head and shoulders in at the door. Long, unkempt hair and beard.

ANSORGE

What's wanted?

BERTHA

Light, if you please.

ANSORGE

[In a muffled voice, as if speaking' in a sick-room.] There's good daylight yet.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Is we to sit in the dark next?

ANSORGE

I've to do the same mayself.

[Goes out.

BERTHA

It's easy to see that he's a miser.

EMMA

Well, there's nothin' for it but to sit an' wait his pleasure.

Enter MRS. HEINRICH, a woman of thirty, heavy with child; an expression of torturing anxiety and apprehension on her worn face.

MRS. HEINRICH

Good evenin' t'you all.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Well, Jenny, and what's your news?

MRS. HEINRICH

[Who limps.] I've got a piece o' glass into my foot.

BERTHA

Come an' sit down, then, an' I'll see if I c'n get it out.

[MRS. HEINRICH seats herself, BERTHA kneels down, in front of her, and examines her foot.

MOTHER BAUMERT

How are ye all at home, Jenny?

MRS. HEINRICH

[Breaks out despairingly.] Things is in a terrible way with us!

[She struggles in vain, against a rush of tears; then weeps silently.

MOTHER BAUMERT

The best thing as could happen to the likes o' us, Jenny, would be if God had pity on us an' took us away out o' this weary world.

MRS. HEINRICH

[No longer able to control herself, screams, still crying.] My children's starvin'. [Sobs and moans.] I don't know what to do no more! I c'n work till I drops—I'm more dead'n alive—things don't get different! There's nine hungry mouths to fill! We got a bit o' bread last night, but it wasn't enough even for the two smallest ones. Who was I to give it to, eh? They all cried; Me, me, mother! give it to me!... An' if it's like this while I'm still on my feet, what'll it be when I've to take to bed? Our few taters was washed away. We haven't a thing to put in our mouths.

BERTHA

[Has removed the bit of glass and washed the wound.] We'll put a rag round it. Emma, see if you can find one.

MOTHER BAUMERT

We're no better off'n you, Jenny.

MRS. HEINRICH

You has your girls, any way. You've a husband as c'n work. Mine was taken with one o' his fits last week again—so bad that I didn't know what to do with him, and was half out o' my mind with fright. And when he's had a turn like that, he can't stir out o' bed under a week.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Mine's no better. He's goin' to pieces, too. He's breathin's bad now as well as his back. An' there's not a farthin' nor a farthin's worth in the house. If he don't bring a few pence with him today, I don't know what we're to do.

EMMA

It's the truth she's tellin' you, Jenny. We had to let father take the little dog with him to-day, to have him killed, that we might get a bite into our stomachs again!

MRS. HEINRICH

Haven't you got as much as a handful o' flour to spare?

MOTHER BAUMERT

An' that we haven't, Jenny. There's not as much as a grain o' salt in the house.

MRS. HEINRICH

Well, then, I don't know ... [Rises, stands still, brooding.] I don't know what'll be the end o' this! It's more'n I c'n bear. [Screams in rage and despair.] I'd be contented if it was nothin' but pigs' food!—But I can't go home again empty-handed—that I can't. God forgive me, I see no other way out of it.

[She limps quickly out.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[Calls after her in a warning voice.] Jenny, Jenny! don't you be doin' anything foolish, now!

BERTHA

She'll do herself no harm, mother. You needn't be afraid.

EMMA

That's the way she always goes on.

[Seats herself at the loom and weaves for a few seconds.

AUGUST enters, carrying a tallow candle, and lighting his father, OLD BAUMERT, who follows close behind him, staggering under a heavy bundle of yarn.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Oh, father, where have you been all this long time? Where have you been?

OLD BAUMERT

Come now, mother, don't fall on a man like that. Give me time to get my breath first. An' look who I've brought with me.

MORITZ JAEGER comes stooping in at the low door. Reserve soldier, newly discharged. Middle height, rosy-cheeked, military carriage. His cap on the side of his head, hussar fashion, whole clothes and shoes, a clean shirt without collar. Draws himself up and salutes.

JAEGER

[In a hearty voice.] Good-evenin', auntie Baumert!

MOTHER BAUMERT

Well, well now! and to think you've got back! An' you've not forgotten us? Take a chair, then, lad.

EMMA

[Wiping a wooden chair with her apron, and pushing it towards MORITZ.] An' so you've come to see what poor folks is like again, Moritz?

JAEGER

I say, Emma, is it true that you've got a boy nearly old enough to be a soldier? Where did you get hold o' him, eh?

[BERTHA, having taken the small supply of provisions which her father has brought, puts meat into a saucepan, and shoves it into the oven, while AUGUST lights the fire.

BERTHA

You knew weaver Finger, didn't you?

MOTHER BAUMERT

We had him here in the house with us. He was ready enough to marry her; but he was too far gone in consumption; he was as good as a dead man. It didn't happen for want o' warnin' from me. But do you think she would listen? Not she. Now he's dead an' forgotten long ago, an' she's left with the boy to provide for as best she can. But now tell us how you've been gettin' on, Moritz.

OLD BAUMERT

You've only to look at him, mother, to know that. He's had luck. It'll be about as much as he can do to speak to the likes o' us. He's got clothes like a prince, an' a silver watch, an' thirty shillings in his pocket into the bargain.

JAEGER

[Stretching himself consequentially, a knowing smile on his face.] I can't complain, I didn't get on so badly in the regiment.

OLD BAUMERT

He was the major's own servant. Just listen to him—he speaks like a gentleman.

JAEGER

I've got so accustomed to it that I can't help it.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Well, now, to think that such a good-for-nothin' as you was should have come to be a rich man. For there wasn't nothin' to be made of you. You would never sit still to wind more than a hank of yarn at a time, that you wouldn't. Off you went to your tomtit boxes an' your robin redbreast snares—they was all you cared about. Isn't it the truth I'm telling?

JAEGER

Yes, yes, auntie, it's true enough. It wasn't only redbreasts. I went after swallows too.

EMMA

Though we were always tellin' you that swallows was poison.

JAEGER

What did I care?—But how have you all been gettin' on, auntie Baumert?

MOTHER BAUMERT

Oh, badly, lad, badly these last four years. I've had the rheumatics—just look at them hands. An' it's more than likely as I've had a stroke o' some kind too, I'm that helpless. I can hardly move a limb, an' nobody knows the pains I suffers.

OLD BAUMERT

She's in a bad way, she is. She'll not hold out long.

BERTHA

We've to dress her in the mornin' an' undress her at night, an' to feed her like a baby.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[Speaking in a complaining, tearful voice.] Not a thing c'n I do for myself. It's far worse than bein' ill. For it's not only a burden to myself I am, but to every one else. Often and often do I pray to God to take me. For oh! mine's a weary life. I don't know ... p'r'aps they think ... but I'm one that's been a hard worker all my days. An' I've always been able to do my turn too; but now, all at once, [she vainly attempts to rise] I can't do nothin'.—I've a good husband an' good children, but to have to sit here and see them...! Look at the girls! There's hardly any blood left in them—faces the colour of a sheet. But on they must work at these weary looms whether they earn enough to keep theirselves or not. What sort o' life is it they lead? Their feet never off the treadle from year's end to year's end. An' with it all they can't scrape together as much as'll buy them clothes that they can let theirselves be seen in; never a step can they go to church, to hear a word o' comfort. They're liker scarecrows than young girls of fifteen and twenty.

BERTHA

[At the stove.] It's beginnin' to smoke again!

OLD BAUMERT

There now; look at that smoke. And we can't do nothin' for it. The whole stove's goin' to pieces. We must let it fall, and swallow the soot. We're coughin' already, one worse than the other. We may cough till we choke, or till we cough our lungs up—nobody cares.

JAEGER

But this here is Ansorge's business; he must see to the stove.

BERTHA

He'll see us out o' the house first; he has plenty against us without that.

MOTHER BAUMERT

We've only been in his way this long time past.

OLD BAUMERT

One word of a complaint an' out we go. He's had no rent from us this last half-year.

MOTHER BAUMERT

A well-off man like him needn't be so hard.

OLD BAUMERT

He's no better off than we is, mother. He's hard put to it too, for all he holds his tongue about it.

MOTHER BAUMERT

He's got his house.

OLD BAUMERT

What are you talkin' about, mother? Not one stone in the wall is the man's own.

JAEGER

[Has seated himself, and taken a short pipe with gay tassels out of one coat-pocket, and a quart bottle of brandy out of another.] Things can't go on like this. I'm dumfoundered when I see the life the people live here. The very dogs in the towns live better.

OLD BAUMERT

[Eagerly.] That's what I says! Eh? eh? You know it too! But if you say that here, they'll tell you that it's only bad times.

Enter ANSORGE, an earthenware pan with soup in one hand, in the other a half-finished quarter-bushel basket.

ANSORGE

Glad to see you again, Moritz!

JAEGER

Thank you, father Ansorge—same to you!

ANSORGE

[Shoving his pan into the oven.] Why, lad you look like a duke!

OLD BAUMERT

Show him your watch, Moritz. An' he's got a new suit of clothes, an' thirty shillings cash.

ANSORGE

[Shaking his head.] Is that so? Well, well!

EMMA

[Puts the potato-parings into a bag.] I must be off; I'll maybe get a drop o' buttermilk for these.

[Goes out.

JAEGER

[The others hanging intently and devoutly on his words.] You know how you all used to be down on me. It was always: Wait, Moritz, till your soldierin' time comes—you'll catch it then. But you see how well I've got on. At the end o' the first half-year I had my good conduct stripes. You've got to be willin'—that's where the secret lies. I brushed the sergeant's boots; I groomed his horse; I fetched his beer. I was as sharp as a needle. Always ready, accoutrements clean and shinin'—first at stables, first at roll-call, first in the saddle. An' when the bugle sounded to the assault—why, then, blood and thunder, and ride to the devil with you!! I was as keen as a pointer. Says I to myself: There's no help for it now, my boy, it's got to be done; and I set my mind to it and did it. Till at last the major said before the whole squadron: There's a hussar now that shows you what a hussar should be!

[Silence. He lights his pipe.

ANSORGE

[Shaking his head.] Well, well, well! You had luck with you, Moritz!

[Sits down on the floor, with his willow twigs beside him, and continues mending the basket, which he holds between his legs.

OLD BAUMERT

Let's hope you've brought some of it to us.—Are we to have a drop to drink your health in?

JAEGER

Of course you are, father Baumert. And when this bottle's done, we'll send for more.

[He flings a coin on the table.

ANSORGE

[Open mouthed with amusement.] Oh my! Oh my! What goings on to be sure! Roast meat frizzlin' in the oven! A bottle o' brandy on the table! [He drinks out of the bottle.] Here's to you, Moritz!—Well, well, well!

[The bottle circulates freely after this.

OLD BAUMERT

If we could any way have a bit o' meat on Sundays and holidays, instead o' never seein' the sight of it from year's end to year's end! Now we'll have to wait till another poor little dog finds its way into the house like this one did four weeks gone by—an' that's not likely to happen soon again.

ANSORGE

Have you killed the little dog?

OLD BAUMERT

We had to do that or starve.

ANSORGE

Well, well! That's so!

MOTHER BAUMERT

A nice, kind little beast he was, too!

JAEGER

Are you as keen as ever on roast dog hereabouts?

OLD BAUMERT

Lord, if we could only get enough of it!

MOTHER BAUMERT

A nice little bit o' meat like that does you a lot o' good.

OLD BAUMERT

Have you lost the taste for it, Moritz? Stay with us a bit, and it'll soon come back to you.

ANSORGE

[Sniffing.] Yes, yes! That will be a tasty bite—what a good smell it has!

OLD BAUMERT

[Sniffing.] Fine as spice, you might say.

ANSORGE

Come, then, Moritz, tell us your opinion, you that's been out and seen the world. Is things at all like to improve for us weavers, eh?

JAEGER

They would need to.

ANSORGE

We're in an awful state here. It's not livin' an' it's not dyin'. A man fights to the bitter end, but he's bound to be beat at last—to be left without a roof over his head, you may say without ground under his feet. As long as he can work at the loom he can earn some sort o poor, miserable livin'. But it's many a day since I've been able to get that sort o' job. Now I tries to put a bite into my mouth with this here basket-mak-in'. I sits at it late into the night, and by the time I tumbles into bed I've earned three-halfpence. I puts it to you as knows things, if a man can live on that, when everything's so dear? Nine shillin' goes in one lump for house tax, three shillin' for land tax, nine shillin' for mortgage interest—that makes one pound one. I may reckon my year's earnin' at just double that money, and that leaves me twenty-one shillin' for a whole year's food, an' fire, an' clothes, an' shoes; and I've got to keep up some sort of a place to live in. An' there's odds an' ends. Is it a wonder if I'm behindhand with my interest payments?

OLD BAUMERT

Some one would need to go to Berlin an' tell the King how hard put to it we are.

JAEGER

Little good that would do, father Baumert. There's been plenty written about it in the news-papers. But the rich people, they can turn and twist things round ... as cunning as the devil himself.

OLD BAUMERT

[Shaking his head.] To think they've no more sense than that in Berlin.

ANSORGE

And is it really true, Moritz? Is there no law to help us? If a man hasn't been able to scrape together enough to pay his mortgage interest, though he's worked the very skin off his hands, must his house be taken from him? The peasant that's lent the money on it, he wants his rights—what else can you look for from him? But what's to be the end of it all, I don't know.—If I'm put out o' the house ... [In a voice choked by tears.] I was born here, and here my father sat at his loom for more than forty year. Many was the time he said to mother: Mother, when I'm gone, keep hold o' the house. I've worked hard for it. Every nail means a night's weavin', every plank a year's dry bread. A man would think that ...

JAEGER

They're just as like to take the last bite out of your mouth—that's what they are.

ANSORGE

Well, well, well! I would rather be carried out than have to walk out now in my old days. Who minds dyin'? My father, he was glad to die. At the very end he got frightened, but I crept into bed beside him, an' he quieted down again. Think of it; I was a lad of thirteen then. I was tired and fell asleep beside him—I knew no better—and when I woke he was quite cold.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[After a pause.] Give Ansorge his soup out o' the oven, Bertha.

BERTHA

Here, father Ansorge, it'll do you good.

ANSORGE

[Eating and shedding tears.] Well, well, well!

[OLD BAUMERT has begun to eat the meat out of the saucepan.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Father, father, can't you have patience an' let Bertha serve it up properly?

OLD BAUMERT

[Chewing.] It's two years now since I took the sacrament. I went straight after that an' sold my Sunday coat, an' we bought a good bit o' pork, an' since then never a mouthful of meat has passed my lips till to-night.

JAEGER

We don't need no meat! The manufacturers eats it for us. It's the fat o' the land they lives on. Whoever don't believe that has only to go down to Bielau and Peterswaldau. He'll see fine things there—palace upon palace, with towers and iron railings and plate-glass windows. Who do they all belong to? Why, of course, the manufacturers! No signs of bad times there! Baked and boiled and fried—horses and carriages and governesses—they've money to pay for all that and goodness knows how much more. They're swelled out to burstin' with pride and good livin'.

ANSORGE

Things was different in my young days. Then the manufacturers let the weaver have his share. Now they keeps everything to theirselves. An' would you like to know what's at the bottom of it all? It's that the fine folks nowadays believes neither in God nor devil. What do they care about commandments or punishments? And so they steals our last scrap o' bread, an' leaves us no chance of earnin' the barest living. For it's their fault. If our manufacturers was good men, there would be no bad times for us.

JAEGER

Listen, then, and I'll read you something that will please you. [He takes one or two loose papers from his pocket.] I say, August, run and fetch another quart from the public-house. Eh, boy, do you laugh all day long?

MOTHER BAUMERT

No one knows why, but our August's always happy—grins an' laughs, come what may. Off with you then, quick! [Exit AUGUST with the empty brandy-bottle.] You've got something good now, eh, father?

OLD BAUMERT

[Still chewing; his spirits are rising from the effect of food and drink.] Moritz, you're the very man we want. You can read an' write. You understand the weavin' trade, and you've a heart to feel for the poor weavers' sufferin's. You should stand up for us here.

JAEGER

I'd do that quick enough! There's nothing I'd like better than to give the manufacturers round here a bit of a fright—dogs that they are! I'm an easy-goin' fellow, but let me once get worked up into a real rage, and I'll take Dreissiger in the one hand and Dittrich in the other, and knock their heads together till the sparks fly out o' their eyes.—If we could only arrange all to join together, we'd soon give the manufacturers a proper lesson ... we wouldn't need no King an' no Government ... all we'd have to do would be to say: We wants this and that, and we don't want the other thing. There would be a change of days then. As soon as they see that there's some pluck in us, they'll cave in. I know the rascals; they're a pack o' cowardly hounds.

MOTHER BAUMERT

There's some truth in what you say. I'm not a bad woman. I've always been the one to say as how there must be rich folks as well as poor. But when things come to such a pass as this ...

JAEGER

The devil may take them all, for what I care. It would be no more than they deserves.

[OLD BAUMERT has quietly gone out.

BERTHA

Where's father?

MOTHER BAUMERT

I don't know where he can have gone.

BERTHA

Do you think he's not been able to stomach the meat, with not gettin' none for so long?

MOTHER BAUMERT

[In distress, crying.] There now, there! He's not even able to keep it down when he's got it. Up it comes again, the only bite o' good food as he's tasted this many a day.

Re-enter OLD BAUMERT, crying with rage.

OLD BAUMERT

It's no good! I'm too far gone! Now that I've at last got hold of somethin' with a taste in it, my stomach won't keep it.

[He sits down on the bench by the stove crying.

JAEGER

[With a sudden violent ebullition of rage.] An' yet there's people not far from here, justices they call themselves too, over-fed brutes, that have nothing to do all the year round but invent new ways of wastin' their time. An' these people say that the weavers would be quite well off if only they wasn't so lazy.

ANSORGE

The men as says that are no men at all, they're monsters.

JAEGER

Never mind, father Ansorge; we're makin' the place hot for 'em. Becker and I have been and given Dreissiger a piece of our mind, and before we came away we sang him "Bloody Justice."

ANSORGE

Good Lord! Is that the song?

JAEGER

Yes; I have it here.

ANSORGE

They calls it Dreissiger's song, don't they?

JAEGER

I'll read it to you,

MOTHER BAUMERT

Who wrote it?

JAEGER

That's what nobody knows. Now listen.

[He reads, hesitating like a schoolboy, with incorrect accentuation, but unmistakably strong feeling. Despair, suffering, rage, hatred, thirst for revenge, all find utterance.

The justice to us weavers dealt Is bloody, cruel, and hateful; Our life's one torture, long drawn out: For Lynch law we'd be grateful.

Stretched on the rack day after day, Hearts sick and bodies aching, Our heavy sighs their witness bear To spirit slowly breaking.

[The words of the song make a strong impression on OLD BAUMERT. Deeply agitated, he struggles against the temptation to interrupt JAEGER. At last he can keep quiet no longer.

OLD BAUMERT [To his wife, half laughing, half crying, stammering.] Stretched on the rack day after day. Whoever wrote that, mother, wrote the truth. You can bear witness ... eh, how does it go? "Our heavy sighs their witness bear" ... What's the rest?

JAEGER

"To spirit slowly breaking."

OLD BAUMERT

You know the way we sigh, mother, day and night, sleepin' and wakin'.

[ANSORGE had stopped working, and cowers on the floor, strongly agitated. MOTHER BAUMERT and BERTHA wipe their eyes frequently during the course of the reading.

JAEGER

[Continues to read.]

The Dreissigers true hangmen are, Servants no whit behind them; Masters and men with one accord Set on the poor to grind them.

You villains all, you brood of hell ...

OLD BAUMERT

[Trembling with rage, stamping on the floor.] Yes, brood of hell!!!

JAEGER

[Reads.]

You fiends in fashion human, A curse will fall on all like you, Who prey on man and woman.

ANSORGE

Yes, yes, a curse upon them!

OLD BAUMERT

[Clenching his fist, threateningly.] You prey on man and woman.

JAEGER

[Reads.]

The suppliant knows he asks in vain, Vain every word that's spoken. "If not content, then go and starve— Our rules cannot be broken."

OLD BAUMERT

What is it? "The suppliant knows he asks in vain"? Every word of it's true ... every word ... as true as the Bible. He knows he asks in vain.

ANSORGE

Yes, yes! It's all no good.

JAEGER

[Reads.]

Then think of all our woe and want, O ye who hear this ditty! Our struggle vain for daily bread Hard hearts would move to pity.

But pity's what you've never known, You'd take both skin and clothing, You cannibals, whose cruel deeds Fill all good men with loathing.

OLD BAUMERT

[Jumps up, beside himself with excitement.] Both skin and clothing. It's true, it's all true! Here I stands, Robert Baumert, master-weaver of Kaschbach. Who can bring up anything against me?... I've been an honest, hard-workin' man all my life long, an' look at me now! What have I to show for it? Look at me! See what they've made of me! Stretched on the rack day after day, [He holds out his arms.] Feel that! Skin and bone! "You villains all, you brood of hell!!"

[He sinks down on a chair, weeping with rage and despair.

ANSORGE

[Flings his basket from him into a corner, rises, his whole body trembling with rage, gasps.] An' the time's come now for a change, I say. We'll stand it no longer! We'll stand it no longer! Come what may!

END OF THE SECOND ACT



THE THIRD ACT

The common-room of the principal public-house in Peterswaldau. A large room with a raftered roof supported by a central wooden pillar, round which a table runs. In the back mall, a little to the right of the pillar, is the entrance-door, through the opening of which the spacious lobby or outer room is seen, with barrels and brewing utensils. To the right of this door, in the corner, is the bar—a high wooden counter with receptacles for beer-mugs, glasses, etc.; a cupboard with rows of brandy and liqueur bottles on the wall behind, and between counter and cupboard a narrow space for the barkeeper. In front of the bar stands a table with a gay-coloured cover, a pretty lamp hanging above it, and several cane chairs placed around it. Not far off, in the right wall, is a door with the inscription: Bar Parlour. Nearer the front on the same side an old eight-day clock stands ticking. At the back, to the left of the entrance-door, is a table with bottles and glasses, and beyond this, in the corner, is the great tile-oven. In the left wall there are three small windows. Below them runs a long bench; and in front of each stands a large oblong wooden table, with the end towards the wall. There are benches with backs along the sides of these tables, and at the end of each facing the window stands a wooden chair. The walls are washed blue and decorated with advertisements, coloured prints and oleographs, among the latter a portrait of Frederick William IV.

WELZEL, the publican, a good-natured giant, upwards of fifty, stands behind the counter, letting beer run from a barrel into a glass.

MRS. WELZEL is ironing by the stove. She is a handsome, tidily dressed woman in her thirty-fifth year.

ANNA WELZEL, a good-looking girl of seventeen, with a quantity of beautiful, fair, reddish hair, sits, neatly dressed, with her embroidery, at the table with the coloured cover. She looks up from her work for a moment and listens, as the sound of a funeral hymn sung by school-children is heard in the distance.

WIEGAND, the joiner, in his working clothes, is sitting at the same table, with a glass of Bavarian beer before him. His face shows that he understands what the world requires of a man if he is to attain his ends—namely, craftiness, swiftness, and relentless pushing forward.

A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER is seated at the pillar-table, vigorously masticating a beef-steak. He is of middle height, stout and thriving-looking, inclined to jocosity, lively, and impudent. He is dressed in the fashion of the day, and his portmanteau, pattern-case, umbrella, overcoat, and travelling rug lie on chairs beside him.

WELZEL

[Carrying a glass of beer to the TRAVELLER, but addressing WIEGAND.] The devil's broke loose in Peterswaldau to-day.

WIEGAND

[In a sharp, shrill voice.] That's because it's delivery day at Dreissiger's.

MRS. WELZEL

But they don't generally make such an awful row.

WIEGAND

It's may be because of the two hundred new weavers that he's going to take on.

MRS. WELZEL

[At her ironing.] Yes, yes, that'll be it. If he wants two hundred, six hundred's sure to have come. There's no lack of them.

WIEGAND

No, they'll last. There's no fear of their dying out, let them be ever so badly off. They bring more children into the world than we know what to do with. [The strains of the funeral hymn are suddenly heard more distinctly.] There's a funeral to-day too. Weaver Nentwich is dead, you know.

WELZEL

He's been long enough about it. He's been goin' about like a livin' ghost this many a long day.

WIEGAND

You never saw such a little coffin, Welzel; it was the tiniest, miserablest little thing I ever glued together. And what a corpse! It didn't weigh ninety pounds.

TRAVELLER

[His mouth full.] What I don't understand's this.... Take up whatever paper you like and you'll find the most heartrending accounts of the destitution among the weavers. You get the impression that three-quarters of the people in this neighbourhood are starving. Then you come and see a funeral like what's going on just now. I met it as I came into the village. Brass band, schoolmaster, school children, pastor, and such a procession behind them that you would think it was the Emperor of China that was getting buried. If the people have money to spend on this sort of thing, well...! [He takes a drink of beer; puts down the glass; suddenly and jocosely.] What do you say to it, Miss? Don't you agree with me?

[ANNA gives an embarrassed laugh, and goes on working busily.

TRAVELLER

Now, I'll take a bet that these are slippers for papa.

WELZEL

You're wrong, then; I wouldn't put such things on my feet.

TRAVELLER

You don't say so! Now, I would give half of what I'm worth if these slippers were for me.

MRS. WELZEL

Oh, he don't know nothing about such things.

WIEGAND

[Has coughed once or twice, moved his chair, and prepared himself to speak.] You were sayin', sir, that you wondered to see such a funeral as this. I tell you, and Mrs. Welzel here will bear me out, that it's quite a small funeral.

TRAVELLER

But, my good man ... what a monstrous lot of money it must cost! Where does all that come from?

WIEGAND

If you'll excuse me for saying so, sir, there's a deal of foolishness among the poorer working people hereabouts. They have a kind of inordinate idea, if I may say so, of the respect an' duty an' honour they're bound to show to such as is taken from their midst. And when it comes to be a case of parents, then there's no bounds whatever to their superstitiousness. The children and the nearest family scrapes together every farthing they can call their own, an' what's still wanting, that they borrow from some rich man. They run themselves into debt over head and ears; they're owing money to the pastor, to the sexton, and to all concerned. Then there's the victuals, an' the drink, an' such like. No, sir, I'm far from speaking against dutifulness to parents; but it's too much when it goes the length of the mourners having to bear the weight of it for the rest of their lives.

TRAVELLER

But surely the pastor might reason them out of such foolishness.

WIEGAND

Begging your pardon, sir, but I must mention that every little place hereabouts has its church an' its reverend pastor to support. These honourable gentlemen has their advantages from big funerals. The larger the attendance is, the larger the offertory is bound to be. Whoever knows the circumstances connected with the working classes here, sir, will assure you that the pastors are strong against quiet funerals.

Enter HORNIG, the rag dealer, a little bandy-legged old man, with a strap round his chest.

HORNIG

Good-mornin', ladies and gentlemen! A glass o' schnapps, if you please, Mr. Welzel. Has the young mistress anything for me to-day? I've got beautiful ribbons in my cart, Miss Anna, an' tapes, an' garters, an' the very best of pins an' hairpins an' hooks an' eyes. An' all in exchange for a few rags. [In a changed voice.] An'out of them rags fine white paper's to be made, for your sweetheart to write you a letter on.

ANNA

Thank you, but I've nothing to do with sweethearts.

MRS. WELZEL

[Putting a bolt into her iron.] No, she's not that kind. She'll not hear of marrying.

TRAVELLER

[Jumps up, affecting delighted surprise, goes forward to ANNA'S table, and holds out his hand to her across it.] That's sensible, Miss. You and I think alike in this matter. Give me your hand on it. We'll both remain single.

ANNA

[Blushing scarlet, gives him her hand.] But you are married already!

TRAVELLER

Not a bit of it. I only pretend to be. You think so because I wear a ring. I only have it on my finger to protect my charms against shameless attacks. I'm not afraid of you, though. [He puts the ring into his pocket.] But tell me, truly, Miss, are you quite determined never, never, never, to marry?

ANNA

[Shakes her head.] Oh, get along with you!

MRS. WELZEL

You may trust her to remain single unless something very extra good turns up.

TRAVELLER

And why shouldn't it? I know of a rich Silesian proprietor who married his mother's lady's maid. And there's Dreissiger, the rich manufacturer, his wife is an innkeeper's daughter too, and not half so pretty as you, Miss, though she rides in her carriage now, with servants in livery. And why not? [He marches about, stretching himself, and stamping his feet.] Let me have a cup of coffee, please.

Enter ANSORGE and OLD BAUMERT, each with a bundle. They seat themselves meekly and silently beside HORNIG, at the front table to the left.

WELZEL

How are you, father Ansorge? Glad to see you once again.

HORNIG

Yes, it's not often as you crawl down from that smoky old nest.

ANSORGE

[Visibly embarrassed, mumbles.] I've been fetchin' myself a web again.

BAUMER

He's goin' to work at a shilling the web.

ANSORGE

I wouldn't ha' done it, but there's no more to be made now by basket-weaving'.

WIEGAND

It's always better than nothin'. He does it only to give you employment. I know Dreissiger very well. When I was up there takin' out his double windows last week we were talkin' about it, him and me. It's out of pity that he does it.

ANSORGE

Well, well, well! That may be so.

WELZEL

[Setting a glass of schnapps on the table before each of the weavers.] Here you are, then. I say, Ansorge, how long is it since you had a shave? The gentleman over there would like to know.

TRAVELLER

[Calls across.] Now, Mr. Welzel, you know I didn't say that. I was only struck by the venerable appearance of the master-weaver. It isn't often one sees such a gigantic figure.

ANSORGE

[Scratching his head, embarrassed.] Well, well!

TRAVELLER

Such specimens of primitive strength are rare nowadays. We're all rubbed smooth by civilisation ... but I can still take pleasure in nature untampered with.... These bushy eyebrows! That tangled length of beard!

HORNIG

Let me tell you, sir, that them people haven't the money to pay a barber, and as to a razor for themselves, that's altogether beyond them. What grows, grows. They haven't nothing to throw away on their outsides.

TRAVELLER

My good friend, you surely don't imagine that I would ... [Aside to WELZEL.] Do you think I might offer the hairy one a glass of beer?

WELZEL

No, no; you mustn't do that. He wouldn't take it. He's got some queer ideas in that head o' his.

TRAVELLER

All right, then, I won't. With your permission, Miss. [He seats himself at ANNA'S table.] I declare, Miss, that I've not been able to take my eyes off your hair since I came in—such glossy softness, such a splendid quantity! [Ecstatically kisses his finger-tips.] And what a colour!... like ripe wheat. Come to Berlin with that hair and you'll create no end of a sensation. On my honour, with hair like that you may go to Court.... [Leans back, looking at it.] Glorious, simply glorious!

WIEGAND

They've given her a fine name because of it.

TRAVELLER

And what may that be?

ANNA

[Laughing quietly to herself.] Oh, don't listen to that!

HORNIG

The chestnut filly, isn't it?

WELZEL

Come now, we've had enough o' this. I'm not goin' to have the girl's head turned altogether. She's had a-plenty of silly notions put into it already. She'll hear of nothing under a count today, and to-morrow it'll be a prince.

MRS. WELZEL

Don't abuse the girl, father. There's no harm in wantin' to rise in the world. It's as well that people don't all think as you do, or nobody would get on at all. If Dreissiger's grandfather had been of your way of thinkin', they would be poor weavers still. And now they're rollin' in wealth. An' look at old Tromtra. He was nothing but a weaver, too, and now he owns twelve estates, an' he's been made a nobleman into the bargain.

WIEGAND

Yes, Welzel, you must look at the thing fairly. Your wife's in the right this time. I can answer for that. I'd never be where I am, with seven workmen under me, if I had thought like you.

HORNIG

Yes, you understand the way to get on; that your worst enemy must allow. Before the weaver has taken to bed, you're gettin' his coffin ready.

WIEGAND

A man must stick to his business if he's to get on.

HORNIG

No fear of you for that. You know before the doctor when death's on the way to knock at a weaver's door.

WIEGAND

[Attempting to laugh, suddenly furious.] And you know better'n the police where the thieves are among the weavers, that keep back two or three bobbins full every week. It's rags you ask for but you don't say No, if there's a little yarn among them.

HORNIG

An' your corn grows in the churchyard. The more that are bedded on the sawdust, the better for you. When you see the rows o' little children's graves, you pats yourself on the belly and says you: This has been a good year; the little brats have fallen like cockchafers off the trees. I can allow myself a quart extra in the week again.

WIEGAND

And supposin' this is all true, it still don't make me a receiver of stolen goods.

HORNIG

No; perhaps the worst you do is to send in an account twice to the rich fustian manufacturers, or to help yourself to a plank or two at Dreissiger's when there's building goin' on and the moon happens not to be shinin'.

WIEGAND

[Turning his back.] Talk to any one you like, but not to me. [Then suddenly.] Hornig the liar!

HORNIG

Wiegand the coffin-jobber!

WIEGAND

[To the rest of the company.] He knows charms for bewitching cattle.

HORNIG

If you don't look out, I'll try one of 'em on you.

[WIEGAND turns pale.

MRS. WELZEL

[Had gone out; now returns with the TRAVELLER'S coffee; in the act of putting it on the table.] Perhaps you would rather have it in the parlour, sir?